The book of the summer

This morning, it took much too long to drag my sluggish body up the stairs to take a shower.  Why?

a.) Jess, my mom, and Breanna are all out of town this weekend. I knew nobody would call, so I wouldn't have to explain my pajamas and lack of lavations. I rested.

b.) I started reading Gail Tsukiyama's The Samurai's Garden. I haven't been impressed with any of the books I've read this summer, until now. Oh my. The quietness of the novel speaks to my heart. She writes, "It's harder than I imagined to be alone. I suppose I might get used to it, like an empty canvas you slowly begin to fill" (13) and "But here in Tarumi it's different. Even the light is revealing; you can't miss the smallest nuance, the slightest sound. It's as if the world were concentrated into just these small rooms. I wonder if it appears the same to him" (20) and "Matsu's garden whispers to you, never shouts; it leads you down a path hoping for more as if everything is seen, yet hidden. There's a quiet beauty here I only hope I can capture on canvas" (31).

I've only just begun, but I think I'm going to love it. As I left Mrs. Bailey's house after book club on Thursday, she said, "If you haven't read this book, I'm sending it home with you." I didn't want it because I have too many other books on my agenda, but she knew that I needed this one right now. 

I could probably finish it today, but I don't want to. I'm going to savor the language.

From the poetry files...

The dark circles under my eyes are prominent.

My sweats are ragged.

My messy pony tail gets messier by the minute.

My quilt is my closest ally.

Surprisingly,

I feel just a little bit sexy.

I wonder if he would notice and find me

tempting.

Perhaps it's the hint of the ease in which I would meld into his arms.

Or maybe it's the exhaustion,

which breeds silence,

which requires non-verbal 

communication.

-October 2007

When I lay my head on the pillow, tomorrow starts

Today was a weird day. It was my birthday.

When I got to school, the power was out in the portables, which meant no lights and no heat. Someone stole the copper wire, and we were told to expect no power all day. It was frigid and dark. We had to open the door for the sunlight, but the cold air was biting. I took 2^nd block to the student union, spent half of 3^rd block there, and then I kept 4^th block in my room. At the end of the day, I was very tired and very cold.

I went home, put on sweats, and read under a quilt. I was supposed to go to dinner with my mom, but I really didn’t want to get dressed and go out, so I stayed home. You know that was a bad call, I knew it was a bad call, but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

After a few hours of solitude, I decided that I wasn’t feeling up to calling a friend, but that I should probably get out of the house. Strangers seemed safe.

I drove to Mervyn’s, called my mom, cried in the parking lot, and then I drove back home.

If it wasn’t my birthday, it would have been a perfectly fine evening. I hate birthdays and holidays. And teacher appreciation week. I feel so unappreciated during teacher appreciation week.

Tomorrow’s a new day. A normal day. A Friday. Cross your fingers for electricity. I'm going to wear a coat and scarf, just in case.

Heart Disease: Donuts and Teaching

It was late on Saturday night when we decided to stroll downtown and take a walk to Donut Wheel. Katie and I convinced Kimberly to wear her sweats; we weren’t about to have a jean-wearing-diva adventure with us. If I knew that I was going to run into four (4!) of my students, I probably would have rethought my decision to wear my sweatpants downtown on a Saturday night (Kimberly “told me so” today). Although I was a bit embarrassed by my bed-ready attire (and more embarrassed that we were headed to the famed 24-hour Livermore donut shop), I’m glad my students don’t always ignore me when they see me in public.

The climax of my night seemed uneventful to passer-bys and even to my company. I heard an ardent shout, “Ms. McGowan!” We hugged each other as if it was a reflex. We didn’t even consider standing far apart and awkwardly chatting. It was her. You know: her. The student. The girl I haven’t seen for almost a year. The one who kept me awake many nights in a row. The soul that drove me to my knees, as I prayed to the God I wasn’t even sure existed. The owner of the notebook I cried over on many Friday afternoons. We shared a few short words, and I made her promise to visit if she ever finds herself back at the high school where I teach.

Her mom told me I saved her life. I’m more convinced that she saved mine. She reminded me that what I do matters, and she gave me a few months free of job searches via Craig’s List. She is evidence that a few true words and sleepless nights are somehow communicated through hearts. They, somehow, can sense that I love them and care deeply for them. When I feel as if my attempts to teach a group of rowdy, disrespectful teenagers are futile, I rest trusting that they know I crave good things for them. I hope that matters to them. It matters more than anything else to me.