Dear Maria,
While walking the dog this morning—and in especially good spirits despite the chill—I thought I ought to catch up with you and a few other friends when I am not so inclined to trot out some recent burrs under my saddle. With a heartfelt mea culpa, I must own up to so often pushing friendships to the point of rode hard and put away wet as the expression goes.
Not so much that I have some spectacularly great news, but being in a more positive frame of mind ought to be a worthy share, message-wise—tis the season, after all. Not that so much in the world is much changed from the daily barrage and counter-barrage of despair and hope.
Ah, my anti-virus just blocked a potentially malicious website.
Messages of academic success are trickling in from students now off at college. Former colleagues are reaching out to a fellow teacher whose new son, come prematurely into this world, weighs but 25 ounces. My mother’s health seems not only to have steadied but is improving.
Hardly headlines in the making, of course. But surely closer to the ebb and flow of daily lives as we live them. Smallish victories, pulses beating with some hopefulness, the rallying cries of neighbors.
While eating lunch—inside today—I began making some changes to the backyard in my mind. Moving some plants, expanding the reach of the garden, and maybe adding a structure of some sort for sitting under that takes advantage of the winter’s afternoon sun but would provide shade in the summer.
Out front, the Easter elm, as I have named it, remains green now mid-way through December.
I am of a mind to make a resolution. So, my December 13th resolution, to be a little easier in the saddle with my family and friends. And myself.
Back into the 70s here tomorrow, and then we will be bundling up against the cold early next week. So it goes.
Be well.
Still, srk
Friday, December 13, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
May Not Be So, For All My Saying
Dear Maria,
And so it has come to this, that out front the larger elm has lost every single leaf and the pear has turned itself mostly into oranges and reds, but the young elm just seven months in the ground has lost hardly a leaf and is still summery green. I do not know what to make of it other than perhaps it is some sort of a snapshot of a man’s life arboreally rendered.
In every life some leaves must fall?
While walking Max this morning, I did meet a younger man, with his Cosmo at his side, who could easily identify my front yard as the one where some work has been done. I will allow that I did take some satisfaction in that recognition, and you know my fondness for by-my-hands work that produces good results—definitive, can’t-miss-it results.
I guess my scribbles in red ink over the years were by my hand—manual labor? But, how often the results, if there were any at all, did not necessarily bear fruit during the school season.
At lunch the other day, a good friend dutifully reminded me that I was not yet a full semester into retirement. See, we still talk the talk of school calendars. Yes, yes, I am nearly wholly new to my status as a retiree and not nearly re-created yet.
My father advises that whatever I may choose to do next should be meaningful. Suddenly I hear Old Dylan Thomas: “Bless, curse me now…”, with the out-of-context tag duly applied.
Meaningful. Perhaps that is a notion best left up to others to weigh in on.
After grinding espresso beans to make a couple of mugs of coffee, I waited at my old lectern now in the breakfast nook so that I may look out at the garden. A wind came up. Huge leaves unloosed fell like giant brown snowflakes. Even the dog took notice as he stood at the patio door. Down they came, not pouring, not floating, but streaming in a remarkably steady fashion. Like they had been waiting for today’s prompting.
And so every season will have its day.
Except, the loropetalums with so many leaves turning yellow are decided now to flower as well. Lovely that they should do so, when you think about it.
Be well, and hug the children.
As always, srk
And so it has come to this, that out front the larger elm has lost every single leaf and the pear has turned itself mostly into oranges and reds, but the young elm just seven months in the ground has lost hardly a leaf and is still summery green. I do not know what to make of it other than perhaps it is some sort of a snapshot of a man’s life arboreally rendered.
In every life some leaves must fall?
While walking Max this morning, I did meet a younger man, with his Cosmo at his side, who could easily identify my front yard as the one where some work has been done. I will allow that I did take some satisfaction in that recognition, and you know my fondness for by-my-hands work that produces good results—definitive, can’t-miss-it results.
I guess my scribbles in red ink over the years were by my hand—manual labor? But, how often the results, if there were any at all, did not necessarily bear fruit during the school season.
At lunch the other day, a good friend dutifully reminded me that I was not yet a full semester into retirement. See, we still talk the talk of school calendars. Yes, yes, I am nearly wholly new to my status as a retiree and not nearly re-created yet.
My father advises that whatever I may choose to do next should be meaningful. Suddenly I hear Old Dylan Thomas: “Bless, curse me now…”, with the out-of-context tag duly applied.
Meaningful. Perhaps that is a notion best left up to others to weigh in on.
After grinding espresso beans to make a couple of mugs of coffee, I waited at my old lectern now in the breakfast nook so that I may look out at the garden. A wind came up. Huge leaves unloosed fell like giant brown snowflakes. Even the dog took notice as he stood at the patio door. Down they came, not pouring, not floating, but streaming in a remarkably steady fashion. Like they had been waiting for today’s prompting.
And so every season will have its day.
Except, the loropetalums with so many leaves turning yellow are decided now to flower as well. Lovely that they should do so, when you think about it.
Be well, and hug the children.
As always, srk
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Odds & Ends, Seasonally Adjusted
Dear Maria,
Well at least two weeks just up and disappeared and then with Thanksgiving week, and oh that seems to be how it goes these days. At some point I ought to apologize for the lags and as an excuse have some tale from Madagascar or Bolivia to tell. But no, just hunkered down here in South Carolina.
Spent several hours raking this year’s crop of leaves and some pine straw into piles that were bundled in an old sheet and dumped on the front beds. That I was in short sleeves makes the things-I’m-thankful-for list as some of my friends way up towards Canada will not be so fortunate this week. Lunched today with the roses still making flowers, and even a few late blooms on the plumbago, and the sun warm and my foster dog rooting about out back. Another few ticks on that list.
Thanksgiving went well—a gathering of the clan—and to be among the 32 for a four-generation sit-down dinner was to be in a whirlpool of energy and to bathe in a sublime embrace of love. And a very particular kind of camaraderie that exists between family members. The tally was not the total that might have been—3 nieces and a nephew were elsewhere.
Of the many sweet moments, perhaps my favorite was holding the newest little addition to the family—a delicate and pretty little girl—while I was in a rocking chair, and one of her older brothers—older, two maybe—dragged his rocking chair next to mine, and we settled into an easy rhythm while taking a good long look out the window at the autumn scenery. Like I said, sweet.
Now that my desk is at the front window, the front beds daily remind me how I managed to take a simple concept and turn it into some kind of personal war of the weeds. Of course, this time of year I also am able to watch a sunset nearly every late afternoon. Tick.
The desk where I am writing this letter has been with me since I was 12. So many high school writing assignments, college essays, love letters, I’m-sorry letters, attempts at fiction, scads of poetry—should that be or is it already a literary term, scads.
But, the world is at gallop, Christmas and New Year’s Eve are nigh. I will try not lollygag so much through this season to be busy. Tra-la-la-la.
Hope the family is well and the holidays are warm and kind.
Yours, srk
Well at least two weeks just up and disappeared and then with Thanksgiving week, and oh that seems to be how it goes these days. At some point I ought to apologize for the lags and as an excuse have some tale from Madagascar or Bolivia to tell. But no, just hunkered down here in South Carolina.
Spent several hours raking this year’s crop of leaves and some pine straw into piles that were bundled in an old sheet and dumped on the front beds. That I was in short sleeves makes the things-I’m-thankful-for list as some of my friends way up towards Canada will not be so fortunate this week. Lunched today with the roses still making flowers, and even a few late blooms on the plumbago, and the sun warm and my foster dog rooting about out back. Another few ticks on that list.
Thanksgiving went well—a gathering of the clan—and to be among the 32 for a four-generation sit-down dinner was to be in a whirlpool of energy and to bathe in a sublime embrace of love. And a very particular kind of camaraderie that exists between family members. The tally was not the total that might have been—3 nieces and a nephew were elsewhere.
Of the many sweet moments, perhaps my favorite was holding the newest little addition to the family—a delicate and pretty little girl—while I was in a rocking chair, and one of her older brothers—older, two maybe—dragged his rocking chair next to mine, and we settled into an easy rhythm while taking a good long look out the window at the autumn scenery. Like I said, sweet.
Now that my desk is at the front window, the front beds daily remind me how I managed to take a simple concept and turn it into some kind of personal war of the weeds. Of course, this time of year I also am able to watch a sunset nearly every late afternoon. Tick.
The desk where I am writing this letter has been with me since I was 12. So many high school writing assignments, college essays, love letters, I’m-sorry letters, attempts at fiction, scads of poetry—should that be or is it already a literary term, scads.
But, the world is at gallop, Christmas and New Year’s Eve are nigh. I will try not lollygag so much through this season to be busy. Tra-la-la-la.
Hope the family is well and the holidays are warm and kind.
Yours, srk
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Lessoned, I Have Been
Dear Maria,
Cold enough here to wear a light coat on the morning walk with the dog. The sun was shining, at least, and a brisk pace got us around the shorter loop in short order. Of course, no surprise that along the way watching a leaf float down to the ground was a part of the scenic show.
For some reason this morning, between the rose blooms out back in the earliest light and those leaves dropping from trees, I took a lesson again that how what happens happens in its own time. Could it be otherwise? That I should still be relearning this particular lesson as I seem to have to do again and again does not speak well of me as a life-long learner—maybe the better term is life-long student. I seem slow to absorb the lesson.
However, these days the process is gentler, to be sure. I was reminded this morning of a harsher lesson when I was 12 or 13 as I diced a bit of white onion for the scrambled eggs—yes, a little onion, 4 ounces of ground turkey, a tablespoon of marinara sauce, a teaspoon of olive oil, a dash of Cajun seasoning, half-a-dash of sea salt, and two large eggs. Despite a warning from my mother, I bit deep into a large white onion to amaze my younger siblings with a particular sort of brute stoicism that I wished to cultivate. That lesson? That lesson took hold.
The rose blooms, much fewer now than the high season, come here and there as they might. I do not know where and when until a hint comes at the end of a stem. Of course, I do not see a leaf in a tree ready to fall, the leaves release as they will. One moment there, the next downward they come.
Sometimes we too must come to what we come to in our time. Not so profound, I know, and yet I need reminding.
The roller-coaster that is November weather is well upon us, warming up and then soon freezing. Stay warm and well—the holidays are nearly come.
As ever, yours, srk
Cold enough here to wear a light coat on the morning walk with the dog. The sun was shining, at least, and a brisk pace got us around the shorter loop in short order. Of course, no surprise that along the way watching a leaf float down to the ground was a part of the scenic show.
For some reason this morning, between the rose blooms out back in the earliest light and those leaves dropping from trees, I took a lesson again that how what happens happens in its own time. Could it be otherwise? That I should still be relearning this particular lesson as I seem to have to do again and again does not speak well of me as a life-long learner—maybe the better term is life-long student. I seem slow to absorb the lesson.
However, these days the process is gentler, to be sure. I was reminded this morning of a harsher lesson when I was 12 or 13 as I diced a bit of white onion for the scrambled eggs—yes, a little onion, 4 ounces of ground turkey, a tablespoon of marinara sauce, a teaspoon of olive oil, a dash of Cajun seasoning, half-a-dash of sea salt, and two large eggs. Despite a warning from my mother, I bit deep into a large white onion to amaze my younger siblings with a particular sort of brute stoicism that I wished to cultivate. That lesson? That lesson took hold.
The rose blooms, much fewer now than the high season, come here and there as they might. I do not know where and when until a hint comes at the end of a stem. Of course, I do not see a leaf in a tree ready to fall, the leaves release as they will. One moment there, the next downward they come.
Sometimes we too must come to what we come to in our time. Not so profound, I know, and yet I need reminding.
The roller-coaster that is November weather is well upon us, warming up and then soon freezing. Stay warm and well—the holidays are nearly come.
As ever, yours, srk
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Shallow Wading #feelingthwarted
Dear Maria,
Few, if any, analogies are perfect, and figurative language is the slipperiest of slopes, of course. Yes, yes, I see what I did there. A recent picture I posted on Facebook, that of a newborn being held by her older brother—older by a few years—other than being nearly angelic in the moment, led me to think about how she does not thwart him in any fashion like his other siblings yet and then my mind was quick to extend the thought to all of us. Isn’t life a series of moments and decisions that often seem to thwart our desires, our hopes, our expectations.
Okay, so an image recently has come to mind of each of us holding a hand—fingers together—up in front of our face, palm just millimeters from our nose so that our sight, if not blocked completely, is limited and askew. Bear with me. I am thinking of this image as our young selves and what we know of the world. Now, take the index finger of your other hand and touch the middle of your palm and slowly push your hand out. Slowly. That changing perspective is you learning—formally and informally—more and more about the world.
Were your arms long enough, at some point you would see all and your hand that once so significantly controlled your view would become just a small part of the larger landscape.
Okay, fair enough, you ask: The thwarting part? If you allow that each and every individual has their palm in front of their faces and that each and every one of us sees a larger picture, if you will, to varying degrees—how can we not thwart one another? No doubt, some folks keep that palm planted pretty close to the nose and don’t care whether they thwart someone else or not. Got that.
A friend of mine recently told me she was headed toward a committee meeting that did not seem especially engaging—imagine that, hahaha! Maybe next time she can take a moment to guestimate where each committee member holds their hands, metaphorically speaking, by how they speak to one another and how they listen to one another.
Do I overreach?
Some of this idea is rooted in how I recognized that we often ask our students to push their hands out a bit and sometimes ask them to reach too far—socially, psychologically, academically, etc. But, that bird walk for another time.
Cooler weather is arriving, and as the sun shifts lower and to the south, the roses bloom in scattered fashion. My Knockouts never do mass, but I rather like the floating blooms at the end of long, reaching stems. A sort of, well, yearning. Most likely mine.
Stay bundled, be well, and maybe soon.
Still, srk
Few, if any, analogies are perfect, and figurative language is the slipperiest of slopes, of course. Yes, yes, I see what I did there. A recent picture I posted on Facebook, that of a newborn being held by her older brother—older by a few years—other than being nearly angelic in the moment, led me to think about how she does not thwart him in any fashion like his other siblings yet and then my mind was quick to extend the thought to all of us. Isn’t life a series of moments and decisions that often seem to thwart our desires, our hopes, our expectations.
Okay, so an image recently has come to mind of each of us holding a hand—fingers together—up in front of our face, palm just millimeters from our nose so that our sight, if not blocked completely, is limited and askew. Bear with me. I am thinking of this image as our young selves and what we know of the world. Now, take the index finger of your other hand and touch the middle of your palm and slowly push your hand out. Slowly. That changing perspective is you learning—formally and informally—more and more about the world.
Were your arms long enough, at some point you would see all and your hand that once so significantly controlled your view would become just a small part of the larger landscape.
Okay, fair enough, you ask: The thwarting part? If you allow that each and every individual has their palm in front of their faces and that each and every one of us sees a larger picture, if you will, to varying degrees—how can we not thwart one another? No doubt, some folks keep that palm planted pretty close to the nose and don’t care whether they thwart someone else or not. Got that.
A friend of mine recently told me she was headed toward a committee meeting that did not seem especially engaging—imagine that, hahaha! Maybe next time she can take a moment to guestimate where each committee member holds their hands, metaphorically speaking, by how they speak to one another and how they listen to one another.
Do I overreach?
Some of this idea is rooted in how I recognized that we often ask our students to push their hands out a bit and sometimes ask them to reach too far—socially, psychologically, academically, etc. But, that bird walk for another time.
Cooler weather is arriving, and as the sun shifts lower and to the south, the roses bloom in scattered fashion. My Knockouts never do mass, but I rather like the floating blooms at the end of long, reaching stems. A sort of, well, yearning. Most likely mine.
Stay bundled, be well, and maybe soon.
Still, srk
Thursday, October 17, 2013
A Time to Wonder
Dear Maria,
Again, in pleasantly casual conversation yesterday evening, I trotted out my latest catchphrase for retirement: Don’t let them kid you, it’s good, very good. I also remarked that I am not quite one quarter into retirement—after a bit more than 120 quarters of teaching high school English. Some folks measure by coffee spoons, I by class periods, quarters, semesters, school years. Or, I did.
The being unencumbered is, and not so surprisingly, the earth-shaking change. So very little is asked of me these days. Nearly gone are expectations and responsibilities. These days, indeed. The light of morning and then the coming on of the night serve as time’s most meaningful pulse. No bells, barely a nod to the calendar, hardly any sense of deadlines.
Since I don’t wear a watch and don’t keep my phone at hand much less in hand most of the time, the days take on a different rhythm. Mostly, I eat when I am hungry. I sleep when I am sleepy. And that I might sit after breakfast for five minutes or fifteen and just ponder how the roses stretch toward the southwest—well, that is fine, too.
I cannot claim much by way of revelation, but I do know that I have been surprised by how easily what I once did with such focus and energy slips away so that I very nearly believe that it was literally a former life. Begs the question, I suppose, of what endures in a meaningful way.
The heart does. My concern for the well-being of students and colleagues continues to be deeply felt. While I am not with them, I remain for them. The foolishness—a kind word, to be sure—of what goes on in the name of education still rankles, but I do not feel it tearing into my psyche, worrying that wound.
The flickerings of disappointment, frustration, and anger become fainter and fewer. Breathing is how I tout it—time to breathe. Besides, the I Ching several times a week counsels that this is a time of being, not doing. Who am I to blow against the prevailing wind. Or, as I told a young friend last week, I now have time to wonder.
Hope you are well, and as always I am with you and for you.
Just, srk
Again, in pleasantly casual conversation yesterday evening, I trotted out my latest catchphrase for retirement: Don’t let them kid you, it’s good, very good. I also remarked that I am not quite one quarter into retirement—after a bit more than 120 quarters of teaching high school English. Some folks measure by coffee spoons, I by class periods, quarters, semesters, school years. Or, I did.
The being unencumbered is, and not so surprisingly, the earth-shaking change. So very little is asked of me these days. Nearly gone are expectations and responsibilities. These days, indeed. The light of morning and then the coming on of the night serve as time’s most meaningful pulse. No bells, barely a nod to the calendar, hardly any sense of deadlines.
Since I don’t wear a watch and don’t keep my phone at hand much less in hand most of the time, the days take on a different rhythm. Mostly, I eat when I am hungry. I sleep when I am sleepy. And that I might sit after breakfast for five minutes or fifteen and just ponder how the roses stretch toward the southwest—well, that is fine, too.
I cannot claim much by way of revelation, but I do know that I have been surprised by how easily what I once did with such focus and energy slips away so that I very nearly believe that it was literally a former life. Begs the question, I suppose, of what endures in a meaningful way.
The heart does. My concern for the well-being of students and colleagues continues to be deeply felt. While I am not with them, I remain for them. The foolishness—a kind word, to be sure—of what goes on in the name of education still rankles, but I do not feel it tearing into my psyche, worrying that wound.
The flickerings of disappointment, frustration, and anger become fainter and fewer. Breathing is how I tout it—time to breathe. Besides, the I Ching several times a week counsels that this is a time of being, not doing. Who am I to blow against the prevailing wind. Or, as I told a young friend last week, I now have time to wonder.
Hope you are well, and as always I am with you and for you.
Just, srk
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Bless the Beasts...
Dear Maria,
Some images stick deeper than others, of course. Sondra Hoyn’s picture of the young Thai boy Bank knocked unconscious during a Muay Thai boxing match is one such captured moment for me. To see the fragility of that child and know that adults encouraged the event—well, no thousand words from me can do justice.
I was just saying to a friend of mine the other day that I have been thinking that at the moment a baby is born that perhaps somewhere out there in the universe a star may have come to light at the same moment. That star may burn billions of years, and then I think of Bank stretched out on the canvas.
Now I read this morning that the Taliban want to kill Pakistani Malala Yousafzai for her outspoken call for girls to be educated in Swat Valley. The New York Post quotes the spokesman for the Taliban as saying “She is not a brave girl and has no courage. We will target her again and attack whenever we have a chance.” Ah, the courage of a gunman firing at a girl of 16.
Last night I watched a stream of high school students—both female and male—parade across the auditorium stage to receive academic awards for their achievements in the classroom.
Approximately 250 babies, as sources estimate, are born per minute in the world. What life may hold for each of them. I thought, too, the other day that celebrating a Year of the Child was not long enough. Perhaps a Millennium of the Child?
Does the Taliban gunman believe that 1,000 years from now his ancestors will still be killing children? At the very least, I would offer up this opinion: You can never kill everyone who disagrees with you.
Bless the beasts and children, indeed. Hold your own children a little closer. Be well.
Just, srk
Some images stick deeper than others, of course. Sondra Hoyn’s picture of the young Thai boy Bank knocked unconscious during a Muay Thai boxing match is one such captured moment for me. To see the fragility of that child and know that adults encouraged the event—well, no thousand words from me can do justice.
I was just saying to a friend of mine the other day that I have been thinking that at the moment a baby is born that perhaps somewhere out there in the universe a star may have come to light at the same moment. That star may burn billions of years, and then I think of Bank stretched out on the canvas.
Now I read this morning that the Taliban want to kill Pakistani Malala Yousafzai for her outspoken call for girls to be educated in Swat Valley. The New York Post quotes the spokesman for the Taliban as saying “She is not a brave girl and has no courage. We will target her again and attack whenever we have a chance.” Ah, the courage of a gunman firing at a girl of 16.
Last night I watched a stream of high school students—both female and male—parade across the auditorium stage to receive academic awards for their achievements in the classroom.
Approximately 250 babies, as sources estimate, are born per minute in the world. What life may hold for each of them. I thought, too, the other day that celebrating a Year of the Child was not long enough. Perhaps a Millennium of the Child?
Does the Taliban gunman believe that 1,000 years from now his ancestors will still be killing children? At the very least, I would offer up this opinion: You can never kill everyone who disagrees with you.
Bless the beasts and children, indeed. Hold your own children a little closer. Be well.
Just, srk
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Wind and Tide
Dear Maria,
Today brought one of those nearly perfect afternoons when the breeze calls to mind—my mind, at least—sailing across our local harbor. By chance, yesterday I happened to post a piece of poetic shorthand that I called “Wind and Tide”, an imperfect metaphor to be sure for our daily experience. But, the lines came to me as a way to consider the forward press of living a life.
So many of us do in our own fashion push off into the day which will have forces so variable as to surprise us—happily or not so happily—and so we must adjust to an ever shifting reality. Of course, much of the day may be as predictable as the tides which are charted out for us if not exactly, at least with much precision. The confluence of what we expect lies before us and what actually befalls keeps life interesting. To say the least.
And is there ever a better moment than we are in accord with the world around us, so harmonious that there seems almost a hum in the air. Sailing brings such a moment when the wind and the boat and the waves are balanced so that the hand on the tiller may relax and even let go as the boat moves forward as if on a rail rather than the rise and fall of the water’s surface that bears it weight. Gloriously, all aright in time and space.
Sooner than desired more often there comes a gust, a change in pressure or a change in direction or both, and reflexively the body tightens and the hand grasps more firmly the tiller to bring the boat back to alignment with the direction ahead.
Be not disquieted, I wrote. Such is the ride that comes when pushing off from the dock. Old Ulysses understood the need to push off. We do not live by standing still, but in our stepping aboard we must understand we are but one pair of hands on a very small boat in a very big ocean.
In a nice bit of connectedness, a friend this morning asked whether I was sailing again. I am not, yet.
Trust the sky to be fair, the wind favorable, and the sea ahead no tempest brewing, but keep your wits about you.
As of now, I am still, srk
Today brought one of those nearly perfect afternoons when the breeze calls to mind—my mind, at least—sailing across our local harbor. By chance, yesterday I happened to post a piece of poetic shorthand that I called “Wind and Tide”, an imperfect metaphor to be sure for our daily experience. But, the lines came to me as a way to consider the forward press of living a life.
So many of us do in our own fashion push off into the day which will have forces so variable as to surprise us—happily or not so happily—and so we must adjust to an ever shifting reality. Of course, much of the day may be as predictable as the tides which are charted out for us if not exactly, at least with much precision. The confluence of what we expect lies before us and what actually befalls keeps life interesting. To say the least.
And is there ever a better moment than we are in accord with the world around us, so harmonious that there seems almost a hum in the air. Sailing brings such a moment when the wind and the boat and the waves are balanced so that the hand on the tiller may relax and even let go as the boat moves forward as if on a rail rather than the rise and fall of the water’s surface that bears it weight. Gloriously, all aright in time and space.
Sooner than desired more often there comes a gust, a change in pressure or a change in direction or both, and reflexively the body tightens and the hand grasps more firmly the tiller to bring the boat back to alignment with the direction ahead.
Be not disquieted, I wrote. Such is the ride that comes when pushing off from the dock. Old Ulysses understood the need to push off. We do not live by standing still, but in our stepping aboard we must understand we are but one pair of hands on a very small boat in a very big ocean.
In a nice bit of connectedness, a friend this morning asked whether I was sailing again. I am not, yet.
Trust the sky to be fair, the wind favorable, and the sea ahead no tempest brewing, but keep your wits about you.
As of now, I am still, srk
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Off the Clocks!
Dear Maria,
Greetings from the Land of Slow Time! Hope all is well with you and the family. No, not rubbing it in, honestly. Actually, that phrase is not quite accurate—the passage of time is, at times, still fast, too fast.
Now that the pace of my day is not regimented by an outside agent—bells no longer tolling for me—I move about as I wish, attend to matters or don’t as I so choose. Except for doctors’ appointments. Those are confluences of space and time not to be denied. Ever. Most days, if I am idle for a few moments, or even longer—no problem. Curiously, even as I slow my pace, the days zip by and the weeks still hurry along. Greetings from, paradoxically, the Land of Slow Pace and Fast Time.
Looking back, has it been six weeks since we last spoke? Has it been more than a month since my birthday? Already four days after sitting with former colleagues at the game Friday night?
All so fast, until I want something to happen, and then the anticipation flummoxes my temporal rhythm. Looking ahead to a rendezvous or a holiday or a celebration, I embrace saying just two more weeks or at the end of next month or three months from now. I save myself a disheartening dose of yearning by not saying in 90 days, or even worse, in more than 2,000 hours.
I am a fan of the phrase in three sleeps rather than 3 days or 72 hours. But, when looking out longer, wising for something to happen, I think in three moons has a nice, sort of poetic feel to it.
Of course, sometimes I dare to imagine life beyond an orbit or two around the sun. I can’t abide thinking 730 days, no matter how fast they seem to go. Even 24 months makes me scowl. Nope, not calculating the hours.
So, how about two leaf-falls? Just twice more, the leaves turning as a few are now, with the attendant raking and smoky haze over piles about the neighborhood. Two? I can do two of anything.
Let the seasons unfolding, days at full tilt, take the measure of what will come.
Yours, and not counting, but always, srk
Greetings from the Land of Slow Time! Hope all is well with you and the family. No, not rubbing it in, honestly. Actually, that phrase is not quite accurate—the passage of time is, at times, still fast, too fast.
Now that the pace of my day is not regimented by an outside agent—bells no longer tolling for me—I move about as I wish, attend to matters or don’t as I so choose. Except for doctors’ appointments. Those are confluences of space and time not to be denied. Ever. Most days, if I am idle for a few moments, or even longer—no problem. Curiously, even as I slow my pace, the days zip by and the weeks still hurry along. Greetings from, paradoxically, the Land of Slow Pace and Fast Time.
Looking back, has it been six weeks since we last spoke? Has it been more than a month since my birthday? Already four days after sitting with former colleagues at the game Friday night?
All so fast, until I want something to happen, and then the anticipation flummoxes my temporal rhythm. Looking ahead to a rendezvous or a holiday or a celebration, I embrace saying just two more weeks or at the end of next month or three months from now. I save myself a disheartening dose of yearning by not saying in 90 days, or even worse, in more than 2,000 hours.
I am a fan of the phrase in three sleeps rather than 3 days or 72 hours. But, when looking out longer, wising for something to happen, I think in three moons has a nice, sort of poetic feel to it.
Of course, sometimes I dare to imagine life beyond an orbit or two around the sun. I can’t abide thinking 730 days, no matter how fast they seem to go. Even 24 months makes me scowl. Nope, not calculating the hours.
So, how about two leaf-falls? Just twice more, the leaves turning as a few are now, with the attendant raking and smoky haze over piles about the neighborhood. Two? I can do two of anything.
Let the seasons unfolding, days at full tilt, take the measure of what will come.
Yours, and not counting, but always, srk
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Down Deep, You Dig
Dear Maria,
Well, I figured you have been busy. I may be unencumbered, but I do understand, still. First, glad to hear you are mostly happy and well. Of course, a little sadness seems inevitable if you are at all sensitive and take a look at the world as it goes from time to time.
As for thanking me for sharing my thoughts and feelings, you are welcome. Folks did once upon a time share verbally, but now few talk and nearly everything is a matter of record in texts and emails, etc. Has it made us more skittish? Maybe. I figure either I trust folks and trust my instincts or I tiptoe through life as nothing more than a minefield of gotchas. I’m going with trust.
As you guessed, I did not see the PBS show on assisted suicide, and these hard questions you raise are beyond fathomable in any real way. I do believe that I always would put down a suffering animal, but to think of another human being and, well, the questions explode.
Maybe we go with the heart’s intentions--we are presented with choices, we pray, we cogitate, we agitate, we reflect, and then we do what we think is best for the other person. So, the drug is administered that will end another’s life as requested. Two days later, a miracle drug is released that would have kept the person alive.
Would I feel horrified for my action were I the one to have acted thus? Yes, devastated. I do not know how I would recover even as I acted to end a person’s suffering in the most moral fashion that I could based on what I could know at that moment.
This reality that I cannot possibly foresee what is around the next bend in the river, so to speak, is the central difficulty for me in this life of ours. I do not want to do harm, but I do not live and love and interact in a bubble. We are connected to each other, we need each other--others are here for us. To accept limitations, accept the unknowing, and accept that there is risk in all we say and do is a tough spot to be in when reflecting upon such ideas.
Don’t forget all the other stuff that is in the mix—the beauty of the world, the awe that is awakened by the night sky, the loveliness that attends to hearts in sync, the joy of music, the shared laughs, the triumphs. And that so much good comes at us without any foresight on our parts is also woven into the fabric of daily living.
Okay, enough. See what happens when you take a few moments to share? Maybe this is why no one wants to after all. Be well. Always yours, srk
Well, I figured you have been busy. I may be unencumbered, but I do understand, still. First, glad to hear you are mostly happy and well. Of course, a little sadness seems inevitable if you are at all sensitive and take a look at the world as it goes from time to time.
As for thanking me for sharing my thoughts and feelings, you are welcome. Folks did once upon a time share verbally, but now few talk and nearly everything is a matter of record in texts and emails, etc. Has it made us more skittish? Maybe. I figure either I trust folks and trust my instincts or I tiptoe through life as nothing more than a minefield of gotchas. I’m going with trust.
As you guessed, I did not see the PBS show on assisted suicide, and these hard questions you raise are beyond fathomable in any real way. I do believe that I always would put down a suffering animal, but to think of another human being and, well, the questions explode.
Maybe we go with the heart’s intentions--we are presented with choices, we pray, we cogitate, we agitate, we reflect, and then we do what we think is best for the other person. So, the drug is administered that will end another’s life as requested. Two days later, a miracle drug is released that would have kept the person alive.
Would I feel horrified for my action were I the one to have acted thus? Yes, devastated. I do not know how I would recover even as I acted to end a person’s suffering in the most moral fashion that I could based on what I could know at that moment.
This reality that I cannot possibly foresee what is around the next bend in the river, so to speak, is the central difficulty for me in this life of ours. I do not want to do harm, but I do not live and love and interact in a bubble. We are connected to each other, we need each other--others are here for us. To accept limitations, accept the unknowing, and accept that there is risk in all we say and do is a tough spot to be in when reflecting upon such ideas.
Don’t forget all the other stuff that is in the mix—the beauty of the world, the awe that is awakened by the night sky, the loveliness that attends to hearts in sync, the joy of music, the shared laughs, the triumphs. And that so much good comes at us without any foresight on our parts is also woven into the fabric of daily living.
Okay, enough. See what happens when you take a few moments to share? Maybe this is why no one wants to after all. Be well. Always yours, srk
Sunday, September 8, 2013
In A Word or Two
Dear Maria,
While drinking coffee this morning just before the sun made it up over the horizon, I was struck by how lucky I am that I have friends who still use the word lovely and who still understand the prettiness and gentleness that is embedded in that word. I think somehow that super-pretty would not have done justice to the mix of light and breeze and temperature in one of those moments we delight in when it occurs.
Even grouchy old Housman let us read “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now / Is hung with bloom along the bough." Of course, I’ll spare you the rest of the sentiment, but the image if you can conjure it in your mind is, in fact, lovely.
A cherry’s blossom might even be exquisite. I hope that word still finds room in the various vocabulary workbooks used in our classrooms. Francis Bacon—Sir Francis Bacon—knew that “There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.” In the story “Ligeia," our Poe went with “There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion."
Any chance then that ecstatic has not been outflanked by the peppier and perhaps even sunnier super-excited?
Yesterday morning I chanced to see high in the neighbor’s trees a shadowy form settle in the branches, but I couldn’t find whatever it was by taking a longer look. Then I said out loud that it was about time for my—yes, my—red-tailed hawk to make its annual appearance. Sure enough, a moment later that large, full-bodied squirrel-slayer, the terror of the tall pines, the raptor of the apocalypse, did swoop down and make a majestic arc over the ridge of my roof.
Delight on my face? Oh, yes, I was quite super-happy. Dang squirrels.
Oh, I finally did read City of Thieves. Thought I might be able to recommend it to former colleagues as a good read for English 5 or even 4 if the shift is made toward world lit. The story takes place in Russia during WWII, but while the writing is fine, I’ll have to let others judge how the plot goes.
Hope the weekend was—dare I say it—lovely in all ways. Blessings for your family. Simply, quietly, srk
While drinking coffee this morning just before the sun made it up over the horizon, I was struck by how lucky I am that I have friends who still use the word lovely and who still understand the prettiness and gentleness that is embedded in that word. I think somehow that super-pretty would not have done justice to the mix of light and breeze and temperature in one of those moments we delight in when it occurs.
Even grouchy old Housman let us read “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now / Is hung with bloom along the bough." Of course, I’ll spare you the rest of the sentiment, but the image if you can conjure it in your mind is, in fact, lovely.
A cherry’s blossom might even be exquisite. I hope that word still finds room in the various vocabulary workbooks used in our classrooms. Francis Bacon—Sir Francis Bacon—knew that “There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.” In the story “Ligeia," our Poe went with “There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion."
Any chance then that ecstatic has not been outflanked by the peppier and perhaps even sunnier super-excited?
Yesterday morning I chanced to see high in the neighbor’s trees a shadowy form settle in the branches, but I couldn’t find whatever it was by taking a longer look. Then I said out loud that it was about time for my—yes, my—red-tailed hawk to make its annual appearance. Sure enough, a moment later that large, full-bodied squirrel-slayer, the terror of the tall pines, the raptor of the apocalypse, did swoop down and make a majestic arc over the ridge of my roof.
Delight on my face? Oh, yes, I was quite super-happy. Dang squirrels.
Oh, I finally did read City of Thieves. Thought I might be able to recommend it to former colleagues as a good read for English 5 or even 4 if the shift is made toward world lit. The story takes place in Russia during WWII, but while the writing is fine, I’ll have to let others judge how the plot goes.
Hope the weekend was—dare I say it—lovely in all ways. Blessings for your family. Simply, quietly, srk
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Come, September
Dear Maria,
Yes, I am still a sucker for turning the calendar’s page to a new month. The start of something, some kind of beginning. We all seem to duly note new years, new months, new weeks, new days. Around here, of course, we spent most of the summer yapping about the rain. August gave us but just shy of 6” here in Ladson. Dry month.
Now the roses reach aggressively as the sun’s angled light drops a little lower with each passing day. The lantana, nearly drowned and of late mildewing, are suddenly back to life and should be carrying yellow flowers again by the end of the week. Gardenias managed two blooms last week, and maybe some more of those white flowers will come along.
Should the weather cool down a bit, we will all pick up our steps. Funny how school and football have come calling—and asking for so much energy—before we are refreshed. That fall should be called refreshing is nicely ironic—yes, yes, still always with the irony. Hahahaha!
This morning at breakfast in the garden I was joined by a much greater number of birds flying about and riding the branches overhead than has been the case all summer. More telling, perhaps, the morning flock of geese instead of flying west to east, as they have the past two months, today were headed southwest by my reckoning. That they were the same flock of birds, I honestly cannot say.
So a new month is set before us. I am grown of late especially fond of saying “Didn’t see that coming”. I do have some sense that I will take on some larger projects around the yard, but beyond that I do not know. Oh, some writing and reading, too.
At least, today is arrived, and tomorrow—well, I will turn that page when I awake. Here’s to the first days of the months. To a sense of beginnings. Even old April 1st—maybe especially so, hahaha!
Hope this quick note finds you in good spirits. As ever, srk
Yes, I am still a sucker for turning the calendar’s page to a new month. The start of something, some kind of beginning. We all seem to duly note new years, new months, new weeks, new days. Around here, of course, we spent most of the summer yapping about the rain. August gave us but just shy of 6” here in Ladson. Dry month.
Now the roses reach aggressively as the sun’s angled light drops a little lower with each passing day. The lantana, nearly drowned and of late mildewing, are suddenly back to life and should be carrying yellow flowers again by the end of the week. Gardenias managed two blooms last week, and maybe some more of those white flowers will come along.
Should the weather cool down a bit, we will all pick up our steps. Funny how school and football have come calling—and asking for so much energy—before we are refreshed. That fall should be called refreshing is nicely ironic—yes, yes, still always with the irony. Hahahaha!
This morning at breakfast in the garden I was joined by a much greater number of birds flying about and riding the branches overhead than has been the case all summer. More telling, perhaps, the morning flock of geese instead of flying west to east, as they have the past two months, today were headed southwest by my reckoning. That they were the same flock of birds, I honestly cannot say.
So a new month is set before us. I am grown of late especially fond of saying “Didn’t see that coming”. I do have some sense that I will take on some larger projects around the yard, but beyond that I do not know. Oh, some writing and reading, too.
At least, today is arrived, and tomorrow—well, I will turn that page when I awake. Here’s to the first days of the months. To a sense of beginnings. Even old April 1st—maybe especially so, hahaha!
Hope this quick note finds you in good spirits. As ever, srk
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
The Future, In Hand
Dear Maria,
When a little one, young enough and small enough to still be easily cradled in an arm, grasps my finger with two or three such tiny fingers, I cannot help but sometimes begin to wonder what the future will hold for one so new to the world. Even as I have freely admitted that I can hardly imagine next week.
To have become so short-sighted with 60 years behind me is humbling. I am surprised often in a moment—just now a breeze stirs that comes from the pines that rise above my driveway and then settles into my young elms.
Seems a wonder to me that anyone talks of the future, and surely we do with varying degrees of certitude. Guess that forward-thinking leads to getting things done, and I do dutifully add lunches with friends and doctor appointments to my Google calendar.
I find each day to be an unfolding.
Of course, with all my nieces and nephews—and now two generations of them—easy to get caught up in the future-dreaming thing. Which one will become what, who will become a greater surprise to those of us who knew them when they could be cradled. And to think of the millions of children across the globe that are cradled at any moment.
Why, what will become of any living thing newly born or released into this world? I think Jane Franklin—yes, Ben’s sister—gets to the heart of this matter much better than I do. She writes, “The most Insignificant creature on Earth may be made some use of in the scale of Beings.”
We don’t know how or when, now do we? But, that notion is the beauty of the unknown. Then, by extension, my unknowing.
Always liked that hand-in-hand thing. Not nearly enough of it in this world.
Be well. With you and for you, srk
When a little one, young enough and small enough to still be easily cradled in an arm, grasps my finger with two or three such tiny fingers, I cannot help but sometimes begin to wonder what the future will hold for one so new to the world. Even as I have freely admitted that I can hardly imagine next week.
To have become so short-sighted with 60 years behind me is humbling. I am surprised often in a moment—just now a breeze stirs that comes from the pines that rise above my driveway and then settles into my young elms.
Seems a wonder to me that anyone talks of the future, and surely we do with varying degrees of certitude. Guess that forward-thinking leads to getting things done, and I do dutifully add lunches with friends and doctor appointments to my Google calendar.
I find each day to be an unfolding.
Of course, with all my nieces and nephews—and now two generations of them—easy to get caught up in the future-dreaming thing. Which one will become what, who will become a greater surprise to those of us who knew them when they could be cradled. And to think of the millions of children across the globe that are cradled at any moment.
Why, what will become of any living thing newly born or released into this world? I think Jane Franklin—yes, Ben’s sister—gets to the heart of this matter much better than I do. She writes, “The most Insignificant creature on Earth may be made some use of in the scale of Beings.”
We don’t know how or when, now do we? But, that notion is the beauty of the unknown. Then, by extension, my unknowing.
Always liked that hand-in-hand thing. Not nearly enough of it in this world.
Be well. With you and for you, srk
Saturday, August 24, 2013
I Love, Therefore I Project
Dear Maria,
Forgive me my miscue the other day. And just after my mother and I talked about how folks don’t really listen, that they simply project fears or desires or worldviews back at the person talking. Now, I hear my mother counsel me: Listen.
Listen, on more than one occasion I have blurted out my feelings and my thoughts. We all have them. I hate surprise parties. My birthday doesn’t really matter. It’s okay to be alone. More than four people sharing a meal or a get-together is over the limit. Except for Fridays shooting pool and eating lots of fried food. Hahahaha!
By the way, did you ever plant plumbago out by the mail box? If you google it you will see something much more lush than my plants that must cope with the minimum amount of sunlight allowed by planting laws. What I like, other than their unruliness, is how the flowers seem lighted from within both late evening and early morning. They are the first and last flowers to show each day, so to speak. Of course, I have a friend who won’t plant them as they sound like the name of a certain condition.
Now that the school year is up and ticking off days, disappointing some of my friends continues. My retirement is not measuring up. No travel. No subbing. No job. No plans. No hobbies. Sometimes I think I might as well say, “What would you have me do,” and wish them well.
But I did that with you. I took my fear and launched it at you a second time as if you are not an adult that under most circumstances—all really, don’t know why the qualifier—knows what you are doing and lives a good-spirited life. I didn’t listen, the first time.
Somewhere I read a nice take on how we have two ears and just one mouth. Yep, that’s a clue. Then there is that whole look without seeing thing.
I meant well. We mean well. I’ll let other folks discern between when people mean what they are saying and when they are crying out for help through some coded messaging.
Heard you, promise. Hope you hear me loud and clear. I was wrong. I am sorry.
As always, but a bit more so, srk
Forgive me my miscue the other day. And just after my mother and I talked about how folks don’t really listen, that they simply project fears or desires or worldviews back at the person talking. Now, I hear my mother counsel me: Listen.
Listen, on more than one occasion I have blurted out my feelings and my thoughts. We all have them. I hate surprise parties. My birthday doesn’t really matter. It’s okay to be alone. More than four people sharing a meal or a get-together is over the limit. Except for Fridays shooting pool and eating lots of fried food. Hahahaha!
By the way, did you ever plant plumbago out by the mail box? If you google it you will see something much more lush than my plants that must cope with the minimum amount of sunlight allowed by planting laws. What I like, other than their unruliness, is how the flowers seem lighted from within both late evening and early morning. They are the first and last flowers to show each day, so to speak. Of course, I have a friend who won’t plant them as they sound like the name of a certain condition.
Now that the school year is up and ticking off days, disappointing some of my friends continues. My retirement is not measuring up. No travel. No subbing. No job. No plans. No hobbies. Sometimes I think I might as well say, “What would you have me do,” and wish them well.
But I did that with you. I took my fear and launched it at you a second time as if you are not an adult that under most circumstances—all really, don’t know why the qualifier—knows what you are doing and lives a good-spirited life. I didn’t listen, the first time.
Somewhere I read a nice take on how we have two ears and just one mouth. Yep, that’s a clue. Then there is that whole look without seeing thing.
I meant well. We mean well. I’ll let other folks discern between when people mean what they are saying and when they are crying out for help through some coded messaging.
Heard you, promise. Hope you hear me loud and clear. I was wrong. I am sorry.
As always, but a bit more so, srk
Friday, August 23, 2013
Suffer, The Little Children
Dear Maria,
As things go, I chanced last night to be visiting with my parents as they watched the evening news cycle—local and then the national news. No, I still don’t own a television. Yes, yes, I know.
Of course, this morning I am stuck on the images from what is being reported as a chemical attack in Syria. Why those images? The children. The children wrapped in their white burial sheets.
You know how my mind works—I always want to ask, eye to eye, one person to another. I want to ask, “How did you come to a decision that would kill children?” Does that person then go home to his children? Do his children ask, “What did you do at work today, Daddy”? I say Daddy because I would guess decisions such as that one in that piece of the world are more likely made by males. You know, the word decisions and my use of it is disgusting.
How do such actions square with any kind of respect or, a better word, love for we who are in this world? There is a kind of bullying writ large in this act. Of course, by a magnitude of harm that is many, many fold.
Hurting the defenseless among us. That is bullying. Preying upon weakness. I see it in not only the killing of the defenseless, but also in the striking of someone in anger, or the screaming in a rage at a child.
Surely there is some kind of pathology at work, but where does such an action, such an idea, such a resolve come from. I don’t understand. Maybe understanding is not possible. Hard to settle for “just is the way of the world”.
Heartbreaking. Hug your kids a little tighter today. They need it. You need it. We all need it.
Just, still, srk
As things go, I chanced last night to be visiting with my parents as they watched the evening news cycle—local and then the national news. No, I still don’t own a television. Yes, yes, I know.
Of course, this morning I am stuck on the images from what is being reported as a chemical attack in Syria. Why those images? The children. The children wrapped in their white burial sheets.
You know how my mind works—I always want to ask, eye to eye, one person to another. I want to ask, “How did you come to a decision that would kill children?” Does that person then go home to his children? Do his children ask, “What did you do at work today, Daddy”? I say Daddy because I would guess decisions such as that one in that piece of the world are more likely made by males. You know, the word decisions and my use of it is disgusting.
How do such actions square with any kind of respect or, a better word, love for we who are in this world? There is a kind of bullying writ large in this act. Of course, by a magnitude of harm that is many, many fold.
Hurting the defenseless among us. That is bullying. Preying upon weakness. I see it in not only the killing of the defenseless, but also in the striking of someone in anger, or the screaming in a rage at a child.
Surely there is some kind of pathology at work, but where does such an action, such an idea, such a resolve come from. I don’t understand. Maybe understanding is not possible. Hard to settle for “just is the way of the world”.
Heartbreaking. Hug your kids a little tighter today. They need it. You need it. We all need it.
Just, still, srk
Monday, August 19, 2013
In A Quieter Moment
Dear Maria,
Today I heard my voice but three times out loud. I mean nothing so very startling by this observation, but given what opening day of school has meant to me over the course of three decades it does give me pause. No intended irony there. Irony happens. But in my mind, my mind, in a nutshell, is not stilled by any measure.
I read today that Shakespeare was often referred to as Gentle Will. What ax should he grind when the world that inhabited his mind was under his pen.
Of course, Sunday I had a four-hour yap fest that spanned Blake to Wordsworth to Orwell to life’s arc to my lame take on the evolving universe and the complexity of human systems. Hahahaha! I am a goofball. Of many magnitudes.
The shifting light today with what seemed an endless stream of storms would—well, Blake would understand. I especially thought the piling thunderclouds about the Northwoods shopping area this evening especially splendid. Mammon outlined against a heavenly sky. A certain slant of light indeed.
So tonight I retreated to B&N, the manmade cavern of lines and arcs, a retreat to words unspoken by the millions close at hand. I, in random leafing through a few books, came upon Whitman saying, “and every man shall be his own priest”.
This morning I stood at my lectern and read to myself for an hour or so. No bully pulpit, but did provide a rather lovely view of the garden. Perhaps, a monk of a certain order, no rules to be obeyed or ignored.
I heard my voice three times today. I did not once hear yours, but in my mind many times.
Let all be quiet and still, and good tonight.
Quietly, simply, srk
Today I heard my voice but three times out loud. I mean nothing so very startling by this observation, but given what opening day of school has meant to me over the course of three decades it does give me pause. No intended irony there. Irony happens. But in my mind, my mind, in a nutshell, is not stilled by any measure.
I read today that Shakespeare was often referred to as Gentle Will. What ax should he grind when the world that inhabited his mind was under his pen.
Of course, Sunday I had a four-hour yap fest that spanned Blake to Wordsworth to Orwell to life’s arc to my lame take on the evolving universe and the complexity of human systems. Hahahaha! I am a goofball. Of many magnitudes.
The shifting light today with what seemed an endless stream of storms would—well, Blake would understand. I especially thought the piling thunderclouds about the Northwoods shopping area this evening especially splendid. Mammon outlined against a heavenly sky. A certain slant of light indeed.
So tonight I retreated to B&N, the manmade cavern of lines and arcs, a retreat to words unspoken by the millions close at hand. I, in random leafing through a few books, came upon Whitman saying, “and every man shall be his own priest”.
This morning I stood at my lectern and read to myself for an hour or so. No bully pulpit, but did provide a rather lovely view of the garden. Perhaps, a monk of a certain order, no rules to be obeyed or ignored.
I heard my voice three times today. I did not once hear yours, but in my mind many times.
Let all be quiet and still, and good tonight.
Quietly, simply, srk
Sunday, August 18, 2013
The Few Who Can, Teach
Dear Maria,
Good morning! I am sure you feel the rising energy of our friends and colleagues as they know that they will awake tomorrow to the beginning of another school year. Probably some anxiousness, too, to go along with the optimism that comes with a new start.
Of course, I reveal my bias when I talk about classroom teachers even as I am no longer directly in the fray. A shame that that word should come to mind. But, as with so much of what goes on in this world, what is at heart a great giving of service seems nearly thwarted at every turn by forces beyond the schoolhouse door.
I think of how many times I have seen teachers stop what they were doing to take care of a child—hahaha, I know some of my former students may bristle a bit at the use of the word child, but I would remind them that I am my mother’s child even as I am now 60. Hahahaha! Her baby boy! Hahahaha!
You and I know the good intentions of those who will greet their students tomorrow. You and I know how potent the emotions. Does anyone else give of themselves so wholly and for other people’s children.
You may find it odd that I must own up to such a nearly complete letting go emotionally of what I tried to do to the best of my ability for 31 years. I am very much struck as well.
However, my respect and love for classroom teachers will not wane. And they need, and often do get, much support from those who work in the building with them. I am talking about the ones who lift them up rather than pushing them down.
As I listen to the incessant yapping about education—from, well, let me use the word adults—I am reminded of two words that appear in the classrooms. Safe Wall.
Safe Wall. I would if I could insist that every conversation directed at classroom teachers, either with them or about them, start with thanking them for accepting such a responsibility. Every principal, every district official, every board member, every citizen, every corporate spokesperson, every elected official, every pundit. Each and every time.
Safe Wall. Now, speak of how anything else is more important than those children who walk through the doors each morning.
Yes, apparently, I still give a damn. You know that to be true, don’t you? I did say “nearly complete”. Hahahaha!
Much good will happen this year between teachers and students as it has before. Bless them all.
I hope all is well with you and your family.
A little grouchy, but with much tenderness, yours, srk
Good morning! I am sure you feel the rising energy of our friends and colleagues as they know that they will awake tomorrow to the beginning of another school year. Probably some anxiousness, too, to go along with the optimism that comes with a new start.
Of course, I reveal my bias when I talk about classroom teachers even as I am no longer directly in the fray. A shame that that word should come to mind. But, as with so much of what goes on in this world, what is at heart a great giving of service seems nearly thwarted at every turn by forces beyond the schoolhouse door.
I think of how many times I have seen teachers stop what they were doing to take care of a child—hahaha, I know some of my former students may bristle a bit at the use of the word child, but I would remind them that I am my mother’s child even as I am now 60. Hahahaha! Her baby boy! Hahahaha!
You and I know the good intentions of those who will greet their students tomorrow. You and I know how potent the emotions. Does anyone else give of themselves so wholly and for other people’s children.
You may find it odd that I must own up to such a nearly complete letting go emotionally of what I tried to do to the best of my ability for 31 years. I am very much struck as well.
However, my respect and love for classroom teachers will not wane. And they need, and often do get, much support from those who work in the building with them. I am talking about the ones who lift them up rather than pushing them down.
As I listen to the incessant yapping about education—from, well, let me use the word adults—I am reminded of two words that appear in the classrooms. Safe Wall.
Safe Wall. I would if I could insist that every conversation directed at classroom teachers, either with them or about them, start with thanking them for accepting such a responsibility. Every principal, every district official, every board member, every citizen, every corporate spokesperson, every elected official, every pundit. Each and every time.
Safe Wall. Now, speak of how anything else is more important than those children who walk through the doors each morning.
Yes, apparently, I still give a damn. You know that to be true, don’t you? I did say “nearly complete”. Hahahaha!
Much good will happen this year between teachers and students as it has before. Bless them all.
I hope all is well with you and your family.
A little grouchy, but with much tenderness, yours, srk
Thursday, August 15, 2013
A Time Out, from Africa
Dear Maria,
When they come home, then they will be here.
I reckon some folks are quick to think my order of fortune cookies did finally arrive. But, the heart of the matter is that in waiting impatiently as so many are on our young friend and her adopted son to come home from Africa, I have been pointedly and deeply lessoned once again that life does not move according to the hands on my clock.
Forgive the retreat to the Old School reference, but a nice image, that of hands counting out time.
How often—from dozens, no hundreds wiser than I will ever be—we are schooled: “Patience and time do more than strength or passion,” Jean La Fontaine. Yes, yes. I know, I know, but the flickering brevity of our lives?
So this morning I was quite sure that the next piece for Schooled was in my head, mostly, and ready to be written. Then, a short exchange via facebook, and I understood that the passage of time once again allowed for a deepening of an experience, in this case for a new mother and by extension, for me, for all of us. The puzzle did, in fact, have pieces missing. Were our needs for a resolution quickly met, some of the most powerful moments of this unfolding would go unknown.
In just a few minutes, I was touched in my heart, I was transformed in my thinking. I was reminded. To every season, indeed.
Ethiopia’s reach back into anthropological time may extend 4 million years.
The dog needed to be walked before I could sit down to the laptop.
A few weeks in the life of a mother and child, the next fifty years or so….
Enough, for I must ready myself for an appointment with the allergist, who waits for no man.
As always, srk
When they come home, then they will be here.
I reckon some folks are quick to think my order of fortune cookies did finally arrive. But, the heart of the matter is that in waiting impatiently as so many are on our young friend and her adopted son to come home from Africa, I have been pointedly and deeply lessoned once again that life does not move according to the hands on my clock.
Forgive the retreat to the Old School reference, but a nice image, that of hands counting out time.
How often—from dozens, no hundreds wiser than I will ever be—we are schooled: “Patience and time do more than strength or passion,” Jean La Fontaine. Yes, yes. I know, I know, but the flickering brevity of our lives?
So this morning I was quite sure that the next piece for Schooled was in my head, mostly, and ready to be written. Then, a short exchange via facebook, and I understood that the passage of time once again allowed for a deepening of an experience, in this case for a new mother and by extension, for me, for all of us. The puzzle did, in fact, have pieces missing. Were our needs for a resolution quickly met, some of the most powerful moments of this unfolding would go unknown.
In just a few minutes, I was touched in my heart, I was transformed in my thinking. I was reminded. To every season, indeed.
Ethiopia’s reach back into anthropological time may extend 4 million years.
The dog needed to be walked before I could sit down to the laptop.
A few weeks in the life of a mother and child, the next fifty years or so….
Enough, for I must ready myself for an appointment with the allergist, who waits for no man.
As always, srk
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
To Every Season
I found myself counting days, still.
The strike point midway between the first half of summer vacation and the back half jabbed me as if I had been stuck in the ribs with the end of a wooden kitchen spoon. Too many seasons, as either student or teacher, defined by the rhythm of the school year for my bio-calendar not to know how the days pace along.
Then, my ego, flushed from the sanctuary of my little garden retreat. Who am I, again? Last week a former student said she and another former—well, now they are all former students—were trading Mr. Kaple stories, and I retorted, only half-jokingly, that I used to know him. Clever that response, to a degree, but also a sharp pluck on the gut-string attached to my self-identity. Fretting, my mind played with the notion of me not being he, or the I as the case may be
Next came the fear that spawned the notion that I may never attend to matters that would matter as much, the better part of me left behind. This doubt would be an apprehension in my mind as my mother would say, so do not fear. Even the Bible—someone counted apparently—says not to be afraid 365 times. Oh, in my mind I know I have nothing to fear, but for one tumultuous evening I wrangled mightily with my own self.
Heck, even Odysseus had to take his oar and travel inland and leave his beloved sea far behind. The oar is identified by a stranger as a winnowing tool—waves of grain?—but in that recasting he returns home to peace and quiet. And the sea, again, at last.
A red pen, then, may no longer be a defining marker for who I am. The message I hear: A new season is come round. The school’s bells no longer toll for me. Be still.
Just, yours, once again, srk
The strike point midway between the first half of summer vacation and the back half jabbed me as if I had been stuck in the ribs with the end of a wooden kitchen spoon. Too many seasons, as either student or teacher, defined by the rhythm of the school year for my bio-calendar not to know how the days pace along.
Then, my ego, flushed from the sanctuary of my little garden retreat. Who am I, again? Last week a former student said she and another former—well, now they are all former students—were trading Mr. Kaple stories, and I retorted, only half-jokingly, that I used to know him. Clever that response, to a degree, but also a sharp pluck on the gut-string attached to my self-identity. Fretting, my mind played with the notion of me not being he, or the I as the case may be
Next came the fear that spawned the notion that I may never attend to matters that would matter as much, the better part of me left behind. This doubt would be an apprehension in my mind as my mother would say, so do not fear. Even the Bible—someone counted apparently—says not to be afraid 365 times. Oh, in my mind I know I have nothing to fear, but for one tumultuous evening I wrangled mightily with my own self.
Heck, even Odysseus had to take his oar and travel inland and leave his beloved sea far behind. The oar is identified by a stranger as a winnowing tool—waves of grain?—but in that recasting he returns home to peace and quiet. And the sea, again, at last.
A red pen, then, may no longer be a defining marker for who I am. The message I hear: A new season is come round. The school’s bells no longer toll for me. Be still.
Just, yours, once again, srk
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Sowing, I Reap
Dear Maria,
When I decided to further shrink the footprint of my lawn to shorten my mowing time and thus cut noxious emissions and reduce water usage (self-justification 101), I thought to do so without adding chemical weapons to my lawn-care arsenal. Naturally, as luck would have it, I was provided with a down and not too dirty solution, that of bags and bags of leaves and pine straw and such that my neighbors and friends so very thoughtfully raked up for me.
Like a carpet bomber, I saturated two framed target areas out front with more than a 100 large bags of other people’s yard litter (OPYL in the literature, I believe). And, voila! My grass, DOA. Of course, for two years, this eyesore of decaying matter took me out of the running for yard of the—well any length of time.
Oh, to be sure it was an ugly mess to look at, but if they—they—could only see my backyard. That transformation would redeem me quickly enough. My garden, growing and blooming and offering respite from the world at large. Ah, bravo!
Then, the shortcomings of my shortcut were brought to light: First, the oak. Oaks coming out of the ground, not by the dozens but by the hundreds. Then, weeds. By the hundreds. Now, instead of tearing out everything coming up, I opted to plant trees and shrubs, and for my penance, I would drag out my little gardening bench, kneel, and pull up the offending little bomblets by hand. I did so. Twice this spring. Now, what do I have? Hundreds of oaks and weeds coming up. Probably the most successful crops of anything that I have ever planted.
So each day, I receive a lesson. Every time through my front door, I am reminded of my bad decision-making, and every time through my back door, I am reminded there is hope for me yet. Penance and redemption, both under the same canopy of sky.
All my best, as always, srk
When I decided to further shrink the footprint of my lawn to shorten my mowing time and thus cut noxious emissions and reduce water usage (self-justification 101), I thought to do so without adding chemical weapons to my lawn-care arsenal. Naturally, as luck would have it, I was provided with a down and not too dirty solution, that of bags and bags of leaves and pine straw and such that my neighbors and friends so very thoughtfully raked up for me.
Like a carpet bomber, I saturated two framed target areas out front with more than a 100 large bags of other people’s yard litter (OPYL in the literature, I believe). And, voila! My grass, DOA. Of course, for two years, this eyesore of decaying matter took me out of the running for yard of the—well any length of time.
Oh, to be sure it was an ugly mess to look at, but if they—they—could only see my backyard. That transformation would redeem me quickly enough. My garden, growing and blooming and offering respite from the world at large. Ah, bravo!
Then, the shortcomings of my shortcut were brought to light: First, the oak. Oaks coming out of the ground, not by the dozens but by the hundreds. Then, weeds. By the hundreds. Now, instead of tearing out everything coming up, I opted to plant trees and shrubs, and for my penance, I would drag out my little gardening bench, kneel, and pull up the offending little bomblets by hand. I did so. Twice this spring. Now, what do I have? Hundreds of oaks and weeds coming up. Probably the most successful crops of anything that I have ever planted.
So each day, I receive a lesson. Every time through my front door, I am reminded of my bad decision-making, and every time through my back door, I am reminded there is hope for me yet. Penance and redemption, both under the same canopy of sky.
All my best, as always, srk
Monday, August 12, 2013
Feed Me!
Dear Maria,
Not so cool this morning out back, but the calendar doesn’t lie. Might be confused from time to time, but doesn’t lie. Of course your kids are soon in school, which I still think crazy, and so many of our friends will be standing in front of the classroom as another crop of students is planted in their desks.
Yesterday, I chanced to see the number of kids on free and reduced lunch and—well, at least the number I saw was not yet 20 million. Twenty million. Makes my brain sizzle.
I know you appreciate your blessings and that your children do not want for much, but I know that like most of us that number is beyond our hearts’ capacity to hold onto in any real fashion. I guess some folks will immediately start carping about government corruption and the intrusiveness of Big Guv, but how much fat do they think is there to be cut?
Okay, yes, I would be in pacing mode now. Yes, hands might be in play, too.
I’ll spot those folks 20% and, well, almost 16 million? I wonder who in government wakes up each morning and is completely dedicated to this number just not being so. In a good way. Wonder if there is a congressperson at this day and night. Wonder what Mark Sanford thinks.
Okay, I know this is going to seem a bit random—okay, more than a bit. I wonder if Apple outsources its custodial needs. Or, do they run all of that in-house. Wonder what they pay their custodial crew. Or at Amazon. Or at Google. Or at Microsoft.
Enough. Did get a chance to work out at a young friend’s farm, and the best part was doing manual labor with immediate results. Teaching did not always yield such a quick assessment. Hahaha, that is kind of funny. Of course, I was cutting off limbs, which the last time I checked was never allowed in the district policy’s handbook.
Hungry kids. Millions of them. That sticks to the ribs, and not in a good way.
Hope all is well with you and the family. As always, just, srk
Not so cool this morning out back, but the calendar doesn’t lie. Might be confused from time to time, but doesn’t lie. Of course your kids are soon in school, which I still think crazy, and so many of our friends will be standing in front of the classroom as another crop of students is planted in their desks.
Yesterday, I chanced to see the number of kids on free and reduced lunch and—well, at least the number I saw was not yet 20 million. Twenty million. Makes my brain sizzle.
I know you appreciate your blessings and that your children do not want for much, but I know that like most of us that number is beyond our hearts’ capacity to hold onto in any real fashion. I guess some folks will immediately start carping about government corruption and the intrusiveness of Big Guv, but how much fat do they think is there to be cut?
Okay, yes, I would be in pacing mode now. Yes, hands might be in play, too.
I’ll spot those folks 20% and, well, almost 16 million? I wonder who in government wakes up each morning and is completely dedicated to this number just not being so. In a good way. Wonder if there is a congressperson at this day and night. Wonder what Mark Sanford thinks.
Okay, I know this is going to seem a bit random—okay, more than a bit. I wonder if Apple outsources its custodial needs. Or, do they run all of that in-house. Wonder what they pay their custodial crew. Or at Amazon. Or at Google. Or at Microsoft.
Enough. Did get a chance to work out at a young friend’s farm, and the best part was doing manual labor with immediate results. Teaching did not always yield such a quick assessment. Hahaha, that is kind of funny. Of course, I was cutting off limbs, which the last time I checked was never allowed in the district policy’s handbook.
Hungry kids. Millions of them. That sticks to the ribs, and not in a good way.
Hope all is well with you and the family. As always, just, srk
Saturday, August 10, 2013
The Lottery Games
Dear Maria,
As you know, I don’t play the lottery, but last night at dinner even I had to mention the amount that was in play this week. And then the mind begins to turn over the prospects, the what-ifs.
Somewhere along the way, someone in sort of a chat-at-the-water-fountain-moment told me to just plan on only ending up with 40% of the amount. The tone was the same as when you hear someone say something along the lines of, well, you know you will have to pay taxes. Okay, so I am bent out of the frame for having only, uh, roughly 160 million dollars? That I didn’t work a lick for? Not so much.
Of course, I can hear myself saying to former students and friends a zillion times, well a couple hundred bucks is not going to change my lifestyle. A $1000 is not going to change my life in a profound fashion. Okay, Mr. Profundity, how about $160,000,000?
Let’s see, rewire my little home, upgrade some plumbing, put on a better roof, make a few structural alterations, and voila, $159,980,000. Okay, Mr. Generosity, dole some out to the family. Allowance or lump sum? Uh-oh, need a financial planner.
All right, all right—yes, I would get a damn sailboat. Not too big—well, maybe two. One for me to single-hand around the harbor and one for my crewmates to rejoin me for a bit of fun racing around the buoys. Well, sure the boats would be new. Without being too fussy with the details, would leave me with $159,920,000.
Pleasures in life. That’s the change, more pleasures in life—not to worry or even give a second thought. Then, I think of the life-expectancy numbers newly released—18 years is the number now for me. I’m not going to spend this kind of money, even if the number turns out to be 30 years.
Ocean front house—yes, reckon so. New truck, okay. So, $155,000,000.
Man, I need to give it away. Nearly all of it, and I am going to need help. Scholarships, medical care, cars, houses, and give it to individuals, not organizations. The sooner, the better. Just respond to stories from folks I trust. Needs to be met.
Nope, no saint. Just doing what I have seen my friends and family do over and over again. Giving to food banks, other people’s sick children, school supplies—not with their huge bank accounts, just their huge hearts.
Lesson learned. As always, srk
As you know, I don’t play the lottery, but last night at dinner even I had to mention the amount that was in play this week. And then the mind begins to turn over the prospects, the what-ifs.
Somewhere along the way, someone in sort of a chat-at-the-water-fountain-moment told me to just plan on only ending up with 40% of the amount. The tone was the same as when you hear someone say something along the lines of, well, you know you will have to pay taxes. Okay, so I am bent out of the frame for having only, uh, roughly 160 million dollars? That I didn’t work a lick for? Not so much.
Of course, I can hear myself saying to former students and friends a zillion times, well a couple hundred bucks is not going to change my lifestyle. A $1000 is not going to change my life in a profound fashion. Okay, Mr. Profundity, how about $160,000,000?
Let’s see, rewire my little home, upgrade some plumbing, put on a better roof, make a few structural alterations, and voila, $159,980,000. Okay, Mr. Generosity, dole some out to the family. Allowance or lump sum? Uh-oh, need a financial planner.
All right, all right—yes, I would get a damn sailboat. Not too big—well, maybe two. One for me to single-hand around the harbor and one for my crewmates to rejoin me for a bit of fun racing around the buoys. Well, sure the boats would be new. Without being too fussy with the details, would leave me with $159,920,000.
Pleasures in life. That’s the change, more pleasures in life—not to worry or even give a second thought. Then, I think of the life-expectancy numbers newly released—18 years is the number now for me. I’m not going to spend this kind of money, even if the number turns out to be 30 years.
Ocean front house—yes, reckon so. New truck, okay. So, $155,000,000.
Man, I need to give it away. Nearly all of it, and I am going to need help. Scholarships, medical care, cars, houses, and give it to individuals, not organizations. The sooner, the better. Just respond to stories from folks I trust. Needs to be met.
Nope, no saint. Just doing what I have seen my friends and family do over and over again. Giving to food banks, other people’s sick children, school supplies—not with their huge bank accounts, just their huge hearts.
Lesson learned. As always, srk
Friday, August 9, 2013
Who We Are
Dear Maria,
Good news this morning—not to oversell, hahaha!—but cool enough to read a bit out back on the patio and then mow the lawn, and then even get in another round of reading. I know it hints of the school calendar cranking back up for so many of our friends and family, but a welcome relief just the same.
A passage in a book now under my nose a couple of times a day made me think of something you once said to me, that how you wanted to be the best mother, the best daughter, the best sister, the best friend, the best wife you could be.
How elegantly put. I find myself trying to think that way, too, being a good man, a good friend, a good brother, a good son—no longer a good teacher, hahahaha!!!
What struck me was how you did not think to go right to being the best in terms of a political party, or of a cause, or a movement, or an agenda. Just the human stuff—the eye to eye, talk to talk, touch to touch stuff of daily living. The good stuff, I would say.
No big insight how much other stuff—could I stop using that word?—trompers those relationships. I reckon our connections to those closest to us generate enough issues all ready. But, you made me think—reminded me—about the heart of the matter, about how two or three or four people matter in a way that is most important. To love one another.
I was sitting on one of the smaller patio chairs which other than making me look like an over-sized kid in a small desk made me rethink using the word garden. At eye level, it appears more a, uh, mass planting. Had only Candide said, “We must tend our mass planting.”
Oh, the book is Brian McLaren’s Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?—a gift from a very thoughtful young friend. In several meanings of the word.
Hope this quick note finds you well, as always. srk
Good news this morning—not to oversell, hahaha!—but cool enough to read a bit out back on the patio and then mow the lawn, and then even get in another round of reading. I know it hints of the school calendar cranking back up for so many of our friends and family, but a welcome relief just the same.
A passage in a book now under my nose a couple of times a day made me think of something you once said to me, that how you wanted to be the best mother, the best daughter, the best sister, the best friend, the best wife you could be.
How elegantly put. I find myself trying to think that way, too, being a good man, a good friend, a good brother, a good son—no longer a good teacher, hahahaha!!!
What struck me was how you did not think to go right to being the best in terms of a political party, or of a cause, or a movement, or an agenda. Just the human stuff—the eye to eye, talk to talk, touch to touch stuff of daily living. The good stuff, I would say.
No big insight how much other stuff—could I stop using that word?—trompers those relationships. I reckon our connections to those closest to us generate enough issues all ready. But, you made me think—reminded me—about the heart of the matter, about how two or three or four people matter in a way that is most important. To love one another.
I was sitting on one of the smaller patio chairs which other than making me look like an over-sized kid in a small desk made me rethink using the word garden. At eye level, it appears more a, uh, mass planting. Had only Candide said, “We must tend our mass planting.”
Oh, the book is Brian McLaren’s Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?—a gift from a very thoughtful young friend. In several meanings of the word.
Hope this quick note finds you well, as always. srk
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)