Pedals & Pencils

I know the new year came and went a long time ago, but as hard as I tried, I just couldn’t finish this post.  I started this post back in December when my friend, Lynn, shared some questions with me.  The questions began bobbing around in my mind.  I’d stare at the screen as answers eluded me and the words felt all wrong in my mouth.  Then ever so slowly the answers surfaced.

The new year always brings about a restlessness to clean out my house and gut it of clutter.  Along with the removal of physical clutter comes the move toward cleaning out life in general.  What stays, what goes, what needs to be cut away, what needs to be alloted space-all of these thoughts seem to press in on me at the close of the year and the opening of another.  It’s a time to answer hard questions, a time to resolve the year.  A resolution, but not.

What was an upset or a disappointment last year?

It’s no secret that I was disappointed with the disruption my heart caused in my life last year.  To say that it upset me is not accurate, but to say that it caused an inordinate of fear in my life was a painful realization.  The balance between pursuing medical answers and being unafraid eluded me for months.

Where and when did things not flow easily?

The obvious answer is that blood did not flow easily to my heart, but the more important answer is that my classroom has not been easy.  No, my young ones have challenged everything I thought I ever knew about teaching, but from that discomfort I’ve learned new ways to teach, new ways for them to learn, and I wouldn’t trade this impossible year for anything.  As our class becomes their school home, I hold out hope that the hardest part is now just a glance in the rearview mirror.  Far enough away that it doesn’t impede our daily progress, near enough that I am aware of our starting point.

What flowed easily?

In the absence of turning the pedals, my fingers flew across my keyboard.  It’s not that I birthed revolutionary works of literary genius, but as fear of my physical heart increased, my writing pulsed with honesty and I faced the terror of the blank page with unflinching boldness.  This boldness was a delightful surprise.  And yet I can’t help but wonder if it was that way because one passion moved aside and gave way to another.  Can I have both at the same time or is it like wanting to sprawl on the hot sand during high tide?

What’s incomplete?

My novel.  My novel is so horribly incomplete.  And you know what?  That’s okay with me for now.  I like knowing I can come back to it bit by bit, tinker with the words, change the outcome, alter the characters.  But for now I’m content to just leave it in peace.

What are insights I gained last year?

I feel like if I answer this question, I’m saying I’m insightful.  Believe me, that’s not what I’m saying.  At all.  What I learned last year, or already knew, but am remembering, is that everyone has a story.  A lovely, hilarious, heartbreaking, inspiring, tender story.  So I wonder then what if I began to listen more than I talk? To laugh more than I criticize?  To accept more than I judge?  I can’t help but think that the story of my life would become wider, richer.

What am I grateful for?

Terry, always Terry.  It’s not lost on me that I am spending every day of my life with someone who loves me and desires my love in return.  I’m acutely aware of what a gift that is and I hope that I remember that as our happy days together stack up and make me fat with joy.

How will I acknowledge and celebrate the wins of the last year?

Wins.  Isn’t that an interesting word?  My cycling team used to have a mantra “Win, Susan!” She fought tooth and nail against cancer and I pedaled my heart out to help her.  Then she died, but to say that she didn’t win is an ill fitting phrase.  She left this Earth having lived with passion, love, and tenacity.  Our team now says “Fight like Susan.”  And so I guess, I don’t feel like noting wins or losses of 2009, but instead I want to figure out what is worth fighting for and then use this new year to fight for it tooth and nail.

I have big, broad shoulders.  Manly shoulders.  Shoulders that don’t easily fit into women’s blouses.  I’ve always wished for petite shoulders, the dainty shoulders of a real lady.  I recognize that they would look ridiculous on my six foot frame.  I get it, I do, but my whole life I’ve pined for smaller shoulders.  Until now.

It started with a thank you note, a simple card I’d scrawled to say thanks for a mug of trial sized bath goodies.  I was woefully late in writing the note, as almost a full month had passed since Christmas.  I penned the name of my student on the envelope and added on “and family”.  I didn’t give it another thought until I passed the card to my student.

“Mrs. McCauley, I can’t read this.” he said, handing the card back to me.

“Of course you can.  You’re a great reader.”  I cocked my head to the side, puzzled by this freckle faced kid who devours library books.

“No, I can’t read it because it’s says ‘and family’.  My mom and dad separated and I don’t have a family anymore.”

My heart lurched.  I felt my whole body sink under the weight of his statement.

“Honey, just because your mom and dad don’t live in the same house, doesn’t mean they’re not part of your family.  You still have a family.  Your mom and your dad both love you very much.”

“But who do I open the card with?  I’m going to my dad’s today.” he asked, still holding the card out to me.

“You can open it with your dad and show it to your mom when you go to your other house if you like.”  I took the card and tucked it into his homework folder, sorry that I’d confronted him with such a jagged decision.

“So I can still open the card?”  He leaned into me, a boy hug, all body and no arms.

“Yes, you can still open the card.”  I tucked him into me, hugging him too long until he started to squirm.

The next day, one of my little girls sat at her desk writing in her notebook.  She wrote about her mommy and pushed back thick ropes of hair to reveal tears welling in her brown eyes.  She’d never cried in class before.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I said, rubbing circles on her back like my mom used to do when she tucked me in bed.

“My mommy doesn’t like to play with me anymore.”  The tears were streaming now, rivers down her cocoa cheeks.  The boy sitting next to her pulled some tissue from a box, handing them to her in a wad.

“Oh, honey, is it because she has to spend her time taking care of the baby?”

“I don’t know.  She just doesn’t like to play with me anymore.”  She hiccuped and gulped for air at the same time.

“Have you tried telling her how you feel?  Your mommy would want to know if she’s hurt your feelings.”

“She doesn’t have time to listen to me.”  I wanted so desperately to make this all better.  To make her better.

“I know she’s busy with the baby, but I think it’s important you talk to your mom about this.  She doesn’t want to make you sad.”

“But I am sad.”

I’m convinced a more true statement has never been said.  Her eyes harbored no anger.  Just hurt, so much hurt for a six year old.

“I know, and it’s okay to be sad, but you should talk to your mommy about this.”

“Okay, Mrs. McCauley.  But what if she still doesn’t want to play with me?”  I hugged her tight, her tears wetting the shoulder of my shirt.

“She will, honey, she will.”

“How do you know?”  She looked at me with hope.

“Because your mommy loves you very much.”  We hugged until she picked up her pencil again.

A handful of days later, one of my more rambunctious boys stayed a few minutes after class.  He fills my days with a constant stream of chatter as he voices every thought and fidgets every second of the day.  I was sitting on the carpet and he squatted down next to me, his brow furrowed.  I took a deep breath, hoping to breathe in a little more patience for him.

“Mrs. McCauley, can you help me solve a problem?”

“What’s the problem?”  I readied myself to answer a question about double digit addition or the Power Rangers book he’d been writing.

“My mom has a boyfriend and my dad has a girlfriend and I can’t figure out how to get them back together so I can have a family again.  Can you help me?”  He waited in earnest for my solution.

“Oh, honey, that’s not a problem you and I can solve.  Mommy and Daddy have to solve or not solve that one.”

“But what if they don’t?”  He moved closer until his lunchtime milk mustache was mere inches from my face.

“Your mommy and daddy still love you, even if they aren’t together.  You still have a family, even if they live in two houses.”  He hugged my neck.  For the first time this year, he was still, his dirty playground hands on my collar and my arm around his waist.  A minute or two later he wiggled free and packed up his things, pushing a can of markers into his backpack so he could finish illustrating his Power Rangers book.

It’s no wonder that this group of kids started the year stabbing, kicking, punching and biting each other.  This year is harder than any of my previous years of teaching.  Strike that, it’s harder than all of them combined.

Divorce, new babies, unemployment, dying family members.  So many problems on such small shoulders.

At night when the hum of the fridge is the only sound in the house, I lie awake thinking of my students.  I roll my shoulders in circles, trying to ease the ache in my muscles, to release the burdens of the day.

In the sheath of night I whisper prayers for the freckle faced boy and the girl with cocoa cheeks and for the boy who drives me crazy with his constant chatter.  I whisper a prayer for past students who were little more than shadows in their own homes.  And then I say prayer of thanks.  I thank God for my big, broad shoulders.

Sometimes after a challenging day at work I need to remember that there really is a lot to like in this world, a lot to love even.  This was one of those days and so turning the corner into this blissful three day weekend, I’m focusing on the parts of my life I love.  It is not a comprehensive list by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact, I’m going to come back and add more over the weekend.  I hope you’ll let me know about all the things you love in the comments section.

I love the smell of Terry just out of the shower, wrapped in steam with stray drips of water still behind his ears.

I love when we’re laying in bed and Terry reaches over and touches my leg, acknowledging I’m there with him.

I love the steady beat of my heart.

I love reading blogs in the morning before work to see how friends in other parts of the world are starting the day.

I love tucking under a blanket with a good book as the rain streams down my windows.

I love riding my bike the long way up to Shasta Dam just because I can.

I love the pink casing on my bike that matches my jersey and my water bottles.

I love going to church and closing my eyes to worship.

I love praying with Terry as we part ways in the morning.

I love when my nephew begs for more tickles and kisses me with crackers in his mouth.

I love when one of my students says “I love writing.”

I love eating summer blackberries from my backyard.

I love writing.

I love writing so much I’m putting it on the list twice.

I love talking to other teachers about how to foster young writers.

I love visiting new places, but I love coming home even more.

I love Abby and her candy drawer.

I love Nick because he believes I’m a better person than I really am.

I love my Grandma because she understands the worst parts of my life and doesn’t judge me for them.

I love green vegetables.

I love when my principal has my back.

I love my grade level team for making me a better teacher.

I love my home.

I love burritos.

I love parasailing over the turquoise Caribbean ocean.

I love the Olympics.

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.