Anyone who saw the movie The Pacifier with the Vin Diesel will recognize the title of this blog and probably wonder, "Why the hell would someone entitle a blog with that?" Frankly, I'm not sure, but a vision of Vin Diesel singing the song and a strong sense of the blues washed over me at the end of my last class. As the dress code "enforcer," I'm having some issues with female students who resent the interference. It's not MY dress code, but it is my job to speak to the girls who violate it--mostly because talking about low necklines makes the male faculty uncomfortable, and I'm the only straight female in the building most of the day. I understand all this, but the impact on my relationship with the female students saddens me. I work really hard to be fair to them and they cannot get beyond themselves on this--no surprise, they are teenagers, and that's all I can expect. So I need to keep reminding myself that while they make it "personal," it isn't really, because their reactions have nothing to do with me--they blame me because of who they are. And I love them dearly for who they are, myopic selfishness and all! The older I get (and I'm only 49, so I know I'm not THAT old), but more I appreciate the softness of youth's face, the plumpness in the cheeks and near the jawline that even the thinnest of them have, the lingering mark of baby fat that won't disappear until the bones of the face push through with the severity of adulthood, lines that harden with the weight and gravity of life's less pleasant surprises. I wouldn't want it any other way--given the alternative--but God do I love those young faces, whether 2 or 22! Will I always feel this way or does one reach a point where the silliness seems only like willful imbecility? Where naivite seems no different from stupidity? Is there any joy if that happens? Hard to imagine.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
It has a name!
"Trail running" to be exact. I have, apparently, always been a "trail running but didn't know it. And of course, like plain ol' "running," 99% of all the web space devoted to it is about racing and training for racing. Why can't it just be about the process, the running, not the time/finish/distance, etc? I just don't get why it is so competitive. Well, ok, I guess I do--it's easy to find out "who won" because all you need is a timer of some sort. But how do you measure joy or pleasure? You can't, so I guess we don't talk about that much here in America!
I intend to talk about that, however, as much as I can. Taking time to enjoy, to appreciate, whatever it is I am doing, means something to me. I suspect that is why I'm good at doing "nothing," because to me, that means I'm doing something: enjoying! Enjoying what, you might reasonably ask. Well--ok, get ready for this-I'm enjoying doing nothing! A paradox of the first rank, if you ask me.
Do you ever listen to the rhythm of your fingers as you type? I love doing this and sometimes I'm typing just to hear the rhythm. What I actually type is less important than the act of typing, the clippity-clip of my fingers and the way little black signs appear on the screen making whole words, ideas. Not everyone's cup of tea, but it adds to the pleasure of the moment for me. Like smelling coffee as I'm drinking it, and feeling the smoothness of the cup handle and the heat of the cup. Ummm. Cozy.
Little things like that add a lot to my enjoyment of daily life. If I waited for "the big things," it would be such a disappointing and tremendous waste of time. I see so many people rushing, rushing around. Driving is the worst. So many people are so aggressive, missing the pleasure of the act! From the feel of the wheel beneath my fingers, to the soft hum of the engine or the whistle of the wind (if the window is open), to the view of the sky and trees and life all around; blissful. Why rush? Why NOT enjoy? That does not mean I'm being inattentive; in fact, it's a heightened state of awareness--of my speed, of others around me, of road conditions--it comes with the territory--if one is paying attention, one notices such things. That's why I am so aware of the looks on the faces of people driving past me (not those screeching past because they have been trapped behind me! I drive a bit over the speed limit and stay in the right lane, ok?) I learned a long time ago that when I'm frustrated with other drivers, it means I'm tense, and if I can relax and make myself let go of those frustrations, it's as good as meditating; I'm at peace. Floating through space, even in a car, at 60 mph is a pretty neat thing that most human beings have NEVER experienced. It's worth noticing.
Just like running through a forest. Gosh, I wish everyone could enjoy that at some point, early in their life. We'd have a lot healthier population and a lot happier one, too. Once you "get it," you make time for it and you are repayed ten-fold, or a thousand-fold, for the effort! What do you do that makes you feel that way?
I intend to talk about that, however, as much as I can. Taking time to enjoy, to appreciate, whatever it is I am doing, means something to me. I suspect that is why I'm good at doing "nothing," because to me, that means I'm doing something: enjoying! Enjoying what, you might reasonably ask. Well--ok, get ready for this-I'm enjoying doing nothing! A paradox of the first rank, if you ask me.
Do you ever listen to the rhythm of your fingers as you type? I love doing this and sometimes I'm typing just to hear the rhythm. What I actually type is less important than the act of typing, the clippity-clip of my fingers and the way little black signs appear on the screen making whole words, ideas. Not everyone's cup of tea, but it adds to the pleasure of the moment for me. Like smelling coffee as I'm drinking it, and feeling the smoothness of the cup handle and the heat of the cup. Ummm. Cozy.
Little things like that add a lot to my enjoyment of daily life. If I waited for "the big things," it would be such a disappointing and tremendous waste of time. I see so many people rushing, rushing around. Driving is the worst. So many people are so aggressive, missing the pleasure of the act! From the feel of the wheel beneath my fingers, to the soft hum of the engine or the whistle of the wind (if the window is open), to the view of the sky and trees and life all around; blissful. Why rush? Why NOT enjoy? That does not mean I'm being inattentive; in fact, it's a heightened state of awareness--of my speed, of others around me, of road conditions--it comes with the territory--if one is paying attention, one notices such things. That's why I am so aware of the looks on the faces of people driving past me (not those screeching past because they have been trapped behind me! I drive a bit over the speed limit and stay in the right lane, ok?) I learned a long time ago that when I'm frustrated with other drivers, it means I'm tense, and if I can relax and make myself let go of those frustrations, it's as good as meditating; I'm at peace. Floating through space, even in a car, at 60 mph is a pretty neat thing that most human beings have NEVER experienced. It's worth noticing.
Just like running through a forest. Gosh, I wish everyone could enjoy that at some point, early in their life. We'd have a lot healthier population and a lot happier one, too. Once you "get it," you make time for it and you are repayed ten-fold, or a thousand-fold, for the effort! What do you do that makes you feel that way?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
It's Saturday night and I ain't got nobody . . .
Ok, so that is not true. I have a family-spouse, 3 kids-so I am almost NEVER alone. I've taken to hiking in the woods for my private time, something I was apparently really missing but didn't realize until one day, this winter, when I hiked with my kids as it snowed. The crispness of the air, the sharpness of the colors, everything reminded me how much I had loved the long, solitary jogs of my younger days. I would run 5, 6, 7 miles without feeling it, really, restricted only by time and the need to get other things done. I always felt I could have run forever and sometimes now wish I had, just to see what would have happened. Would I have gotten bored? I never did on the runs I took. Would I have gotten tired? Probably, eventually, maybe . . . I never pushed myself for speed, just enjoyed the rhythmic motion of my body, the feeling of power with each lift and step, each pump of an arm. Running felt like floating above where no one could touch me, where I was in a universe of my own making, immune to the weather, separated from man-made noise. Luck endowed me with a place for running unlike most will ever experience, at least in the US, a long, wood and field stretch of land that could not be developed because it lay on a river's flood zone, once pasturage or corn fields (and, one summer, a brief marijuana crop was there, although i never saw it). This Eden lay so quiet, waiting for nothing, needing nothing; it called me so often and although getting there and back meant running sometimes through enormous spider webs built across the trail-a trail only I ever used, for many years-it was always worth it. Even with the beautiful state park I now enjoy, I cannot recapture that silence-the absence of cars or other motors. It is never truly quiet for me, anymore, although I have moments of pure peace in the deepest part of the forest I now frequent.
Wow, this is so boring I don't even want to read it. But I was reawakened to my need for silence and solitude by that one moment of vision on a snowy day, and since then I have made the effort to indulge myself. I have had dream after dream about those old running days and maybe, with God's grace and a bit more o' Irish luck, I'll relive them yet.
Happy trails.
Wow, this is so boring I don't even want to read it. But I was reawakened to my need for silence and solitude by that one moment of vision on a snowy day, and since then I have made the effort to indulge myself. I have had dream after dream about those old running days and maybe, with God's grace and a bit more o' Irish luck, I'll relive them yet.
Happy trails.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Prom Night!
I will be chaperoning Prom for my high school students tonight, and I am looking forward to it! Seeing them all dressed up is such a treat. Yesterday, they had a "formal Friday," when they wore pretty nice clothes--past prom dresses or really nice dresses, suits for the boys, etc.--and that was fun. The girls will have their hair done up for tonight, makeup, etc., adding that extra touch.
Still, I'm so sad that my own son could not get past his shyness to ask someone to the dance. The pain of watching one's child be left out, always, always--I cannot describe it. Would it matter if the child was senseless of his own isolation? One student is physically handicapped but intellectually normal, and I imagine it is very hard on her family. No one can see my son's difference, and he gets labeled "lazy" and "weird," when in fact he is scared and lonely and often unable to absorb all that is said to him. But because he's bright (when he has information, he can use it so well) and strong and tall, no one has any clue, no sympathy--not my colleagues, his teachers, not his peers, whose ignorance I can more easily excuse because they are so young. I know he seems indifferent and we talk with him about body language--reading it, signaling it--but these are recent conversations, opened up only by his own desperation. God willing, he will make friends at college. I can only hope and pray; my heart sticks in my throat when I think how I will be unable to help him there.
How many other people share his loneliness? I am good at reaching out, but I vow to be better!
Still, I'm so sad that my own son could not get past his shyness to ask someone to the dance. The pain of watching one's child be left out, always, always--I cannot describe it. Would it matter if the child was senseless of his own isolation? One student is physically handicapped but intellectually normal, and I imagine it is very hard on her family. No one can see my son's difference, and he gets labeled "lazy" and "weird," when in fact he is scared and lonely and often unable to absorb all that is said to him. But because he's bright (when he has information, he can use it so well) and strong and tall, no one has any clue, no sympathy--not my colleagues, his teachers, not his peers, whose ignorance I can more easily excuse because they are so young. I know he seems indifferent and we talk with him about body language--reading it, signaling it--but these are recent conversations, opened up only by his own desperation. God willing, he will make friends at college. I can only hope and pray; my heart sticks in my throat when I think how I will be unable to help him there.
How many other people share his loneliness? I am good at reaching out, but I vow to be better!
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Me, A Mirror, and a Strapless Bra
Not pretty; not pretty at all. It had never really occurred to me that I'm actually carrying around 70 pounds of fat--seriously. I know I'm overweight (and this will not be a blog about that topic, I promise!!) but somehow the reality of what that means has escaped me since gaining the weight during my final pregnancy. I never was one to try on much in the "weigh" of clothes (haha, I crack me up!!) so this whole seeing myself in the mirror thing is pretty rare, and although I'm sure I've had this shock before, I've allowed myself to forget it right away. Didn't have a blog to record my humiliation for all time!!
Well, if you have never been in this position (for example, you are genetically thin and nothing you do seems to change that, like my husband) you need to imagine a hippo trying to crawl into a hula hoop. My first attempt involved snapping the bra and then trying to pull it down over my head. I don't think so!! Then the standard "reverse and inside out the bra, snap it in front, and twist back around the right way." It would not budge for the twisting; my flesh would have torn first, I swear. The damn thing was made of industrial-strength synthetics, perhaps something the military has developed for snaking men down the sides of mult-story buildings for the SWAT-type crash through the windows--can't have the fibers breaking on that, no sir! Finally, with considerable contortioning and swearing, I got it on, only to realize that not only did I have "bra fat" (the clumps over the strap in the back), but also top boob, side boob, and bottom boob--where one's cup runneth over, all over, in this case. A bit of further adjustment and voila, the bottom boob disappeared and I could see that, in fact, I did not have top boob or side boob--it was all just plain old non-breast-tissue fat! Rolls and gathers and wobbles and divots of it. I looked at my upper arms--the pitting and dimpling of flesh there would make the moon's surface look smooth by comparison.
I could go on, but why bother? Even with this post I will probably block out the entire nightmarish vision and return to my serene view of myself as "pleasantly plump," secretly thinking that "I still got it, baby." A healthy self-esteem, or delusional? What do you think?
Well, if you have never been in this position (for example, you are genetically thin and nothing you do seems to change that, like my husband) you need to imagine a hippo trying to crawl into a hula hoop. My first attempt involved snapping the bra and then trying to pull it down over my head. I don't think so!! Then the standard "reverse and inside out the bra, snap it in front, and twist back around the right way." It would not budge for the twisting; my flesh would have torn first, I swear. The damn thing was made of industrial-strength synthetics, perhaps something the military has developed for snaking men down the sides of mult-story buildings for the SWAT-type crash through the windows--can't have the fibers breaking on that, no sir! Finally, with considerable contortioning and swearing, I got it on, only to realize that not only did I have "bra fat" (the clumps over the strap in the back), but also top boob, side boob, and bottom boob--where one's cup runneth over, all over, in this case. A bit of further adjustment and voila, the bottom boob disappeared and I could see that, in fact, I did not have top boob or side boob--it was all just plain old non-breast-tissue fat! Rolls and gathers and wobbles and divots of it. I looked at my upper arms--the pitting and dimpling of flesh there would make the moon's surface look smooth by comparison.
I could go on, but why bother? Even with this post I will probably block out the entire nightmarish vision and return to my serene view of myself as "pleasantly plump," secretly thinking that "I still got it, baby." A healthy self-esteem, or delusional? What do you think?
Saturday, April 26, 2008
When Lightening Strikes . . .
We discovered yesterday that our house had, in fact, been struck by lightening the night before, on my son's 18th birthday--how cool is that? Or is it scary? Anyway, I'm really suprised to find out that lightening can do relatively little damage. A couple of minor appliances are damaged, and there may be considerable roof damage and something wrong with a venting pipe, but all in all, it seems as though we dodged a bullet (to mix metaphors). The worst part is that our internet connection is down and since I am the family "guru" when it comes to such things--a sad state of affairs, I should add, because I am woefully unprepared to fill the role--I have been trying, futilely, to figure out where the problem lies--the modem, the router, or the cable itself. Naturally, after spending 30 minutes on the phone with a machine and another 20 with a real human being, our phone network dropped the call, so we may well have to start alllll over again. I've trudged up and down the stairs dozens of times this morning, wrestled with the ball o' wires that my dh has allowed to coalesce under our "main" computer, yelled at my kids several times, eaten random things to stave off hunger, and still the secret of service success eludes me. Since I would otherwise be re-reading The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (the first book of the series, which I have just started because a friend gave me the last volume and I finished that in a few hours on Friday-during the storm and right under the strike that hit our house I might add--and I always re-read a series straight through once I've finished the last volume--whew, did you follow that? I'm not sure I did--any way, to make a long sentence longer, I guess I cannot really complain about all the time I've wasted today because it would have been wasted anyway. Does time spent doing nothing but what I want to do count as "wasted" just because there are other things I COULD be accomplishing? If so, I waste a LOT of time. I gave up on "shoulds" many years ago, best decision I ever made (well, one of 'em, anyway) and have no real regrets until someone comes by and I have to face the incredible embarrassment of a house that is truly dirty. Not always cluttered (we "clean up" frequently), but always dirty--we never really "clean." I only feel guilty when someone else sees it or I wonder if my kids are embarrassed to bring over friends (not that I can tell, but I gotta wonder). Yet that does not motivate me to "do something about it." I love the time I spend doing what I want, and as long as my kids are doing ok, what else really matters? Is a clean house really all that important??
Those of you who live modestly will appreciate this--and if you fall above that "living modestly" line, consider this an opportunity to see how the other half really lives. I was talking with my AP US History students about the nature of women's traditional work--house work and child rearing--and how it lacks objective standards (what is the standard for a "clean house" or for knowing your work as a mother is "done"--for the moment, the day, the childhood of said child?) So I told my students (all of whom I had already taught for 2-3 years, so I knew them really well and they know me really well) that my standards for cleanliness were pretty low. About six of them all said at the same time, "But do you clean the house before the cleaning service/housekeeper comes?" and of course I burst out laughing and revealed to them that NOT EVERYONE HAS A CLEANING SERVICE OR HOUSEKEEPER!! They took that pretty well, although I would bet money that several of them will reflect on it at some point--no cleaning service or housekeeper? Is Dr. C [me] "poor"? Are teachers "poor"? Then they will move quickly back to the usual focus of their soft and lovely teen-aged lives (themselves, which is absolutely perfectly age-appropriate and one of the things I love best about them, huge, over-grown, license-bearing toddlers that they are :) If I can make them reflect even for a few moments on the realities of life outside their own experience, I have done something worthwhile!
I thought this post would be short, but this really is addictive. I imagine some unknown reader(s) stumbling across this blog, scanning without intending to read, getting pulled in by a phrase or dashes or the all-caps, and wanting to know more about me, re-reading this post and going back to my first, and making a note, or even, wow, a bookmark, to come back to for future posts. I don't yet imagine said reader(s) subscribing to my blog--I just discovered about 3 days ago that one could do that, and subscribed to my first (http://andybrouwer.blogspot.com/). But you, dear reader(s) (see how hopeful I am!), are in fact, highly valued and extremely important to the success and continuance of this blog-maybe. Maybe my ego will keep me at it regardless of the number of comments that never appear. Don't know and right now, I don't care, and don't know if I will ever care. It's very freeing not to care.
Love to you all.
Those of you who live modestly will appreciate this--and if you fall above that "living modestly" line, consider this an opportunity to see how the other half really lives. I was talking with my AP US History students about the nature of women's traditional work--house work and child rearing--and how it lacks objective standards (what is the standard for a "clean house" or for knowing your work as a mother is "done"--for the moment, the day, the childhood of said child?) So I told my students (all of whom I had already taught for 2-3 years, so I knew them really well and they know me really well) that my standards for cleanliness were pretty low. About six of them all said at the same time, "But do you clean the house before the cleaning service/housekeeper comes?" and of course I burst out laughing and revealed to them that NOT EVERYONE HAS A CLEANING SERVICE OR HOUSEKEEPER!! They took that pretty well, although I would bet money that several of them will reflect on it at some point--no cleaning service or housekeeper? Is Dr. C [me] "poor"? Are teachers "poor"? Then they will move quickly back to the usual focus of their soft and lovely teen-aged lives (themselves, which is absolutely perfectly age-appropriate and one of the things I love best about them, huge, over-grown, license-bearing toddlers that they are :) If I can make them reflect even for a few moments on the realities of life outside their own experience, I have done something worthwhile!
I thought this post would be short, but this really is addictive. I imagine some unknown reader(s) stumbling across this blog, scanning without intending to read, getting pulled in by a phrase or dashes or the all-caps, and wanting to know more about me, re-reading this post and going back to my first, and making a note, or even, wow, a bookmark, to come back to for future posts. I don't yet imagine said reader(s) subscribing to my blog--I just discovered about 3 days ago that one could do that, and subscribed to my first (http://andybrouwer.blogspot.com/). But you, dear reader(s) (see how hopeful I am!), are in fact, highly valued and extremely important to the success and continuance of this blog-maybe. Maybe my ego will keep me at it regardless of the number of comments that never appear. Don't know and right now, I don't care, and don't know if I will ever care. It's very freeing not to care.
Love to you all.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Opening Lines
You may well be put off by the audacity of anyone who refers to herself as "Queen of the Universe, Ruler of All," and I would not blame you. If you stick with me, however, I trust you will find that my self-confidence--while fully intact--is well-informed by the many realities of life that one acquires in 49 years (as of last month). Presumably, said self-confidence will be better informed with the passing of time and if (when?) I no longer find myself entertained by said appellation, I vow to discontinue using it.
So, who am I to start a blog? That very question has kept me from the venture for quite some time (along with the question, what would I call it?). Let's see: I'm a mom--definitely the first role that comes to mind when I attempt to catalogue myself to myself--I'm a wife, a teacher, a soccer player (well, more on that later), a historian . . . and a daughter, sister, friend, lover of nature and life. I often say to my students (high schoolers) "I crack myself up!" and I want my tombstone to read, "She was always fair . . . and a lot of fun!" Not much else comes to mind when I think of what might be useful for folks to know about me. So maybe I am also a fairly uncomplicated person--which, I hope, does not also mean "boring" (and be sure to think that in the way we all know it to be said these days, "Bor-Ing!!"
So (see how much I like that word) here I am, writing to no one and maybe someone, mostly to myself--this specific web-based activity does require a certain degree of chutzpah, doesn't it? Do mostly other bloggers read one's blog, I wonder--a sort of electonic endogamy, as it were, incestuous to some degree? Not that I really care, frankly, because this is clearly (I'm discovering as I write) the only fun existentialism I've ever known. (And you have to imgaine me, writing and typing this, with my 6 year old daughter begging, and singing in a sing-song voice for me to "PPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEE go outside with me!!" to understand how my life unfolds. Is it any wonder that I find my life entertaining?)
If you have stuck with me this far, thanks. More to come--unless I forget.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
