saturday.

this is what weekend love looks like...

rock star.

just for a few minutes tonight, standing in line with my fellow teachers, microphone in my hand

(effortlessly, that; the way i gripped the mic, the way my mouth found the perfect place to be near it)

i put away all the mean things i just said about myself and my teaching

i shoved aside all thoughts of inadequacy

i jumped into the song like i dropped into a ice-cold lake

and i layed that shit down.

yes, i know i'm not tina.  i know we're just doing a version of "proud mary".  i know its just a band for one day, for one moment in ten minutes in front of the community.

but still, i get to speak those words:

"you know, every now and then i think you might like to hear something from us nice, and easy. . ."

and i am a rock goddess: sweaty sandy feet from the middle yard, sharpie notes on my hand, eyes tired and worn out . . . but my rhythm is hot, and i am inside the beat, and i am just having so much goddamn fun you can't even begin to stop me or understand it.

thank you, van nuys!

briny.

the salt water residue still tastes of the ocean on my skin, and i'm still finding sand between my toes even though i left the beach hours ago.

my cheeks flame from the sun-slap they received today.

there are products out there that people buy to make their hair feel like mine does, right now.

my mother called me twice in a row today because she was worried i hadn't called her back.

the state i'm in requires repeated watchings of former seasons of "arrested development" and ice cream.

the parrots in my neighborhood are really fucking noisy these days.  this is a sentence i never thought i'd write.  who lives in a place with wild parrots?

oh, i do.

this weekend my daughter asked me, "what are you doing?" when i went out the garage to find a book.  "finding a book," i said.  "i'm playing with my imaginary friends," she told me.  "you interrupted us."

balm, salve, lucidity, kindness.

tuesday folds into wednesday, weeks into the end of the month, and the summer tilts her head at me with a california-girl smile and flirts, just a little bit.

just like that

just like that, i'm standing in my kitchen, stirring a soup; the last of the soups, the last of the soup season.  i'm holding onto cooler weather like a lifeline, knowing the heat will soon overpower my dinner plans.

just like that, the song comes on, and i'm transported back to my freshman banquet at pearl lake in franklin; hair permed and curled, satin baby-blue dress with the drop-waist and v-back, nylons and white shoes.  all of us there together, fresh-faced, childhood cheeks still intact, make-up inexpertly applied with the best intentions.  and the song plays, "lean on me", and i remember everyone dancing and holding hands, arms around each other, pretending we were all for one.  one for all.  and me, being new to the school, to the group, feeling a part of something.

me, always conscious of my first strapless bra pinned to the bottom of the v on the back of my dress, so that it wouldn't show.  

cooking soup, now.  cooking for my family, in my rented house, in my life away from the town where i was raised, where i started learning about the girl i was, and started the kitchen prep for the woman i was to become.

i look back a lot.  i can't help but think that my reality now is wrapped up in my past; that reviewing the few memories that i can recall keeps me in line.  this is tricky.  sometimes they send me back and i sit there in a state of longing, instead of a state of grace.  nevertheless, this is a part of me.  my father is the same way.  its in my genes, to look behind me and wave with a sad smile on my face, wistfully.

(i just went out to the garage to try to find a picture of me to post with this, and walked in on my daughter playing by herself, for the fifth hour today.  she asked me what i was doing, then told me, "i was playing with my imaginary friends.  you interrupted us."  she then waited until i left.  then she started talking to them again.  this is what's right in front of me, and it is also good.)

oh brother.

we walked through the neighborhood: girl walking in slippers, carrying a succulent as a flag, singing a song to the fading rainbow in the distance; boy on rollerskates, wet hair from the shower, showing up as a surprise to us halfway through the walk; me, tired, worn-out, multi-tasking two dogs, poop bag, mind racing.  he regaled me with a two-block story about two-ball knockout, in which he emerged victorious even though he shunned a teammate.  proud, he was.  i tried to tell myself it wasn't indicative of his overall attitude towards others.  tried to ignore the judgment i was throwing his way.  said the right thing instead: "that must've felt awesome, buddy."

"it totally did," he replied.

then came the breakdown two streets later when he tried to make friends with a neighborhood cat, and his sister approached too quickly and the cat ran off.  then he erupted, yelling "c'mon selkie!" a la

Gob from "Arrested Development", and angrily threw his skates in the garage. me, trying to calm him, trying to tell him he was being an asshole without tearing up his fragile heart.  

me, leaving him alone to gather himself.

then i'm in the kitchen washing two days worth of dishes, and i hear him talk to his sister about his newfound love of playing solitaire.  "hey, want me to teach you?" he says to her.  and while my hands are working, my heart is falling in love all over again, listening to him gently give her the rules.  listening to the best explanation of the game i've ever heard.  listening to his patience, support, love.  

imagining my grandparents somehow watching this; flashing back to being underneath their dining room table while my pa played game after game, calling out to grammie, "another ace, ma!" every now and then.  wondering about our family's propensity for the game, thinking how much i love the word "solitaire", thinking how wonderful it was to be alone with my thoughts while the beauty in the next room unfolded.

she came close to winning her first-ever hand, but lost in the end.  

now they are in her room, and she is drawing on her bed while he plays the game on her floor.  he's calling out to her what he has, how close he is to winning, while she offers up encouraging words.  he's singing "carry on" in a loop, and she joins in the chorus every now and then.  this is all happening while the coldplay lullaby cd plays, and they talk about funny things that happened at school.

i love these two together.  

mistook.

and so she makes a mistake, and it hurts, it feels bad, it feels shameful. she twists herself up inside until she needs to be wrung out like a wet facecloth, hoping it can all drip away into the ground beneath her feet. the mistake is simple, laughable really; but nevertheless it hurtles itself towards her, smacks her in the face, and sits in front of her, panting.

there have been many mistakes. things broken and unswept. her mind not quite connecting to what her hands can touch. these mistakes also stay with her, but show their faces only occasionally now. when they do, they are dressed to the nines, jewels dripping off of them, shiny and crystal-slashing bright. still fancy enough to make her gasp.

she tells her students, "everyone makes mistakes. i make them all the time. they are how you learn." and she believes this to be true. but she cannot bring herself to admit the seismic attack that happens within her when she is the maker. she can weave a mistake with the best of them, but hasn't learned yet how to bid it goodbye the moment it happens, watching its smoke curl up from the damage, knowing it is about to escape into the ether. knowing it is leaving her behind.

she listens to her sages, the women who speak for her, and reads their words of acceptance. she tries to be like them. she does try. by writing these words, she is trying.

she is trying really, really hard to give herself a break. not because she deserves it, although she does, but because hanging onto her failures is getting really, really old. it reeks of yesteryear. its a cliche, just like when she shaved her head on stage and then threw glitter all over herself.

she needs to mistake herself for someone else; someone who is forgiveness personified. someone who lets her breath mix with the errors of her ways, knowing that is a blessing. a mistaken identity that turns out to be the most wonderful fuck-up anyone has ever encountered.

butterdie.

i held the tip of my finger out, and it stepped onto my skin like it was touching the edge of the world. the butterfly's wings were shiny and new, completely untested, fresh off the assembly line. as i walked with it towards the yard, it held with it all the promise of new life, new hope, new flight.

the kids all gathered around me; soccer ball dropped, crayons down, shovels in the sandbox. they cheered and crowded and jockeyed for a better position, even though i held the butterfly aloft and they could all see anyway. their dreams were pinned on that butterfly. that butterfly meant they had succeeded, grown something, watched as nature began a live part of their classroom.

alive. you see?

so there we were, waiting for the butterfly to get brave, and suddenly, there she went---

"goodbye, goodbye, good luck, goodbye, butter--!!"

out of the corner of my eye, i see a flash of black, and in that second, i think, "that's the black phoebe. we just identified that bird yesterday, and found its nest under the eaves today. that's the black--"

oh shit.

the bird knocks into the butterfly, one hit, and the butterfly shakes around for a half a second, and then the entire class, all those little hearts and eyes and souls watch as that bird eats the butterfly in one gulp.

i folded over in laughter, my hands over my face, and listened the the reactions of the kids around me. the twins started wailing, then another joined in, then another. a few seconds later we have seven children in sobbing positions, while three other shouted their bravado, "good! i didn't like butterflies anyway!!"--thereby causing more cries of dismay and despair.

my colleagues later told me they heard the cries from the other side of the school. a couple was touring and walked through the yard just as this was happening, and i had to reassure them that it wasn't everyday that the entire kindergarten class broke out in hysterics.

am i describing this accurately enough? can you see the dramatic arc of the experience? can you feel the ecstasy and agony? in seven swift seconds these children were slapped on the side of the head with the glorious violence of nature.

i loved it.

it was hilarious.

but it also made me think a bit. the girls in the class called for the destruction of the black phoebe and all it's kin, a boy wished for the extinction of the entire bird population. there were calls for justice in the name of all butterflies. you get the picture.

in light of my recent craving to change myself again, to make myself over; to cut my fucking hair off, i realized that there is some kind of connection here.

go with me for a minute.

there is a kind of glamour to butterflies, those little darlings. they start one way and end another. they have color and beauty. they have flash-in-the-pan lives. and we are told to adore them. more specifically, the little girls in my class are taught to love, love, love them: they wear them in sparkly designs on their shirts, they show up with b-fly tattoos. they draw pictures of them for each other. butterflies are easy, glossy, and require little thought. they are the people magazine of the nature world.

these black phoebes, however, ain't got nothin' on the delicate ones. they are black and white; sure, they've got a little crest on their head and their tail bobs in a really funky way, but other than that (and the fact that they make their nests out of mud and attach them to walls), they're just birds. plain old birds. to the point: one plain old bird that ate a pretty little butterfly.

i'm still feeling out this connective tissue here, so forgive me for rambling. the thing is, i am that black phoebe, and i am that butterfly, too. most of my life i've leaned one way or another: sometimes requiring the pretty, sometimes pushing myself away from that nest, but always, always, there is the understanding in my heart that my appearance means something.

that the way i look determines the way i am loved.

and so this longing to do away with my hair, to cut it short again, to feel the wind on my neck and stretch out my bones to the sun--this is what it feels like to be that butterfly on my palm, and also what it feels like to be that bird swooping in with all the power in its body. there is a clash of ideals, a splattering of remains, another illusion shattered.

it ain't pretty. but its the way it is. nature in real time.

sometimes, there is nothing more beautiful than the truth.





(disclaimer: i know a famous lepidopterist and she is a kick-ass scientist and i have the utmost respect for her work. and for butterflies. just to be clear.)