Saturday, February 07, 2004
I'm slowly recovering. It is a long road, but at least I'm not crawling it anymore. A month ago was the worst pain of my life. It's close enough, with the echoes of it in my body, to remind me to be grateful. I'm able to walk upright, teach a full day at school (with the aid of the heating pad and lots of rest), play with my nephew, and stay up until past 8 pm! I'm still in pain, but the blinding headaches have quieted. Tomorrow, it will be eight weeks since the accident, but this is the first week that my physical therapist has been able to massage my neck muscles. Before, they were so badly damaged that touching them would inflame the pain. So that's a bonus.
Honestly, it's hard to describe what this time has been, however. In the midst of feeling loved by the people in my life, grateful to be here, and slowly recovering every day, I've felt very much alone these past two months. There's something ineffably powerful that I haven't been able to communicate, some deeper place than I've ever been. And no one has been able to go there with me.
And the water in my hands when I wash my face looks extrarodinary.
There have been so many gifts in this. I'm alive to life in a way I have never been before (and my friends tease me when I say this, because I was pretty alive to life before). I feel like I have been living life to the point of tears these days. (Thanks to Camus for that sentence.) Everything moves me.
A powerful story on NPR about a woman in Arizona who works seven days a week, caring for the sick in their homes, who earns $9 an hour. This country has all its priorities backwards, and I'm moved to tears in righteous indignation all the time. But I was also moved by how that woman has the better life than the man who earns millions of dollars a year.
A wonderful conversation in class with the juniors, about Holden Caulfield, and how perceptive he is, how deeply he sees life, and how wounded he is. And yet, how much righteous indignation he has, and how right he is.
A connection with Monica, who comes into my office nearly every day, in some form of crisis or exultation. Today was crisis, since it is quint three of the senior year. Remember those doldrums? I listened closely, then joked her out of her bad mood, offered her kleenex with a dry eye. But as soon as she left, I teared up, at the way people let me into their lives, and how lucky I am for these connections.
Later, Jake came around the corner of my office door, a gorilla mask on his face. Pearson and I laughed, not knowing who it was. And then Jake sat down on the couch, to talk in his quiet voice, the talking filled with pauses, the silences soft among the three of us. Later, Alex joined us, leaning his body against the wall with the Ernie poster, and we all talked, about how all the girls in the senior class seem to be having emotional breakdowns, and the boys remain strong. And there we all were, sharing the space. And I realized anew that they will all be leaving soon, that all of my students leave eventually, and yet I keep having these connections.
A dozen quick-paced conversations, with Vanessa and Melody and Daniel and Matthew, who comes into my office at least twice a day, usually to have lunch with me and talk about life. He wrote me a note the other day, on notebook paper, part of which read, "I am much obliged to you for your endless days sitting and bitching in your 10-square-foot office of well-being. For this, I am forever grateful. It is a great fortune, as well as a blessing, to find a soul as understanding and insightful as yours." And teachers complain they aren't paid enough?
A slow walk from school, the clouds parting into blue sky for a few moments.
Music softly humming in my ears.
Stepping off the bus, across the street from home, I felt a spring in my step I haven't felt in weeks. Somehow, I wasn't shattered with exhaustion, even after such a day. I'm healing. I can feel it.
Try to remember the last time you were sick, your body laid low by the pain and enervation. Now, feel your body, and do a little dance. Enjoy the cold.
Love,
Shauna
Honestly, it's hard to describe what this time has been, however. In the midst of feeling loved by the people in my life, grateful to be here, and slowly recovering every day, I've felt very much alone these past two months. There's something ineffably powerful that I haven't been able to communicate, some deeper place than I've ever been. And no one has been able to go there with me.
And the water in my hands when I wash my face looks extrarodinary.
There have been so many gifts in this. I'm alive to life in a way I have never been before (and my friends tease me when I say this, because I was pretty alive to life before). I feel like I have been living life to the point of tears these days. (Thanks to Camus for that sentence.) Everything moves me.
A powerful story on NPR about a woman in Arizona who works seven days a week, caring for the sick in their homes, who earns $9 an hour. This country has all its priorities backwards, and I'm moved to tears in righteous indignation all the time. But I was also moved by how that woman has the better life than the man who earns millions of dollars a year.
A wonderful conversation in class with the juniors, about Holden Caulfield, and how perceptive he is, how deeply he sees life, and how wounded he is. And yet, how much righteous indignation he has, and how right he is.
A connection with Monica, who comes into my office nearly every day, in some form of crisis or exultation. Today was crisis, since it is quint three of the senior year. Remember those doldrums? I listened closely, then joked her out of her bad mood, offered her kleenex with a dry eye. But as soon as she left, I teared up, at the way people let me into their lives, and how lucky I am for these connections.
Later, Jake came around the corner of my office door, a gorilla mask on his face. Pearson and I laughed, not knowing who it was. And then Jake sat down on the couch, to talk in his quiet voice, the talking filled with pauses, the silences soft among the three of us. Later, Alex joined us, leaning his body against the wall with the Ernie poster, and we all talked, about how all the girls in the senior class seem to be having emotional breakdowns, and the boys remain strong. And there we all were, sharing the space. And I realized anew that they will all be leaving soon, that all of my students leave eventually, and yet I keep having these connections.
A dozen quick-paced conversations, with Vanessa and Melody and Daniel and Matthew, who comes into my office at least twice a day, usually to have lunch with me and talk about life. He wrote me a note the other day, on notebook paper, part of which read, "I am much obliged to you for your endless days sitting and bitching in your 10-square-foot office of well-being. For this, I am forever grateful. It is a great fortune, as well as a blessing, to find a soul as understanding and insightful as yours." And teachers complain they aren't paid enough?
A slow walk from school, the clouds parting into blue sky for a few moments.
Music softly humming in my ears.
Stepping off the bus, across the street from home, I felt a spring in my step I haven't felt in weeks. Somehow, I wasn't shattered with exhaustion, even after such a day. I'm healing. I can feel it.
Try to remember the last time you were sick, your body laid low by the pain and enervation. Now, feel your body, and do a little dance. Enjoy the cold.
Love,
Shauna
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