bear with me.

last night i started reading a book of barbara kingsolver's essays.

let me just say, i adore barbara kingsolver. she makes me swoon; i love her work upside down and sideways. she is also a fine human being.

this essay was about the anguish she felt just after 9-11, and her thoughts about the world and our connective tissue that makes us feel things deeply. one anecdote was about a couple in the mountainous region of iran, who worked all day and left their 17-month old with a family member. one day they returned and found that their son was missing. they looked everywhere. the whole tribe looked everywhere, through every tent, every nook, every bit that could hold a tiny, wandering child.

he could not be found.

despondent, the family went to bed, but the father awoke early in the morning to go look in the nearby mountains. some village men went with him, none with high hopes. there were caves in the mountains, but everyone was sure that this small toddler could not have wandered that far. he had just learned to walk a few months before. how could this be possible?

still, the men searched. and they came to a cave where they heard a child crying. they walked into the darkness. and they smelled bear.

and as their eyes adjusted to the dark they saw a huge mama bear, laying down on the floor of her den, cradling the human child next to her.

the child had been hungry, and the mama bear had nursed him. he had been cold and she had given him warmth. he was lost and she gave him shelter.

the story ended there, with barbara kingsolver not sure what happened next. she wanted to believe, as i did, that the bear simply released the child to the humans and they ducked back out of the cave, leaving acorns behind as an offering of gratitude.

this is what i want to believe, with all of my soul.

as i was reading this, i started crying. i had tears streaming down my face, over my nose, on my pillow. i could not stop. the article kept moving forward, about finding our humanity among the disastrous moments in our history. she touched on the fact that our earth is sick, our hearts are sick. that all we hear about is pain. but then she also spoke of the shared living that we all do; the fact that the mother and father in iran walked home from a day's work, and probably spoke about dinner. or joked together. or talked about their son. that a nomadic family in faraway iran holds the same conversations that i do, and finds the same joy that i do, and has the same beating heart that i have within me.

it was all too much for me.

i don't know where i am right now, except to say that this is maybe what a mid-life-type crisis feels like, except i don't want to do anything drastic like buy a fancy car or get implants.

i want to save the world.

i cried and cried last night, thinking about the fact that my life, the one i had planned for myself, is unraveling in front of me. it is mine, and i love it so much, but i can't deny that i haven't fulfilled my promise to myself. i had so many plans and thoughts and dreams about making this world a better place, about being special.

instead i am a normal 41-year old woman, with a husband and two children, living sometimes a precarious financial existence but sheltered, fed, loved and loved more. i am among the lucky, blessed, charmed ones. i live in a democracy, with promise and hope and freedom.

and what have i done?

this breakdown also happened to coincide with me watching this week's episode of "downton abbey", in which a woman dies after a misdiagnosis in childbirth. even though it is a soap opera of glorious proportions, i still sobbed, and rightfully so.

then i read barbara kingsolver.

this also happened to coincide with me listening to an interview with lena dunham yesterday, as well. she is 26 years old, and she is helping to re-establish the view of women in television. she has a voice, a gift, and i am lucky that my daughter will be coming of age when she is present and accessible.

i thought about sending her an email (or more appropriately a tweet, right, heather?) and saying thank you, but i am a forty-something woman. i am not her demographic. those characters on "girls" should not speak to me in such a powerful way.

fuck, i think i'm cracking up a bit here.

all of this is to say that i am deep within tonight. i can't help but feel that my heart is literally outside my body; that it is beating bright and shiny like ET's, and hoping that somehow i am a part of this place. that i still have things to do and changes to make and life to live that will make things better.

that i can do something, and be good to this earth, and to all of the creatures who live here with me. that i mean something.

that i can find those little miracles, those bear-baby miracles, and hold tight to them when i sink into despair at the sadness of what we do to each other. that i can see that love is present in everything i look at. that i can feel the blessedness of my own existence and understand that within that is a prayer to the world.

this is my life, my little life. it is all i have to give. i only hope it is enough.

home. school. office.

the words i need will be a balm for my dry, weary heart, and i am confident that they will serve me in all corners of my little life.

there is great comfort taken in a 1965 illustrated dictionary; an undeniable quaintness and attraction to the idea that a book of words used to matter. i want to be reading it, consulting it with my hair in waves and red lipstick on, bending over a desk in heels.

it called to me from the thrift bookshelf, and i knew it had to live with me the moment i looked inside and found the "new words" section:

AFL-CIO
blast-off
carcinogen
DNA
electron microscope
freeway
giveaway show
hard sell
integrate
kabuki
leftist
manpower
NATO
orbit
party line
racism
sit-in
televise
underbelly
VIP
woofer
Xerox
yukon
zero hour

today, that is my poem. that list is inherently mine, and i can't escape the feeling that all of these words are essential to my well-being tonight.

oh, sweet, sweet dictionary. the smell of your pages lights me up from the inside out, and i long to have owned you first. although, to think upon it, i am drawn to the idea of who held you before me. who treated you with respect, or who threw you across the room in frustration when you didn't reveal what was so important to discover.

my hands holding you--somewhere in time another pair underneath mine--both of us grateful to have you, to be incapable of ignoring the simple glory of sunset orangey cover and tissue-thin pages.

oh, the beauty of you, dictionary. oh, the love of words that beats my heart strong, despite its longtime use.

made up.

this morning my daughter watched me put on some mascara.

i hadn't even showered; was in yoga pants and pigtails and a Red Sox hat, but lately i feel that i need some mascara just to get out of the house.

i could feel her watching me, eyeing me intently. i felt myself curl up inside, wondering what kind of damage i could be inflicting on her as she watched her mother alter her image in front of her.

to what end? for what purpose?

i asked her quietly, "are you watching me?"

"yeah."

"do you think you might wear make-up when you're older?"

she said, "i don't know, because its so far away from right now."

i said, "you know, there were lots of times in my life when i loved wearing make-up, and other times where i went for years without wearing any. it sort of changes for me sometimes."

she said, "that's just like me and string cheese. i used to love it, now i don't even wanna be around it."

and with that, my seven year-old daughter reminded me that she's going to be just fine.

thursday.

sometimes the only thing to do is to eat dinner standing up, wearing overalls that should've been retired probably two years ago, wearing the gray converse that should be replaced but for the loyalty that is stronger than reason.

sometimes the only thing to do is to push on through the day, well aware that the weather is dictating the removal of the outer layers, but too attached to the idea of january to respond to this.

sometimes the only thing to do is to make eye contact with a friend across the table, and breathe as deeply as can be warranted in a roomful of people.

sometimes it pays to keep a close watch on the fluttering in a heart.

sometimes the only thing to do is to sit on a couch and ignore the madness that surrounds, hoping that the other person will take care of everything, while knowing that there is inherent judgment in the sitting.

sometimes the only thing to do is the only thing to do is to try and write something, anything, even though the lack of subject is apparent and agonizing.

sometimes it is enough to hear the cracks in a back, knowing that with each sound comes a release, although it is never clear where the release actually lands.

always hopeful it hits near the heart.

schooled.

how nice of the weather to take care of me in this way. its in the 40s here in the valley, windy and cold, and its helping me readjust back to this other home of mine.

spent the day working in my classroom, writing about kids, organizing, and enjoying the quiet. its not like that very often, obviously. but damn, i love it in there. i love the way it feels, and the presence of the kids even when they aren't physically there. i love that i can find a piece of scrap paper with a little drawing on it and i know that one of the twins drew it a month ago when they were all big on sketching the pigeon from mo willems's books.

i love that it is another home of mine.

i'm thinking a lot about what it means to be a teacher these days.

i'm thinking about those teachers in newtown. what they would do for their students--what they did--what they gave up.

i would do the same.

its strange to think about the set-up i have right now, the fact that i'm a parent and a teacher at this amazing school. i know that if shit went down, though, the teacher in me would overtake the parent. i would do everything i could do to take care of those nineteen children in my room, and know that my own children's teachers would be doing the exact same thing.

there is inherent trust in a classroom, among all of its inhabitants.

i love my job. i am good at my job. i was born to do this.

something really amazing happened recently.

the story begins with me in my classroom, talking to the kids about the fact that someone had been drawing on the carpet with crayons repeatedly. everyone claimed innocence, and i reassured them that i was not looking for someone to blame but talking to everyone about the fact that it was not okay to do this. i told them i hoped that the person who decided to do the drawings would stop, and realize that they made a mistake.

then i told them a story about being in the first grade, and my teacher, mr. lipman. mr. paul lipman. i loved mr. lipman. i told them how mr. lipman had a storage closet in our room that kept all of the supplies for us, and that we weren't allowed to go in it without asking first. one day i snuck over and stole some pencils from the closet. i felt terrible and excited at the same time. the next day mr. lipman asked me to go out in the hallway to talk to him, and he asked me if i took the pencils. i told him no. i told the kids that i still remember his face, that he was so kind and understanding but it was obvious that he was disappointed in me. i didn't 'fess up. but i knew i had done something wrong.

the kids in my class were enthralled. their teacher was a recovering thief, for crissake!

a couple of weeks later, at my parents' house in massachusetts, my mom tells me she has something for me to look at. "you won't believe it! i'm telling you!" she says.

its a letter to my mother, from mr. paul lipman.

turns out he recently retired and was going through some of his old teacher stuff, things that he had saved, including artwork that i had made for him. turns out i was in his class when he was 23 years old--his first year as a teacher. turns out he liked me as much as i liked him, and said some very kind things about me.

he didn't mention the pencils.

amazing.

i'm going to write him back, of course. i wonder how he'll feel when he finds out that i am an elementary teacher now, that i've figured out that i was meant to do this all along, even with all the fits and starts along the way. i think he'll be so happy to know that i teach at a progressive school, since the elementary school i attended (marks meadow in amherst, massachusetts) was full of constructivist classrooms and progressive educators who were so excited to be there.

i think he'll just be happy.

there is nothing noble about this profession. it is dirty, and messy, and full of craters and cracks in one's own beliefs. we have to constantly reassess what it means to be a human being every single day, because inevitably a child will do something, ask something, create something; that causes us to question what we have so wholeheartedly subscribed to our whole life. we must deal with stolen pencils and bloody noses and hurt feelings and fear of the world around us. we must be full and open and inviting and supportive and fearless. and when we're not fearless we need to be able to admit our fears to the people we spend so much time with everyday.

i trusted mr. lipman so much. i trust those 19 kids in my class with my whole heart. and i know that they trust me.

this is the luckiest i've ever been.

fly fly away.

at logan airport.

i honestly can't tell if the kid with the crazy hair next to us is with his mom or his wife.

my daughter is using a stamping sponge on her head to balance her headphones.

there are so many of us here. we are all going to LA. i wonder how many of us think we are going home, or getting away, or know we are going home but also think of this place as home so we end up very confused together.

i keep looking for a scene in a movie to take place, because that's what happens in airports. where is liam neeson's eleven year old son jumping turnstiles for love? where is sally saying goodbye to her new boyfriend? where are the bad guys taking over everything?

better not go further with that last one.

my brain keeps hearing snippets of conversations, and i instantly create a life story for the voices. i check out faces for the sad ones, look to the college kids looking alternately weary and excited, and see the place on the floor where i sat with my kids three and a half years ago, waiting to fly back to alex, so so sad to leave this place.

why is the woman wearing black knit gloves to read her people magazine?

i'll miss you, massachusetts.

two bottles.

last night i sat surrounded by family, playing our family card game over and over, listening to each other trash-talk, tease, torture each other. my brother yelled at me, hard. my mother broke down in tears as she talked to us about the lack of religion or spirituality in our children's lives. my husband tried to be the voice of reason. my sister-in-law kept filling our wine glasses in solidarity. we laughed and argued.

these people belong to me, yet i don't know them at all. they are my relations, my people, but they don't know me either. i remain a mystery to them, an annoying afterthought, the one who makes chocolate mousse with tofu and doesn't tell anyone.

they don't get me.

and i know they are pretty sure that i don't get them.

this institution called family remains a source of my greatest joy and deepest angst. how can i be a part of this group? how can i disavow myself of them?

how could i live without these people?

coming to the end of our trip, where everyone's ends are frayed and fried. i take my time, take my breaths, and hope for the best.

this family--the ones i have no choice about--this family makes me work hard. and work less. and give over, and give up, and move on.

i am grateful for each of them. each of their crazy-ass, issue-laden, whack-job selves.

my only hope is that, in their own way, they are each grateful for me, as well.

i have more color on my legs today than i've had in a long, long time.

i went shopping with my mom, our bi-annual tradition, and as we patrolled the racks in target and tj maxx she kept admonishing me to "expand my color palette! try some colors!"

truth is, i trust myself wearing black and gray. it feels right. most of the time, i just look for more options with those two colors, and then throw some striped socks on for good measure. i'm proud of my beat-up, black doc martens. i like all of my jeans. i'm a creature of habit.

it makes me think of my grammie, who hated that i wore black. she told me for many years that it wasn't appropriate (although i think she said it with much different words). her ideal color on me would be coral pink or baby blue.

both of those are colors i appreciate, but can't really live with for a long time.

still, i hear her voice in my head, telling me that black and gray "do nothing" for me. the funny thing is, she couldn't have known that wearing black and gray gave me permission to embrace a side of me that is fearless and forward. the side that has enormous self-confidence and pride; the side that feels most beautiful.

black and gray do a lot for me.

still, i allowed my mom to buy me a sweater today; lots of pastels and a shiny silver thread running through the whole thing. it made her so happy to see me wearing it, alongside my teal corduroys. such color combinations! i practically look happy!

i've retained the right to take the sweater back. i'm still not sure if it can live at my house. actually, it can live there, but i'm not sure if it will just end up lonely and balled-up in the back of a drawer somewhere. i don't want to inflict that on the poor sweater. some bright and bubbly girl might just be waiting for it.

who am i to let it live a life of silence and obscurity?

two pairs.

i have on two pairs of socks.

if you know me, you probably realize how happy that makes me.

i'm also wearing a tank top under my turtleneck sweater, because i needed layers.

after my run today, my cheeks flushed pink from the cold wind, i stripped down and got in a hot shower and took deep, deep, satisfied breaths as the sweat from my skin rinsed away.

i am grateful for hot showers after cold runs.

i am grateful for wintertime in massachusetts.

and i am grateful for a daughter with cheeks as pink as mine, taking a bath after hours outside in the snow, realizing on her own the unequaled satisfaction of hot water after cold air.