Fall Break


I blew off the driveway yesterday and felt on top of the leaf game; now my neighbor is out sweeping their yard on a zero-turn and I’m not so sure. But my first layer of leaves aren’t hurting anything; they’ll wait.

I told Zoobi yesterday that I’ve never been so ready for a break. “But don’t you always feel like that?”

Some quarters are more physically tiring, but this time I feel numb. Back to back we had exams and then Homecoming week and I lost track of how many times the schedule was made and remade. And while the whole experience was very exciting for the kids, I felt like a line was crossed somewhere. Do we need a game day, a movie day, a pep rally day, AND a parade? And must we dress up for each one? One of the counselors told me she has an entire closet just for her dress up collection. I think when I started working here it took me two weeks to give up on the whole thing: the teachers spend a fortune on striped socks, matching pajamas, 80’s fishnet (!), and costumes of all kinds. But life’s better when you’re boring. At least it reduces the sense of asylum.

It’s interesting to talk to people and get a feel for what life beneath the surface is like right now. The public atmosphere is so hyped with excitement that many are retreating. I’ve talked with kids who don’t want to go on vacation, teachers who want to stay home. All I want to do this week is go through my closet and simplify. And maybe dust.

There’s a sad hunger for what’s genuine, even commonplace. Last week one of the 2nd graders stopped and quietly fingered the leaves of a plant and asked, “Is this real?”

“It’s real. I don’t like fake things: they make me feel fake.”

Kids want to sit in the floor together to draw, or to stand on the cabinets and trace in the sun. They love the smell of wood and ink and paint. They look into my eyes and ask to play guessing games while we color. They come to my desk and stand very close while I sharpen their pencil or show them a missing step. It’s connection they’re looking for, not excitement or pretend.

Last night I went to the football game. The boys systematically destroyed our opponents as the band beat out fight songs and the girls, with precision, led school-color cheers. Chick-Fil-A sandwiches were available for $6. Returning alumni were recognized. The Homecoming court was presented. The queen was crowned.

And then I could come to my real home.

Today is Saturday. I made a pot of tea and painted little inky birds. My neighbors’ yard is being swept clean. And all of Fall Break is ahead.

Gifts For Later

Mom says that God doesn’t waste anything, and that anything extra he gives us is almost certainly for something needed that’s coming and not to spend on ourselves now. She’s a great saver, no matter how little extra, and I’ve seen over the years how she’s been right – how it always comes in handy later.

I was surprised how hard it was to go back to school this morning. My house was cold and my bed was warm. I have these flannel sheets and a down duvet that are so good… Anyway, I was dragging. It really was hard, but then, I was also surprised at how good it was to see the kids. I know I like them, but I was actually so happy to see them.

My favorite times are the spaces between things, which there are here and there, in spite of the hectic schedule. Like, there’s a bit of time every day between Spanish and 4th grade when a few of last year’s 6th graders stop by. I’m usually at my desk getting supplies together or working on the example for an upcoming project. But someone always pops in and we chat for a few minutes before their science class starts. They’re great – they’re smart; they’re funny. Today the thing that made me laugh was, “Miss Jaime, if I was chosen for the Games, would you volunteer as tribute for me?” Yes, I would.

I got home before dark and built my fire. I had an egg scramble and a cup of tea with some of that cookie dough leftover, and then I’ve been sitting in the quiet watching the wood burn down.

It all kind of hit me again then – the tiredness (is that a word?) from this morning. Maybe it didn’t go away, maybe it was just pushed aside for a while. I cried my two tears, but then How Firm A Foundation came to mind, out of nowhere, and re-cheered me, like the kids did when I got to school.

I don’t know the last time I sang that song – not in church for a long time, for sure. I tried to remember the words and got through the first two verses, then I had to look up the rest. But I felt grateful that it was in me to begin with, that at a moment that I felt so weary, there it was. Like a bit of extra that had been stored away for when it would be needed. It’s been there many years, and tonight, in 2023, it didn’t fail me.

There are a lot of things like that, now that I think of it. Verses, poems, stories of faith, but mostly songs, actually. Though memories, too; so many good ones. And to think that maybe they were given to me when I didn’t exactly need them but was open to them, for times like these. And maybe the good things of today are gifts for another time down the road, and they’re worth looking out for and storing up too.

—————

…Mary treasured up all these things in her heart.

Holiday Lights

It’s the first full break since I reported to school at the end of July. I could feel that it was needed, even more so now that I’m almost to the end and looking back.

There’s a design rule when putting the interior of a home together, that, I think it’s your living room? should have an assortment of seven sources of light – table lamps, floor lamps, sconces or a large overhead light, candles, windows, or whatever, but seven. And depending on the atmosphere you want you can vary what kind and where they are and how bright, etc. But there should definitely be seven. I don’t why, that’s just what they say.

I’ve been bringing lights out for the holidays and that’s what brought it mind, I guess. I’ll light some candles or turn on lamps, and when the room feels right I’ve found myself testing the rule, to see how many sources of light it takes to get there. And it’s about six or seven.

I’m also thinking about the seven-lights rule in connection with the break. As I’ve gotten further away from the noise and the chaos and the too-early mornings and the general rush, life has started to feel more right, and I’m thinking about sources of goodness in the last week, like little lights for the interior of me. How many? Six, or maybe seven?

My landlord and his wife had the fireplace cleaned. They said it probably hadn’t been used in thirty years and were happy that someone wanted it. I keep a fire on the weekends now, and some evenings after school too. It’s cheerful – another living thing. Some friends of Dad and Mom’s brought them a whole truck bed full of railroad tie remnants, and they’ve shared a lot of it with me. These last few days the fire’s been going more often and longer than usual.

My school has a library. There’s a section of classics – I don’t think it gets a lot of traffic, but it’s there all the same. I checked out three books for the break: Thoreau’s The Maine Woods, a book of fifteen Greek plays, and The Origin of English Surnames. I’ve finished Thoreau, and if there’s time before Monday I think English Surnames will be next. Maybe I’m not that interested in Greek plays after all. But anyway, I don’t know that I would have driven all the way to the public library, so this week it’s been extra nice that there was one around the corner from my classroom.

I had dinner with one of the families from school on Monday. It wasn’t awkward (I never know how those things will go), and I felt at the end that we all knew each other better instead of being tired because everyone was pretending the whole time.

Geoff and Molly came down for Thanksgiving and stayed the night before with me. I had some Nestle dough in the fridge and had freshly-baked cookies in ten minutes, then we sat in the den with the fire and talked for more than two hours. I don’t know which was better, that, or the next morning when they said they had rested well. When you have a good place and good things for your people – surely that’s one of the greatest feelings.

Thanksgiving itself was at Dad and Mom’s. Everyone who could make it made it. Mom had the turkey and dressing and potatoes and rolls; Molly brought salads. I was supposed to make pumpkin pies but ended up not doing anything since the chiropractor that Kari, Titus and Tim see gave them each a pie to take home at their last visit. Because America. Because the South. Anyway, instead of baking, I washed some pans after dinner and then sat down with everyone to watch two football games. And there was peace in the family.

As an aside, I like American football. I like the progressive push up the field to the goal. It feels like a steady sport to me, and measured, and I feel the hard work for each team. It’s a heavy sport too, like life can be. The announcers sometimes seem to over-analyze just to fill the air, but that’s their job, I guess, though most of us watching have eyes and ears and judgement of our own, and certainly the players don’t need them.

Today I woke up slowly and then raked leaves. So many leaves. Only half a day, though, since there was also a fire to be made and time to enjoy while laundry washed and dried. I set up my camp chair in front of the fireplace and kept a cup of tea on the milking stool next to me.

Behind all of this, this whole week, is the ever-present thought of Ron and Judy. If lights are the source of warmth and life…

The Seventh Day

Maybe the reason there’s so much written on the Sabbath is that it’s a whole day of the week, one-seventh of all time.

I think I’m beginning to understand why man’s number is six. It’s symmetrical; it’s easily comprehended. (I read somewhere that six is the highest number of items you can recognize before having to count them out in your head.) Six is like a line curving in a perfect circle until it closes back on itself in completion, in constant and infinite repetition.

But then you add the seventh and the cycle is disrupted. Instead of connecting back with itself the line is thrown off its course and forced up or down, and the line, still curving, becomes a spiral that never meets itself again. And that’s how life keeps going.

I understand why we keep Sunday as our day to worship and rest, but Saturday or Sunday is still the extra one-seventh of time, the place were the direction of the spiral is determined.

It’s hard here. Maybe it’s my place in life, or the cultural differences, but I don’t think I’m doing well at moving upward. I’m trying to stay in church; I’m trying to worship; I’m trying to escape the repetition of work and activity and to carve out space for the holy and to pay attention to the world around me. I’m trying to keep the spiral moving upward, always closer to God. But I’m finding it difficult.

This seventh-day is in danger of becoming another day of work – not that looks like a school day, but still a day ruled by time and expectations and planning and activities, still a day with the rhythm of the others, as though that’s the only rhythm that matters.

I think that’s the root of my frustrations: I can’t find a church that’s not actively trying to turn the seventh-day into one just like the other six. Where are the people that come together just to worship? The ones sending the spiral upward, taking in the rest of the week and lifting it up to God? Instead it feels like the churches are focused on getting organized and growing in numbers and planning activities to increase levels of participation. And I’m weary of it all from the other six days of exactly the same thing. We’re cramming the seventh one into our perfect circle so we don’t have to change our rhythm. The drum is beating and we have to keep step or lose our formation. We’re exhausted but the beat keeps us going. Around and around and back again. Symmetrical. Comprehensible. Complete. Six. Six. Six.

But there the clouds go. There go great ideas and everything beautiful. There go quiet words of encouragement and honest connection with our families and the ones we love. There goes the world, living and breathing. And there go people everywhere, dreaming and feeling and working and struggling to find rest for their souls.

Like me.

I’ve got hundreds of kids coming to my classroom this week. Who can help me remember to look into their eyes and see them? What can give me the courage to forget myself and search for the best in them and call it out? Who can show me how to have patience with miserable high schoolers and little ones in the first grade who can’t sit still? And God give me grace for 7th and 8th graders at the end of every day.

I need a church. I need people who are breaking the six-day cycle with a seventh-day that stops, a day that’s holy and reverent and quiet and points upward. I need people who fear God. And here, where the Christian faith is still celebrated and people are trying hardest, it’s starting to feel impossible to find them.

Away I Go

Awake under the cover
Pond’ring upon the cot
The dream I still remember
What woke me, I forgot

And so, and so
Away I go
And here I go again

A light across the meadow
Aloft over the hill
Then blinking in a shadow
The moon along the sill

And so, and so
Away I go
And here I go again

Careful lest she see me
And quiet, counting sheep
I lay me deep into my bed
And fall me back to sleep

And so, and so
Away I go
And here I go again

And so, and so
Away I go
And here I go again

Where Flowers Grow

They let the flowers grow in Wisconsin.

The South, at least where we are, is kept mowed and trimmed: the season is long and we’d be overrun if we didn’t keep up. We’ve got good grass and porch ferns and award-winning landscaping; it’s tidy, and that’s one of the things that drew me here to begin with, but it seemed like the living things there were free to grow, even to ramble.

It reminded me of Elva, or of any village along the tracks where summer homes collected near the stations and made little picket-fenced paradises. Everything was glad for the sun and the long, long days. Everything was glad it was summer.

There were bikers, hikers, runners, walkers, fishers, sailors… In the evenings they came back to the terraces by the water and to stroll the city in twos and threes. In the South we’re surviving the summer, so it was nice to visit a place that was happy for July. So happy for July.

Since there’s so much to do in the summer and not enough time, they just go. And they let the flowers grow.

Soup

I made soup.

I never wanted to be a person who felt like their real life was just the weekends, but here I am. Late Thursday night I stopped at the store on my way home for the ingredients for Cabbage Patch, then yesterday I put on a t-shirt and a soft pair of jeans and spent the whole morning at home making a real meal.

There’s almost no point in cooking for one person; often it’s a couple of scrambled eggs or a quick turkey wrap or a bowl of cereal. But cutting and stirring and tending that soup was satisfying. Something about working with things that earthy and hearty: cabbage, onions, celery…

Anyway, it was homey.

Things are going pretty well in general; I can’t complain. I like my work and I’m learning a lot – it’s not so easy that it’s boring and not so hard that it feels too big. Lee Ann is the best; there’s a lot of grace and good humor in the air there.

And I do see the boys. I pick them up from school one day a week, and I’m at the house at some point over the weekend usually too. I babysat last night, and before Chris and Jennifer left Jennifer stopped the boys for a second and was like, “What’s gotten into you? Whenever Aunt Jaime is here you all of a sudden turn into crazy people…” Well, maybe. I don’t know about the boys, but being around them is actually the most sane I get to be all week; when I see them there’s just a pure relief at getting to drop all pretense and completely be myself. I know them; they know me. But anyway it’s just when I first get there that we’re all riled up, then the crazy sorts itself out into some brilliant game or imaginary world that we’re all in together.

Yesterday was the 29th and I sat on my bed in the sun and read Psalms and Proverbs. Sometimes I skip 119 because there’s so much of it, but yesterday I had time and I took it.

Your statutes have been my songs
in the house of my sojourning.

There’s structure and certainty and safety there, in the statutes, in the house; there’s movement and creation and freedom too, in the songs and the sojourning. Life with God has both.

I’m getting to know some people. Last weekend on Friday Lee Ann’s family and I had Indian food and watched a movie together, then last Saturday several of us from church met at someone’s house and made a charcuterie board. This Friday night after work two couples and I had a little game night. And then this morning at church I ended up at the communion table in the back with just the Browns, and it was so small and real and, besides thinking of Jesus and his church, I realized how much I like them. Good people. There are good people here.

So that’s what I’m doing in general, living a small life, working with my hands, getting to know people, playing with little kids, trying to find the balance between the need for both home and adventure,

and making soup.

Deconstruction

I just finished my second week at the alterations shop. I’m happy, happy in my work.

Most of it is Lee Ann, her good humor and openness – the combination of that with honesty, confidence and skill. She’s made room for me; she’s not intimidated or turned off by my stories or experiences; she listens well, and she shares stories and thoughts of her own. The back-and-forth is easy; it’s like… friends.

I enjoy the work itself too. I enjoy learning how to take something broken or useless, how to take it apart and make a slight change then put it all back together in a way that gives it life again. There’s a redemptive element to it.

There’s a good kind of deconstruction. People don’t bring us their clothes to tear apart and throw away because they hate them, they bring them to us to change the ways the pieces fit together so that the whole becomes useful and beautiful again, of better service to them than before.

Maybe that’s the kind of thing God has been up to, that parts of my life which have broken or aren’t useful any more are being taken apart and changed, and I’m being put back together into something that works, that’s fitting and beautiful for service again.

Hard Times

I just chased down the mail truck: two blocks on Main in my car. The weekend postal workers didn’t know that the mailbox was installed on the side street; the mailman said we could leave a note on the front door to let them know where to go. He was kind.

These days are interesting. There was a sudden rush and we were about to open when everything changed to two weeks from now. Now we’re still set to open mid-month, but the port in southeast Asia is closed and we may not be able to get proper inventory until March. Erik is talking about consolidating both stores into one for a while, which, selfishly, I don’t want. Selfishly, it means we won’t need to hire the new crew, and all the OG people will be in my space, and I’ll essentially be operating as a trainee in my own store, learning everything on their terms.

That’s selfish. It’s business and not about me. But I was hopeful to move into the role I was hired for, and to finally start developing a routine and a team to play on, and finally become part of something. So far everything I’ve done for work has been alone in the empty building, and I’d like to feel useful to others, and useful with others.

It’s not all bad. I’m still taking that gardening course, which is great, and I’ve been volunteering at the alterations shop that the pastor’s wife owns. A little ironing, some seam ripping, a few hems on the serger… She’s been really patient with me, and appreciative; I’m met with a smile and leave with a light step.

And I’ve spent more time with the boys as well. The new gym is opening soon and Chris and Jennifer’s practices are picking up. I got to see the boys several days last week and pick them up twice this week, so that’s been really good. They found the harmonica in my glove box and we’ve had music for the ride home.

Also good, I dropped off three pieces of art to be framed. Two are by the artist whose studio was in my hostel in Beijing; they’ve been sitting unframed eleven years and eleven months, so it was time. The other piece is by a girl from Russia who I found online – it’s a watercolor of wild strawberries. I’m having it put in a little gold frame so the red pops. I’ll think of the forest and cool-weather camping and of good summers.

I’m reading Hard Times by Dickens. It was on my list, and the library had a hard copy. I think I understand what he’s doing with the characters so it’s not quite too depressing; the way he highlights what’s good by diving deeply into pride, injustice and insincerity… I wish I understood human nature like Dickens, and that I could put what I see and feel into words and into characters and narratives like he could. I feel especially at a loss these days, so I respect him even more.

What else. Last weekend I took an overnight trip with the pastor and his wife to watch their daughter run cross country. I’d never been to a race like that and loved it. Saturday morning before the meet we went for coffee and got hot glazed apple scones – I’d never had a scone like that and loved it too. Most of all it was nice to be included in a family thing, and to talk about life with people who look at it through a similar lens. I thank God for them, and for the church in general. They’ve been good to me, just by being good.

That’s something I want to think more about – that we can be something good for others simply by being good.

Like the mailman, doing his job. Even strangers may get caught up in kindness.

Hollowness of all Kinds

I had wraps for dinner. Really it was lunch, but it was dinner time. Instead of coming home after work, I went to the trail. It was fine; I had almonds.

I’ve been out to a couple of places so far: to the prairie, to a brushy little woodsy preserve. Should I cry? Where is the ocean and the mountains, the cool breeze and the fog? There’s almost nothing here, and it takes time to get to anything there is. I’m trying to stay positive and see beauty here, but sometimes I feel like I’m just lying to myself and I don’t honestly like it. The trail today was marginally better, though tame. So tame.

There have been nights I’ve been awake, questioning my choices, thinking that coming may have been a bad idea.

The opening of the store has been pushed back another couple of weeks. I’m working part time fumbling my way through fittings and monotone explanations of Purchase Orders and Special Orders and Building Matrices. I work with college guys who have been best friends for years, and whenever there’s more than one there I end up walking around and straightening athletic wear while they chat and laugh and trade brotherly insults. And I’m alone.

And then today I almost put a lady in a shoe that would have hurt her. Erik had to step in (ha) and tell the poor woman that she wouldn’t want to wear a shoe with a lot of cushion in her case, but the reason I had pulled that shoe for her was that it had the same heel to toe ratio of the one that would have been best for her, but that shoe we don’t have in stock for a variety of reasons, and the other thing that he said was that she needed a wide toe box, but the only other shoe I could think of wide enough for her was the one with too much cushion. WHAT. So she ended up leaving with a running shoe that was recommended, though I didn’t understand how that was going to help her bunion or knee trouble or the pain in her right foot.

It’s not just about shoes, it turns out, but about anatomy and alignment and problem solving and people skills and shoes. There are running shoes and trail shoes and walking shoes and sandals and boots and recovery shoes and as many different types of feet… One of the guys told me that the secret is to fake it, to not show hesitation during the fitting but to make it sound like I know what I’m doing. But I don’t. That feels as fake as it is. I understand that people come in with problems, but how can I pretend to help them? And when I try how do I know that I’m not going to make their troubles worse? I’m jumping in the deep end, trying to be brave, but I don’t yet know how to swim.

If I’ve got to be here, I’m so ready to sell Birkenstocks.

It’s not all terrible. I get to come home at the end of my shifts and heat water for tea. And my windows get the morning light. I’m turning my closet into an office space, and my plant is still alive. I’ve started reading a book on the specialization of the hemispheres of the brain, and I have time to read the Psalms for the day, and to do my little chores, and even to cook.

I get to see the boys sometimes. Barrett and I drew a fleet of ships with sidewalk chalk in the driveway this weekend, and when I was around at bedtime the other day Canon asked to give me a hug before he went to sleep. “I love you” goes a long way to making an ugly, lonely place bearable. And that’s why I’m here… Though Maine was beautiful it was lonely without relief.

The church I’m going to has also been great; that’s another happiness. People have gone out of their way to meet me; the preacher’s family has had me over for dinner; I’ve got a lunch date with an elder’s wife this week. I love the old building too, with the stained glass and carpeted stairs and the temperamental air conditioner. The music service is tasteful and meaningful, neither stiff nor completely a show, and it’s been lovely both to sing familiar hymns and to learn new songs I find myself humming days later. I think there’s something I can give there, too. And I’m dying to give something, to contribute, to serve, to be part of a group.

So this is a good experience. I’m learning just how relational I am and how uninterested I am in things for the sake of things. I’m seeing the degree to which I have to have beauty in order to maintain my sense of humanity and dignity, and the importance of being outside and breathing real air and escaping hollowness of all kinds.