Bloom Where You're Planted

This was my writer's response topic for my classes last week.

I gave it to them on the day I was assigning them to new seats and new teams. This is always a day filled with gnashing of teeth, lamenting wails, and other various expressions of teenage angst meant to drive adults so insane that they wind up giving in.

But I am no mere mortal adult, and I do not give in. I am well-versed in the art of guilt and inspirational quoting. This also happens to be one of my favorite expressions -- one that I tend to remind myself of when life takes a turn that makes me unhappy or overwhelmed.

My kids did fairly well at deciphering the meaning of the quote and VERY well at my intentions behind it. A new semester, new start... all of that. The angst level never rose above DEFCON 3, and for a week now, stability and *gasp* improvement have been the norm.

I felt pretty proud for about 6 hours. Then, I got in my car, looked in the mirror, and realized that everything I had just preached at my kids hasn't really been practiced by me lately.

I've been absent from this little space of the internet for a while now -- over a month by date alone, longer if you start looking closely at effort. I didn't stop writing; I still try to do that every day. My goal, after all, was to find a place to spill and drop the stress and worry and anxiety I found building up. My goal was to find something that made me happier and freer. I don't always accomplish that every day. Never have, never will.

The holidays were hard. I knew they would be because they are every year. By November, I am exhausted physically and mentally from work which has been exceptionally difficult this year.  And the brightness and light and commercial drain slapping me in the face each time I take a walk through Target tends to exhaust me spiritually as well. This Christmas brought a little extra emotional quicksand as I watched and waited through another leap off the deep end with my dad's health. And, in true Deana fashion, his backslide caused my own backslide because I am nothing if not my father's daughter.

Even as I felt myself fraying, I kept trying to write my way out of it, to use my words as my nightlight, to throw the puzzle pieces on the screen and the page and wait for them to fall into place. I kept writing and people kept reading and friends kept supporting. But one day, someone, in passing relayed a concern from someone else. "Deana just seems SO... SAD."

And I froze.

Granted, the ellipsis and the capital letters... maybe those are my own hearing; maybe not. All words are open to interpretation and strike different chords in different people at all sorts of different times. This is what makes words so dangerously beautiful. It's not that, at that very moment, I disagreed. In fact, in that moment, I wholeheartedly agreed. I was very sad some days, but not every day and certainly not CAPITAL LETTER sad.

But in the message of "I am concerned (and also saddened) by this", I received "Deana just seems so... pitiful (and frankly, it's a little much)."  And then... someone else said it, to my face, with a full-on sympathetic head tilt. Oh, sweet Jesus, the head tilt. That's when you know there's trouble.

I didn't stop writing, but I stopped posting. I stopped sharing me with anyone else and just closed up. I thought that maybe if I just stopped telling then people would stop hearing and then they would stop worrying/judging. If I didn't fill my timeline with links then people wouldn't feel compelled to click them and then I wouldn't feel so bad when anyone tilted their head in my general direction, even if it was a well-intentioned, heartfelt head-tilt.

And then I stopped writing altogether. Don't act shocked; it's the next logical step in the shut-down process. After all, the reason I began posting was so that when I tried to vanish (and I knew I would), there'd be some accountability. I took all TWO of those possibly (probably) innocent statements, and I spun them out of control until they absolutely dominated all of my self-esteem with questions and hesitation. Because this is my Achilles' heel -- wondering and doubting how people actually feel about me. Waiting for people to lose interest, find me tiresome, and walk away. It's nonsensical and overly dramatic and has virtually no basis in reality, but for some reason, none of that logic ever rears its head in those moments. So instead, my sad becomes too big, and others' happy becomes too loud, and it gives me the perfect excuse to shrivel up and fade and prove myself exactly right.

I amaze myself at my inability to identify my nonsense as it occurs.

So, last week, when I looked in the mirror, I knew that I had not been living what I was selling. I felt no better than a snake oil salesman promising new health and a new start. I came home, sat in front of my screen and stared. Nothing happened. No pieces fell into place; no lights magically came back on. But that's not how it works, and I know that. I still couldn't shake that doubt, so slyly tugging at my pocket, so I went back. I went back and read everything I've written here, and then I went back and read my journal. And then I went back to those links I posted; I read all the kind comments I could find from all the people I trust. I hoped that seeing would lead to believing and I would suddenly trust all of the good from others and ignore all of the bad brewing within.

And I sat in front of my blank screen last night, and I stared. Nothing happened. No pieces fell into place. No lights magically came back on.

Because that's just not how it works. Flowers don't blossom in the cracks of concrete jungles because anyone planted them there. Cactus blooms don't appear because someone else hauls water through the desert to feed them each day. Dandelion seeds scatter accidentally on the winds far more often than on the wishful whispers of a child. Bluebonnets cannot reappear year after year without dying and withering first.

They don't bloom because someone wants them to or even because someone wills them to.

They bloom because they can.

They bloom because they persevere.

They bloom in spite of their circumstances and not because of them.

And they bloom because sometimes, strangely enough, the very best thing for the strongest and most beautiful flowers is a truckload of shit thrown on them.

Now and Then. Then and Now.

My friend, Courtney, has been my friend, Courtney, for 18 years now. Today, she has been my friend, Courtney, for half of her life. We've changed a little but not so much.

Then, we met in a parking lot. We met on a hayride. We met on a bridge. We met at our home away from home -- camp.

Now, we meet for margaritas, trashy tv, shared tears, and healing laughter. We meet when we can which is never often enough.

Then, we taught fishing and archery and how to paddle a canoe.

Now, I teach children to read and write. You teach them to speak. But we both know where the roots of our teaching reside -- Shannah's Lagoon.

Then, we organized cook-outs and all-camps and kitchen raids.

Now, we just try to organize ourselves.

Then, we rode in the backs of pickup trucks.

Now, well, now we still ride in the backs of pickup trucks.

Then, our friendship was built upon painted rocks, daisy chains, and campfire smoke.

Now, our friendship stands upon touchstone memories, new adventures, and half a life of inside jokes.

Then, we were young and stupid and idealistic.

Now, we are young at heart, a little bit wiser and gripping tight our idealism, still.

Then, we raised hundreds of campers to become pretty fantastic adults.

Now, you're raising a cabin of your own, teaching them to be kind and generous and to sing silly songs.

Then and now. Now and then.

Our lives have become a timeline, tied together and marked by celebration and sadness and all of the absurdities in between.

It is full of cold beer and warm sunsets, rocking chairs and porch swings.

It is guitar strums and off-key show tunes, sappy movies, snorts, swears, and aimless stories.

It is full of debate, forgiveness, long talks, and unconditional love.

Then, I thought we might be friends for a while.

Now, I realize how wrong I was. A lifetime won't be long enough.

I love you, my WoHeLo sister, my compass, my cheerleader, my best life friend.

Then, now, always.

Happy Birthday, Court.

Fantasy Football: Week 13

Remember how I was the only girl invited into the fantasy football league at my school?

Remember how I didn't seem to know what the heck I was doing?

Remember how only a few of my best work buddies thought that I'd have a chance?

Remember how I had a couple of really terrible, inexplicable losses at the beginning (even though I had some great players) and I wanted to quit?

Remember how everyone thought it was kind of cute when I won a couple of games, and they gave me a little "way to go" pity five?

Remember how people kind of thought that I probably wouldn't be able to keep it up?

Remember when I didn't think anything could get any better than Week #8?

Well, I don't admit this often, but...  I WAS WRONG, Y'ALL! 

I AM A DAMNED FANTASY FOOTBALL SAVANT. I AM THE RAINMAN OF FANTASY FOOTBALL. 

Just kidding. Probably, I'm just really lucky, but I don't care. Nope. I don't care how it happens. It is happening.

I'm on a six week win streak. Three weeks in a row with the top score in the league. I've moved from dead last to 4th place in the last six games. I don't think I hit genius level until I'm at least in the top 2.

I am the Duke Football of my league. Nobody gave me a chance, and I crept right past 'em, seemingly defying all odds. Of course, just like the good Duke football superstitious fan I am, I've been afraid to post about it for fear of the jinx. 

But jinx be damned. I gotta crow while I can. Watch out, boys.

300

Sometimes writing is a celebration. The writer chooses a subject and holds it up to the light to inspect its beauty and paint it so with his words.

Sometimes writing is a mutilation. The writer chooses a subject and rips it apart to investigate its innards, its weak spots. He cracks its bones and shreds its skin.

Sometimes writing is a salve. It soothes troubled spirits and minds. It may not heal, but it provides relief and respite.

Sometimes writing is a blood-letting. It trickles, and it gushes. It provides a relief and respite that is totally different -- painful and unnerving but weirdly soothing.

Writing is different things for different people at different times. Sometimes it's all four. Sometimes it's none.

But it's never easy. Not if it's meaningful. Not if it's true. At least not for me. Words may fill the page or the screen, and they may flow quickly, but they hardly ever flow easily.

This is my 300th post. I started writing here in May of 2010. Looking back on those first couple of posts, I don't recognize myself. They feel fake and peppy. They feel like something I thought someone would want to hear, not something I would want to say. Only 4 people read that first post, and I'm glad. I can most likely guess who those four people were, and they knew that wasn't really me either. 

It was a starting point, though, and I don't think it took too long to find myself.

I value privacy. I am, by my very nature, a secret-keeper, and I am good -- with my own and with others'. I worship, shy and squirming, at the temple of modesty, and my nose tends to stay in my own business. So to put mine out there, in a public forum no less, has been a constant battle. To reveal my shortcomings, my embarrassments, my failings has been painful albeit helpful. 

There have been times that I stood naked in my weakness, and there have been times I have tempered my words because it felt too much, too raw. I don't reread those posts often; some wounds just shouldn't be picked at.

But there have been times that someone found comfort in my discomfort, and that's not a bad thing. It's a human thing. None of us wants to be alone, and, as cliche as it sounds, if even one word made someone else feel less lousy, then it was the right word.

And there have been times when I was able to tell someone all the things I never had the chance to tell them, all the things I never took the time to tell them, all the things they should be celebrated for, all the beauty they held within the light. I revisit those posts often. 

In those 299 posts, I've ranted and raged, cried and crumbled, sulked and snarked. I have also smiled and laughed and triumphed. I've uncovered the awkward and revealed the absurd. I've said hello to a few, and I've said goodbye to too many. I've written about my students and about my co-workers. I've written about the meaningless and the meaningful.  I've written for my family. I've written for my friends. 

More than anything, though, I've written for myself.

I've gone to the well 108 times in the last 4 months. A third of my posts in such a short time, and I wonder when it will be that I run out of words. I worry about that often, but I only know that it will not be today. My original goal was to write more, and in the past three and a half years, I've written more than I could have ever imagined, even with long stretches of silence where I could not bear to open my heart. 

A few of you have been there since the beginning, when I was too scared to do more than just let my writing sit, waiting in the corner at the school dance.

A few more of you have joined along the way. Some I know well; some I barely know at all.  In the time I've written, my site has had 27, 894 page views. Some blogs do that count in a month or a week or even sometimes a day. But I am not them, and they are not me. 

It seems, to me, like a whole heck of a lot of love and attention for my little wallflower blog. 

Thanks for asking me to dance every once in a while.

I Won't Be Watching

I am a sports fan. I am sometimes a highly illogical sports fan.

It's okay; I own it. I'm not the sort of person who believes that players or coaches are losing or making decisions to spite me or that my complaints or thoughts will somehow make some sort of difference in the outcome. Those people aren't illogical; they're insane.

I'm not insane. At least not to the trained eye.

I do believe in superstitions though. I believe in mojo. I believe in routine. I believe in lucky shirts and changing seats and whispered prayers. So maybe slightly cuckoo but not insane.

I've always followed Duke basketball intensely, and the addition of better technology has only heightened that passion. I've written about it a few times: here, here, and here too. Duke football, however, has mostly lived in the shadows for me and most everyone else. I've always been a little ashamed of that, but football itself has never had the same hold on me as basketball has. 

Yet, the last two years, I've watched an emergence of Blue Devil football. Through area sportswriters and fans on Twitter, I've delighted in watching Coach Cutcliffe lead this team. And for the record, I am falling in love with Cut in the same way I fell in love with K -- as a teacher. As a teacher and former coach, there's nothing that drives me crazier than people who think that it's "easy" to coach. As if all you have to do is draw up a couple of plays on a chalkboard and roll the ball out. But good teaching recognizes good teaching, and I can say with confidence that Coach Cutcliffe is not just a football coach; he's a fantastic teacher. Watching him, and reading about him, has piqued my curiosity and strengthened my belief.

Also, let me clarify about the word "watch". I have to confess that of all of the games I've actually watched in real time, most have wound up as losses, including the Pitt game this year and the Belk Bowl last year (sorry, Ben Swain). The only notable exception was the Duke-UNC game last year.

Last week, as the Blue Devils took on NC State, I left to grab dinner at 17-14. I was gone for 15 minutes, and no one scored. Within 30 seconds of watching, State scored. Testing out my jinx status, I turned off the TV and turned my attention to following the game solely on Twitter updates. Without my watching, at one point, Duke scored 21 points in less than 30 seconds. I got this message.

Of course I was. Jinxes cannot affect recorded television. But a lack of planning can. The DVR cut off 45 seconds before that scoring onslaught began. Duke won 38-20.

This afternoon, I was out of the house at the beginning of today's game against Miami. A win against them today would put Duke in the driver's seat of their division. I walked in the door to see Miami score a touchdown to go up to 17-7. I held on, watching, just long enough for a punt before I decided to test my theory one more time. 

I scheduled the DVR to extend an hour after game time ended, and I turned off the television. When the tide began to turn, I started getting the itch to turn it on and watch for a while. Instead, I left the house to erase the temptation. This is how I wound up sitting in the Quik Trip parking lot, searching my Twitter feed, and screaming in my car as Duke Football emerged, once again, out of all the shadows, winning 48-30.

Do I believe in superstition? Yes.

Do I believe in jinxes? Yes.

Do I believe in Duke Football? Hell, yes.

Congratulations, Blue Devils. Good luck next Saturday at Wake Forest. 

And don't worry, I won't be watching.

The House Always Wins

I love to gamble. For someone as cautious as I am, it seems illogical. But I come from a long line of chronic gamblers, and genetics are a bitch with a tight, tight grip.

My best childhood friend, Haley, and her MamMaw took me on my first big gambling trip when I was 19. Haley had turned 18, and in Santa Fe, the legal age was about to change. MamMaw Cherry decided that it was her civic duty to teach us the ways of the casino and, consequently, the rules of life.  It was a magnificent time.  Because it was an Indian casino, there were few table games, but this did not matter to us. It did not matter that we could not drink or smoke or go buck wild. What mattered was that we had money in our pockets and a willingness to let it go.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #1: Don't play with necessary money. If that $500 is your rent money, you quickly shall find yourself homeless.

We milled about, feeling quite important and grown up. Loud and brash and obnoxiously hopeful, we played slots and video poker and keno.  We nickeled and dimed our way to hours of fun.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #2: Breaking even is a win. Don't question it. Don't get greedy.

But with every jingle jangle to our coin bucket, our confidence grew. By dawn, Haley and I had begun to strut around, claiming even our smallest victories and inflating them in our heads. We were up $50 and feeling our oats, dabbling in the dollar machines. Haley, feeling extra saucy, sauntered over to a $5 machine and won another $50 with one pull.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #3: Don't leave with empty pockets. Save something to at least buy yourself some pancakes on the way home.

It took us less than 10 minutes to be down to our last $10. As quickly as our hopes rose, they fell just as swiftly. Completely ignoring Rule #3, Haley decided this money qualified under Rule 1, and we didn't come here to break even, so she put in our last ten bucks. Haley grabbed the handle, shouted "All in!", and closed her eyes. Haley has always been an "all-in" kind of friend, and I have always loved that about her.

Thirty seconds later, we were on our way to the hotel room, broke and pancake-less.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling # 4: The House always wins. Always.

She said this one with a sly smile. She had saved it because she knew we wouldn't listen the first time, and this would be an important -- the most important -- lesson of all.

I thought a lot about MamMaw Cherry today on my way home from work. Today was an interesting, although wholly unsurprising, day at work.

As gamblers, we can't resist breaking rules 1-3.  As gamblers, we go for broke. We spend every dime. We ignore every red flag. We believe in superstition and  Lady Luck and changing machines. We believe that big moves will always equal big pay-offs. We play with rent money and then wonder why we're out in the rain.

But we never, ever stop to think about what would happen if we just didn't go in. We don't think about what would happen if we didn't ante up. Because we wouldn't be us if we didn't sit down at the table to play. And no matter what hand we've been dealt, we play it all the way, even if we lose, knowing that the House always wins.

It's just no fun to eat pancakes by yourself.

Thanks for the lesson, MamMaw. It has served me well.

Kid Drives Me Crazy

I had a student once, just a couple of years ago.  Here's what I knew about him then:

He didn't talk to me. He didn't even really talk to his classmates that often or that loudly, but he especially didn't talk to me. I wasn't sure how he felt about me -- if I freaked him out, if my jokes were simply terrible, if he was bored. When he spoke, it was because I asked him a question. There was occasionally a shy smile, but he was mostly head down, serious, determined, and, yes, fairly silent.

He was in band. He played soccer. He loved the Dallas Cowboys. He liked to doodle and draw. He was meticulous and careful and prepared.

He was a teacher's dream -- sweet, humble, quiet. So quiet that it drove me crazy.  It drove me crazy because I didn't really know him. Since then, I've wondered if I did right by him. Do I teach kids like that or do they just absorb what they can while I manage the chaos around them? This is my constant worry as a teacher. With kids like him, I worry double because they're too kind to speak up and demand more for themselves.

I got an email last week from my friend, Bryan, our band director at school. This kid, this wonderful and kind kid, has been diagnosed with leukemia. Not that I think the Universe should go around handing out terrible diseases as punishment, but let's get honest with ourselves, I'd much rather see some pedophile or wife-beater in that hospital bed than this kid whose worst crime is probably not completing his summer reading for World Geography class.

I've fumed about it for several days. This is what I do about things I cannot control. I fume. I am often outraged by my lack of control.

Tonight, his 7th grade English teacher, his 8th grade English teacher, and his junior high band director, showed up at his door. What he didn't realize is that for all the moments leading up to that visit today, we were confused. What do we do? Where do we go? Where are all the parking spots in this crazy hospital? We were also pretty scared. How is he feeling? How will he look? What has been happening? And, most importantly, what are we going to talk about with this kid who doesn't speak?

It didn't matter. Bryan went through the door and was met with an excited, "Mr. Stein!" And then, "Coach Naz?" followed by a "Mrs. Simpson?!"

And the biggest smile I've ever seen on his face.

He looked thinner. Tired. He kept adjusting and readjusting his baseball cap and fiddling with his hospital bracelets. But his head was up; his smile bright. And he talked to us for 30 straight minutes.

About his diagnosis and treatment, he knew every detail. It didn't shock me because he's an incredibly smart and attentive kid, but there's such a sadness for a 14 year old to have so much knowledge. It feels far too heavy for those shoulders.

About the hospital, he assured us that the people are nice, but he's ready to go home. I think his poor mother is too.

About high school. As a small town girl, I am still intimidated by the size of Lamar High School, and I've always wondered how a kid so shy takes on such a thing. Yet he's enamored with how many new people there are to meet, how many opportunities there are to seize, what different challenges present. He won't be able to go back to finish his year at school, but he's expecting bigger and better things for his sophomore year.

About marching band, he gushed. On the wall was a giant poster. As he talked about his friends, both those that he has only met this year and those that have inspired him since elementary school, he pointed out their well wishes and signatures. He loves music, and he has found a family within the band. To see him so happy, especially in such a tough situation, made me just want to hug each and every kid in that band.

I went in tonight expecting us to muddle through, to attempt to bring some sort of lightness to a dark and scary moment, to just do the best we could. To be adults because adults know what to say, right? To be teachers because teachers have all the answers, right? To be some sort of saving grace because what else can you be?  

We didn't even have a chance because the kid in the bed, the kid with the i.v. line and body full of cancer-fighting poison, the kid who never spoke -- he spoke to us. We came bearing gifts, but it was he who gifted us. We came with questions, but he shared his answers with us. We came with fear and doubt, but he banished them with that same familiar smile. Only it wasn't so shy this time.

I got lost on the way home. I'm easily lost in unfamiliar places, but the hospital is literally less than 5 miles from my house. I was unfocused, and when I did find myself on a more recognizable path, I sat in traffic for almost an hour. I had expected to fall apart after our visit; I build walls against crisis only to crumble at the first private moment.  I didn't, and I couldn't wrap my head around why. I'm still not entirely sure.

Before our visit, I could only think about the student I thought I knew 2 years ago, but here's what I do know about our student now:

He's wise beyond his years. He has a clarity that is startling. He sees the beauty and strength in others and draws from it himself. He has many friends. He's still a teacher's dream. He still finds time to doodle. He seemed lighter, wiser, but still pretty determined. And he's silent no more.

I had expected him to wilt. Instead, it's almost as if he's finally blossomed. How does that happen? I am still shaking my head over it.

Did I teach him anything when he was in my classroom? Probably, but it took me 187 days. He managed a great deal more in just half an hour. How did that happen? Man, that kid drives me crazy.

Get better soon, E. There's a big world waiting, and it needs you.