Wednesday, May 05, 2004
In my eleventh-grade class, we talked about Marquez' Chronicle of a Death Foretold. I love this book, for its sensory details, beautiful absurdity, and the way he shows just how time bends back on itself and turns everything around. We were talking about this, but really, they were talking. I love leading discussions of literature, because all I have to do is ask the right question, and listen intently, and they're off. I love watching them having the bravery to bring up ideas, watching them listen to each other, watch their faces widen as they realize a new idea from the kid sitting to the left. And I stand in front of them, quiet and happy, orchestrating it all. Today, we filled the board with ideas, spurred by my asking them, "Why did Marquez write this book? What is it really about?" They talked about violence and dignity and absurd expectations and the different way people's minds work and the role of women in Latin American society and sexuality and death. All within ten minutes. That's part of the reason I love teaching.
Later in the day, I met with Todd, one of my favorite juniors. When I first taught him in the ninth grade, he was gawky and nearly silent, but filled with this expectation of grace. Now, he has filled into it. He moves slowly, methodically. He loves Japanese anime and silent films, anything to do with language, and traveling to new countries. And everything to do with Macintosh computers. He has this delicate surety that most teenage boys could never understand. When he's 30 years old, he'll be so powerful and kind that he'll move beyond himself entirely and start changing the world. I adore watching these children grow into adolescence and starting into adulthood. The first students I ever taught are 28 now, and they have full, adult faces, and life stories I could never have predicted. They still come back in droves to see me, and I'm grateful every time. Some of them are my dearest friends. Todd told me, excited, about his upcoming trip to Japan. And then we went over each sentence in his precis about the war in Iraq with a loving attention as though it were an ancient manuscript. The sun was shining through my office window, the day was almost over, and I was in love with my job again.
After school, I drove to see Sarah, my massage therapist. This is one of my favorite times of the week. I'm healing, deeply. Enough to enjoy all of this, deeply. For months, it was agony. It has also left me irrevocably changed, and better for it. I'm more grateful and insatiable for life than even my friends thought possible. (I was like that before the accident, but a paler version.) Now, I'm on the last stages of pain, and I can feel it all becoming a memory. I went from having a three-month-long headache (seriously; not one break in three months) to feeling clear-headed most of the day. The sprightly energy that comes from this release is impossible to convey. Just say that it feels like spring, and then some. And so, today, I could feel Sarah's hands in every moment, instead of drifting in my mind. There's something powerfully loving about touch. When we allow someone to touch the outer edges of us, then closer, and closer, everything becomes softer, and more itself. So I left feeling close to tears, in gratitude and happiness.
Driving home, I was listening to NPR, as usual. More money for Iraq. The administration weakly apologizing for abuses in Iraqi prisons. Bush on the campaign trail, already. I could have been deflated. But feeling soft after my massage, I floated through it instead. I felt my hands on the steering wheel, my body bending with the turns, and the sunlight coming through the window and falling onto my body. A long line of cars snaked up the hill, under 99, on the way to Queen Anne, off Dexter. Instead of sitting impatiently, wanting to be home, I widened my eyes instead. Stopped under Canlis restaurant, I saw a blonde waitress dancing by the window, when she thought no one else was looking. A grey feather drifted down the air, toward my car. And all the greens ferns and grasses by the side of the road, blue sky behind them, reminded me that it's finally, firmly, spring. The long, dark winter is over. And I'm here.
So now, I'm going to have some shrimp gyoza with lemon pepper ginger sauce, an arugula salad, and a couple of squares of good dark chocolate. I'm going to read, and catch up on conversations with friends on the phone, and write. And fall to sleep early. I'm ready to surrender after massage.
I hope that the day left you feeling soft and open and happy.
All my love,
Shauna
Later in the day, I met with Todd, one of my favorite juniors. When I first taught him in the ninth grade, he was gawky and nearly silent, but filled with this expectation of grace. Now, he has filled into it. He moves slowly, methodically. He loves Japanese anime and silent films, anything to do with language, and traveling to new countries. And everything to do with Macintosh computers. He has this delicate surety that most teenage boys could never understand. When he's 30 years old, he'll be so powerful and kind that he'll move beyond himself entirely and start changing the world. I adore watching these children grow into adolescence and starting into adulthood. The first students I ever taught are 28 now, and they have full, adult faces, and life stories I could never have predicted. They still come back in droves to see me, and I'm grateful every time. Some of them are my dearest friends. Todd told me, excited, about his upcoming trip to Japan. And then we went over each sentence in his precis about the war in Iraq with a loving attention as though it were an ancient manuscript. The sun was shining through my office window, the day was almost over, and I was in love with my job again.
After school, I drove to see Sarah, my massage therapist. This is one of my favorite times of the week. I'm healing, deeply. Enough to enjoy all of this, deeply. For months, it was agony. It has also left me irrevocably changed, and better for it. I'm more grateful and insatiable for life than even my friends thought possible. (I was like that before the accident, but a paler version.) Now, I'm on the last stages of pain, and I can feel it all becoming a memory. I went from having a three-month-long headache (seriously; not one break in three months) to feeling clear-headed most of the day. The sprightly energy that comes from this release is impossible to convey. Just say that it feels like spring, and then some. And so, today, I could feel Sarah's hands in every moment, instead of drifting in my mind. There's something powerfully loving about touch. When we allow someone to touch the outer edges of us, then closer, and closer, everything becomes softer, and more itself. So I left feeling close to tears, in gratitude and happiness.
Driving home, I was listening to NPR, as usual. More money for Iraq. The administration weakly apologizing for abuses in Iraqi prisons. Bush on the campaign trail, already. I could have been deflated. But feeling soft after my massage, I floated through it instead. I felt my hands on the steering wheel, my body bending with the turns, and the sunlight coming through the window and falling onto my body. A long line of cars snaked up the hill, under 99, on the way to Queen Anne, off Dexter. Instead of sitting impatiently, wanting to be home, I widened my eyes instead. Stopped under Canlis restaurant, I saw a blonde waitress dancing by the window, when she thought no one else was looking. A grey feather drifted down the air, toward my car. And all the greens ferns and grasses by the side of the road, blue sky behind them, reminded me that it's finally, firmly, spring. The long, dark winter is over. And I'm here.
So now, I'm going to have some shrimp gyoza with lemon pepper ginger sauce, an arugula salad, and a couple of squares of good dark chocolate. I'm going to read, and catch up on conversations with friends on the phone, and write. And fall to sleep early. I'm ready to surrender after massage.
I hope that the day left you feeling soft and open and happy.
All my love,
Shauna
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