Pedals & Pencils

I’m pretty sure I’ll never be one of those girls who bounces out of bed at the sheer prospect of riding my bike.  Don’t get me wrong, I love riding my bike.  I just also love burrowing in my warm cozy bed.  Because my love of cycling can be so easily trumped by my bed, I resort to trickery.  I round up the troops and make them ride with me.  I might stand myself up, but I won’t leave a friend hanging.  So this morning, I set out in the good company of Terry, That Laura, Nick and Abby.

This morning I ate the cycling breakfast of champions: oatmeal, skinned grapefruit and a banana.  The last time I rode, I had eggs for breakfast and almost had a reversal of fortune on the side of the road up to Shasta Dam.  (Note to self: Eggs are not a good cycling food.)  But back to this morning, I slipped on my Team Fatty gear, dismayed that the fatty part, while once ironic, is now just truth in advertising.  I’m working on that.

The weather today was so perfect, blue sky, cotton ball clouds and barely a hint of wind.  It was warm enough that I didn’t even need tights.  We headed out to Millville Plains, my most favorite place to ride.  You can see for miles and miles at the top of the Plains.  The cows grazing there must be the happiest in all of California.  My favorite tree lives there, too.  She was all sticks and bones standing guard over the plains, but I know she’s secreting away green buds for me underneath her black skin.  Spring is coming, spring is coming I told her as I whipped by.

My legs were strong most of the ride leading me to believe that maybe, just maybe, my spin instructor isn’t entirely evil.  My legs were strong enough, but my heart, my heart was fierce.  I had the heart of a warrior today.  It pumped away pressing uphill, screaming downhill, and keeping time on the flats.  It was glorious and I smiled so much my teeth hurt from the cool air.  Not even the five putrid dead skunks I passed or the pair of pitbulls that chased me could dampen my joy.

Thirty three miles into the ride and three miles from home, my legs began to ache.  The sort of ache that feels like my bones are hollow and might shatter any second, but I’ve had this ache before and I know it passes if I just ignore it.  Well, I complain about it and then ignore it.  Same difference.  I willed my legs to circle me back home.  At home I rested in the front yard.  Not even the fact that I’d locked myself out of my house could ruin this ride.  I waited for a friend to arrive with spare key and as my legs pulsed complaints, my heart was steady, calm even.  I sat there making a sweaty print on my walkway and realized I’d just had one of the best rides of my life.  Now that just might make me bounce out of bed to ride next time.

January is almost gone and I wonder why it left in such haste.  Wasn’t is just Christmas like five minutes ago?  When I realized I’d not posted a single thing in January, I was dumbfounded.

For the first time ever, I made some resolutions.  I’ve always thought new year’s resolutions were ridiculous.  If I want to make a change, why does it have to be January 1st?  What’s wrong with December 17th or even July 3rd?  This year I was inspired by a friend who’d been looking to change her life.  She wrote down some things to help her do that.  She keeps them with her on a tiny paper in her wallet.  The thing is she didn’t write down huge, impossible goals.  She wrote down little attainable things that would make her daily life better.

I was inspired to do the same and I’m proud to say I think about my mini-resolutions every morning and I’m doing a pretty good job at keeping them.  They’re not going to end world hunger or anything miraculous like that, but these small goals I’ve set for myself are making my life incrementally better, more satisfying.

One of my mini-resolutions is to record the things I cram in my piehole.  I don’t have to stop cramming, but if I bite it, I’ve gotta write it.  You’d be surprised at what a deterrent that is.  It’s just not as fun to eat a block of cheese knowing I’m going to have to write it down.  The whole being disgusted with myself thing wrecks it completely.

Another of my mini-resolutions is to ride my bike or go to spin class at least once a week.  I’m loving being back at spin, dripping giant sweaty pools onto the floor as I grunt my way back into a less doughy frame.  I love the torture of hovering over my bike as my quads light on fire and I invent bad names for my spin instructor.  I love pressing my heart to the limit as beads of sweat leak from every pore, including the tops of my arms.  I leave spin class drenched.  And stinky.  And happy.

I’ve lost 10 pounds so far, leaving only a gazillion to go until my knees don’t violently punch my stomach when I ride.  I gave my fat pants away.  No good can come of having a closet full of fat pants ready for me to expand back into.  I’m starting to court my skinny jeans, to beg their forgiveness for abandoning them for who knows how many months.  We are not yet back together, but I feel a reunion coming soon, very soon.

Fearless is a word I don’t have much use for.  Being fearless is sometimes touted as this great character trait, but there are things to be afraid of, things worthy of a shake in my shoes, a shiver up my spine, and a sweaty nightmare or two.  I am not fearless, but I’ve got bravery in spades.  Or at least I used to.

These past few months I’ve taken care to follow doctor’s orders to rest my heart.  While spiders laced cobwebs through the spokes of my bike and my most favorite cycling season fell to the ground in a blush of yellows and reds, I waited for my heart to be sure and steady.

While I waited I pursued my love of words.  I wrote a novel.  I wrote poetry.  I wrote about teaching and life in general.  As the air whispered out of my tires, my fingers flew across the keys tapping out this life of a writer.  Writing can be a frightening affair and I faced some of my writerly fears head on.  When I reached a stuck point in my novel, I tucked my head down and pounded away at the keys until my characters moved my story along for me.  I’d heard of that happening, but I thought it was just something writers tell each other to get past the quicksand that secrets itself away in every newborn plot.  But no, it turned out to be true, even in my meager novel.  I dipped my toe into being published and faced my first rejection letter.  With bravado to spare, I tackled two fears at once: public speaking and reading a piece born of my own hand to a large group people I know.  It turned out to be one of the most rewarding days in my life as a writer.  So this idea of facing fears is one I’ve grabbed hold of with both hands in my life as a writer.

It’s puzzling to me then that this boldness in my writing life would come at a time when I was paralyzed by fear of riding my bike or doing anything else that might press my heart beyond it’s capacity.  The weight of the heart monitor was so much more than the half pound of space it occupied in the corner of my purse.  It sat in that dark corner, unwanted and untouched for almost a month.  My little heart beat away happily, normally as if my heart knew of the monitor’s presence and decided now was the time to play nice inside my chest.  For months I was careful not to strain my heart in the least.  Trust me, I’ve got the gelatinous thighs to prove it.

It was at the tail end of this time that a friend asked me “Is this the life you want to live?”  Well, not really, but the “live” part of that question was of more import than the quality of living I was doing.  On days when my heart was a sloppy quick step and my arm throbbed, living was enough all by itself.  Honest to God it was.  But is that a way to live a life?  No.  Definitely no.

Eventually the time came to turn in my heart monitor.  Enough days had passed without incident or pain that I was free to resume life.  And yet, I was afraid.  Quivering in my shoes, waking up in a pillow of sweat, eyes wide as moons kind of afraid.

What if my heart started to race in the middle of nowhere on my bike?

What if I lost feeling in my arm and crashed?

What if?  What if?  What if?

As I sat on my couch pounding out tales of my brave writing life, my fear of turning the cranks came to a head.  I could not stand the stagnation of my life a second longer.  It was time.  It was time to pump air into my tires, to pull on my gloves and brush the dust off of my saddle.

It feels appropriate that my reunion with my bike happened on Christmas Eve morning, a day full of anticipation.  On Christmas Eve Terry and I found ourselves in Sacramento, near my old friend the American River and it’s seemingly unending bike trail.

That morning I pulled on my tights and armwarmers, my nerves bouncing just inside my skin.  The what ifs rose to every surface of my being.  I forced them back down as I tightened my helmet strap and velcroed my shoes, breathing deeply before facing the morning air.

It was a frigid thirty degrees when I rolled the Rocket out to the street.  I said a prayer and watched my words float above me in bleached puffs against the blue sky.  I wanted to ride 25 miles.  25 miles is nothing on a bike.  Barely long enough to warrant filling a water bottle.

Three of us set out that morning.  My legs moved in unsure circles after so many months off.  I thought about the time I was cycling in a dream and sleep pedaled my sheets into a lump at the foot of my bed, but this was no dream.  We moved onto the American River Trail, the river rushing to the left of us.  My heart was steady.  Steady and happy.  It was a slow and beautiful ride.

After 26 miles I unclipped and rolled to a stop back at our starting point.  Steam rose from the vents in my helmet and the morning air was cold on my teeth as I smiled.  I packed my bike into the car and breathed a sigh of relief.  I patted my heart for a job well done.

A few minutes after our ride, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  These last few months, my increasingly chubby cheeks or my multiplying chins have been the first things to catch my attention when I look at my reflection, but not this time.  This time I was taken aback by the expression on my face.  It was familiar, but something I hadn’t seen in quite some time.  It was the expression of a girl who’d faced fear and found it wasn’t so terrifying after all.  Welcome back, brave girl, welcome back.

The final school day of 2009 passed without any Midol incidents, without a Box O’ Lights to lug home.

This year I received many cards from my students and a handful of lovely gifts.  The handmade journal and the dragonfly pin in particular suit me perfectly.  There was also one more gift that is a superb addition to our home.  It’s a luminary carved from a recycled can.  Behold the Can O’ Light.

It’s simplicity is beautiful to me.  From the manger to Christmas carols to candlelight services to sipping hot cocoa in the glow of the tree, my wish for you this season is that you find simple beauty.

When I was a kid we lived near the Rogue River and on sticky summer days my family would head to the river.  My big brother would walk the riverbank filling his pockets with skipping stones.  He’d tromp along picking out the flattest, smoothest rocks and then he’d fling them with a flick of his wrist and they’d dance across the water.  I tried in vain to make my own rocks tiptoe across the water, but I always chose rocks that were too lumpy, too big.  I’d heave them into the water and after a satisfying splash, my rocks would sink to the bottom, the river rippling great rings in their wake.

Enough time has passed since sharing about the LOVE statue with my colleagues that I can look back on it and see beyond my quivering hands holding the paper, beyond stumbling over my own words in a room so quiet that my nervous vibrato seemed to echo off the walls.  When talking with my colleagues, the heart of our conversation was my desire not to miss opportunities to act in love because I was too wrapped up in my own life to notice opportunities that are sometimes quite literally right in front of me.  I talked about how it’s easy, especially this time of year, for me to be caught up in the inertia of my own life.

I mentioned previously that some of my dear colleagues shared what they wrote about what it means to love and that their writing moved me.  Two things that they wrote stand out in particular.  The first is this: love means loving even when that affection is not reciprocated.  The enormity of that statement is something I’ve thought about daily since our time together.  It’s something I struggle to put into practice and by the nods in the room, I’m guessing I wasn’t the only one acknowledging that unsavory part of myself.

The second thing that has stuck with me is what a teacher wrote about compassion.  This teacher lost her husband to cancer last year.  Currently another teacher’s husband is in the same fierce battle.  Through tears in her eyes and over the muffled crying of just about everyone in the room, the first teacher shared about how love means acting with a depth of compassion only birthed by her own loss.  This teacher gets a gold star for bravery.  To write about her loss and how it has changed her and then to share about it in a staff meeting amazed me, amazes me still.

Each day since our staff meeting, teachers have sought me out telling me their stories, telling me about ways they’d acted in love in light of our meeting.  Teachers began doing things like collecting money to help pay for cancer treatments and writing notes of encouragement to their students.  I was delighted by their actions, but the thing that surprised me most and tickled me to my core, was that teachers took additional time outside of the staff meeting to finish the quick write we’d done.  Oh, that our students would experience that compulsion to write!

My experience at the staff meeting harkens back to my memories of throwing rocks into the river.  I threw my rock into the water and my little LOVE story rippled out in beautiful rings.

I’m left thinking then, what if writing in the classroom was like this?  What if more teachers mustered the courage to share their own writing, to talk about big ideas, to use writing as a vehicle for growth, both academic and personal?  I have a feeling that if we looked at the heart of writing as closely as we look at it’s structure, then profound change would occur.

My family moved away from the Rogue River and into the backyard of the Sacramento River, but I never did master the art of skipping stones.  And I’m okay with that because right now I’m filling my pockets with rocks.  Big, lumpy ones.  Come January, during the first session in a writing series, I’ll start tossing my stones into the water.  This time I hope they won’t skip across the water.  No, I hope they sink down deep and ripple wide.

So the other day I was procrastinating doing stuff like wrapping presents, folding laundry and writing sub plans.  I decided it was time to clean out the spam accumulating on this site.  Most of it was a smattering of random consonants with a fancy backslash thrown in here and there for good measure.  I was happily deleting those mysterious little messages when one caught my eye.

Great post.  I learn a lot from your post.

Uh, unknown user, you are so obviously spam or very, very new here.  Nobody learns a lot from one of my posts.  Nobody learns a little from one of my posts.  You are welcome to stay, but heed my warning.  Statistics show you may actually decrease in useful knowledge as it is replaced by a wealth of knowledge on such subjects as the miracle of candy and how to properly humiliate yourself.

After a wild indoor recess of wrestling, flicking the lights on and off, and running in and out of the classroom, all which were strictly forbidden by the yard duty teacher, I had a little sit down with my class today.  It was a serious conversation and at one point I said in a calm tone

I’m very angry at your behavior.

One of my little dumplings cocked his head to the side.

You don’t sound angry.

Look at my face.  Does my face look angry?

Not really.

Well, then you’ll just have to take my word on it.  I am angry.  This is what I look like when I’m angry.

It’s holiday movie season and there are a few on my list to revisit before the big day.  In no particular order, they are:

1. Love Actually:  I love the weaving of the stories and the deadpan English humor.  A word of caution-I saw this in the theater with my mom and the scenes with the nude stand-ins were a touch, uh, awkward.

2. Four Christmases: One word: Mistletoe!

3. The Holiday: I’m not sure why I love this movie.  The writing is average.  The acting is nothing remarkable, but for some mysterious reason, this one is mandatory.  I think it’s the adorable old man.  Especially his water aerobics scene.  Hot stuff.

4. How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the cartoon):  I love any movie with a character with a heart full of unwashed socks.  I crack up every year reading this book to my class and the narration in the movie only makes it better.

5.  Elf: It’s impossible to dislike a movie with the line “I’m sorry for ruining your life and shoving eleven cookies into the VCR.”

6. A Charlie Brown Christmas:  I love the music and the message.  That little tree is just so sad and endearing.  You didn’t know a tree could be endearing?  Obviously you haven’t spent very much time with your Christmas tree.  Shame on you.

*Not on the list because they’re television shows are the Festivus episode of Seinfeld and the Chanukah Armadillo episode of Friends.

Dear Nose,

It is completely unfair that you have chosen this particular time to be stuffy and thus rob me of a full week of inhaling the fresh scent of my Christmas tree.  I am over you and your sliming sinuses.  Please leave post haste.

Sincerely,

Me & the tree

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Dear Tomato Soup,

You are divine.  If you were a person, I’d kiss your tangy red lips.  You and your friend the grilled cheese sandwich make a lovely couple.  See you soon.

Fondly,

The One in the Pajamas Wandering the Kitchen

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Dear Marisa De Los Santos,

You are a beautiful writer.  Even though I finished Love Walked In a full week ago, I think about it daily.  Not the story so much, but your delicate, dead on phrasing.  I don’t usually read books over again, but I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that I want to read that one a second time straight away.  You inspire me to write while also recognizing I will never write with your poignancy.

Sincerely,

An Awestruck Fan

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Dear E! Network,

I am not interested in keeping up with the Kardashians, the Girls Next Door, or anyone else famous for being famous.  The mere sight of such shows on the channel guide makes me want to pitch my remote at my tv, Telemundo.  For the well being of my television, please cease and desist all shows not prominently featuring Joel McHale.

Muchas gracias,

Yo y telemundo

One more week and then glorious Christmas vacation is here.  Two weeks of sleeping in, reading books, writing, wearing my pajamas all day long, watching movies, drinking hot cocoa, and hanging with my husband.  I can barely stand the wait.  So in honor of the upcoming bliss, here’s a Christmas meme.

1. Getting kissed under the mistletoe or in the snow?  Under the mistletoe because then I’m warm and toasty.  I’m not so much of a snow girl.  Something about being cold and wet kills my romantic inklings.

2. Santa or Rudolph?  Santa.  I love Santa’s many names throughout the world and the story of Saint Nicholas.  Although I’m not such a fan of some dude breaking and entering to drop off gifts and eat my cookies.  Not cool.

3. Stocking or presents?  Stockings.  The essential stocking stuffer is the Lifesavers Story Book.  Terry and I exchange stockings and it’s so great because we have to find small, meaningful gifts.  My stocking was handmade by my great grandmother when I was a baby.  She must have been a wonderful person to have made me such a thoughtful gift.

4. Egg nog or hot cider?  Neither.  Hot cocoa with a tiny peppermint candy cane thrown in for good measure is the perfect winter drink.  Coming in second is Peet’s peppermint tea with two teabags for good measure.

5. Angel or Star?  Angel atop the tree.  Stars in the sky as we ride in the MINI with the top down and the seat warmers on high.

6. Decorating the tree or putting lights on the outside?  Tree.  I love putting up all the ornaments from my childhood as well as the conglomeration of handmade ornaments from my students betwixt the white twinkle lights.

7. Warm fires or sleigh rides?  I’ve never been on a sleigh ride, but I love a crackling fire and a good book.

8. Expensive presents or presents that come from the heart?  Neither.  I have everything I need.

9. Snow ball fight or snowman?  Snowman.  One of my favorite children’s book is called Stranger in the Woods about a family of deer who discover a snowman.  The photographs are fantastic.

10. Will you be getting coal or presents?  Definitely coal.  Loads and loads of coal.

11. Caroling or Christmas stories?  Both.  I’d play Christmas music year round if it didn’t drive Terry insane.  My Christmas playlist is in full effect right now.  Traditional carols like The Holly and the Ivy carry me back to my high school days in the Madrigal Dinner.  My accent was terrible, but I loved the sound of our voices harmonizing and echoing off the walls Frank Lloyd Wright designed.  My affection for Christmas stories is equally strong and I’m thankful it’s part of my job to share such gems at The Polar Express, Welcome Comfort, Gingerbread Baby and The Velveteen Rabbit.

12. Snowy days or icy days?  Snow if I’m inside and there’s enough for the schools to close for the day.

13. Red or Green?  Green.  Green now and every other month of the year.

14. Fake tree or Real tree?  Real tree and a shiny Festivus Pole, too.

15. Prime Rib or Ham?  Neither.  Gotta save room for Christmas candy.

16. Red and White Candy Canes or Colorful Candy Canes?  Red and white dipped in hot cocoa or smashed into minty shards on ice cream.

17. Get up early or sleep in late?  Sleep in.  Always sleep in.

18. Old Christmas Movies or New ones?  Both as long at that includes A Charlie Brown Christmas, the original Grinch Who Stole Christmas and Love, Actually.  On Christmas Day we always see a movie in the theater, too.

19. The Santa Clause 1 or The Santa Clause 2?  There’s a Santa Clause 2?  I discovered today there’s a Santa Baby 2 as well.  Surely, the apocalypse is upon us.

20. Christmas Eve or Christmas day?  Christmas morning.  It’s just Terry and I huddled under a blanket in our pajamas, reading Luke chapter 2 and appreciating another Christmas together.