Throbbing Song

Brooding Sunday nights in the neon glare of McDonald's with Peppermint Hot Chocolate and freshly baked cookies, feverishly probing for solace within the luminosity of my ersatz time and space travelling device.

Alone can be brittle.
Joyful
Complete
Utter
Full
searching
searing
empty
Content
Questioning
Careening
Carefree
naked
lost
Free
Liberation
a throbbing song
unlikely delight
a burden
liquid
burning
reaching
Seeking
Finding
I find myself,
come to terms with who I see
always seeing still more
so much more to do and to be

Every Sunday night
I suspect there are coffee grounds in the dregs of my cocoa
an emptiness that the cookies cannot fill
the caffeine spike falls flat
the light flares against the rim of my glasses
echoes coldness against my retina
beautiful eyes wasted against the
flat, glaring screen.
It never looks back.
Words wink and sparkle like eyes
warm the mind
touch the soul
kill the time...

Images and Amature Poetry

My friend's questions -
"Sometimes I sing when I'm afraid
There are no words to voice my pain
and so I grab my mask again...
I will laugh and sing, I will dance
...

I reach for stars, I strive, I strain
- then I falter, I step back
I wonder should I take the chance..."

The Anwers -
'Aim high, for the stars are hidden in your soul
Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.'

 

For Jill, because sometimes good art DOES match your couch.

"Her soul bared before her peers, she struggles in vain to gain composure."

Flood of emotion

The mask, The Three Muses

"Beaded, tye-dyed peace!"
(this was not all the sixties)
"Hey, Hey, LBJ..."
(i know it; i was there)
"How many kids have you killed today?"
...

(my clothes were immaculate)
"Braided leatherwork is groovy!"
(my hair was short, with bangs)
"Hair peace! Flower Power!"
(and i never used slang)
"Make Love, Not War!"
(but, I, too, believed...)
"Hell, no, we wont go!"
(i could change the world.)




"The Silent Witness Cannot Be Cleansed of Her Guilt;\The Child's Scars Will Not Heal With Time"

Hope



Part of a children's book done for a literacy specialist course, the page reads: "And she didn't have to speak any words at all"

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
They made me memorize this poem by Dickinson when I was twelve years old.
I have never been sorry.

Fighting The Giant Squid While We Tiptoe Around It On Eggshells

People who don't experience them can't understand it.

People who DO experience them don't really understand it.

They just want it to stop.

They don't want to have them.

They don't make them up to get people to pity them, or work themselves into one to get out of their every day responsibilities.

I don't have them anymore.

I think it's solely because of the medication, because this week I've been experiencing the same sense of dread.

Fear.

Fear of failure.

Fear of being lazy, or being thought of as lazy.

Maybe even fear of success, though I certainly hope not.

Fear of change.

Fear of disappointment.

Fear that maybe all the bad things that you've been led to believe about yourself might actually be true.

It's debilitating.

I kick it off like it's some sort of giant squid that has wrapped its tentacles around me.

Only it's not a physical feeling anymore, so kicking doesn't indicate that anything has actually let go.

The fear is at the back of my mind, however.

At the front rides hope and a stubborn ability to dream.

 

Anxiety Attack - A Memory:

"I woke up crying over some of the things I've been dealing with - grief and inability to set boundaries and feel safe and trust myself, for that matter -

Then I stared kind of chuckling at myself for being so melodramatic.

Then suddenly I was laughing hysterically and couldn't stop.

It's like my defense mechanism of laughing at my fears had gotten stuck.

I laughed and laughed and stopped breathing and got dizzy and then started breathing in repeated, short, quick little gasps over and over again, trying to suck in enough air and then started laughing again like a machine gun, then fell back into gasping for air and hyperventilating - kicked my legs like an underwater swimmer struggling back to the surface, running out of air...

I had been writhing around trying to curl up into a ball and squeeze myself back into shape and somehow ended up with my pillow and curtain on top of my head, so I flailed around with my arms trying to get out, pulling my face out until my cheek was resting against the edge of my bed and my blankets pulled tightly around me, feeling like I was just holding my head above water and gasping for air, trying to pretend that someone was holding me and telling me that everything was fine and I was going to be all right, but crying and breathing in and out so fast so fast so fast fast fast - and then suddenly I was in full-blown anxiety mode because the hysteria blew out and expanded, exploding into laughter and tears and terror like I really was drowning and going to die - and I was sinking down along my flannel sheets, scrabbling around with my hands as if trying to pull myself onto the shore, but I couldn't get ahold of anything and started yelling at myself out loud that it was all right, all right okay and I was fine and nothing bad was really happening and I could stop panicking any time now because it was okay I was okay and I stumbled up to my feet and into the bathroom, chuckling ironically at how I didn't really believe a single word of it but couldn't stop laughing at myself. It felt like some sick hypnotist had forced me to start laughing when there was absolutely NOTHING funny about it AT ALL, but I kept on laughing anyway because I wanted to badly to just laugh it off and move on.

Only I can't move on anymore unless I keep reaching out and getting help from people.

and that's the hardest part."

I guess it wasn't anxiety today, though - not that kind of an attack at all.

It was more like the opposite.

Or like the anxiety had sank down inside of me and curled up into a tight little ball that lay like lead in the bottom of my soul, holding me down and holding me back. It's like a dark force that stops you from being all that you are meant to be.

I couldn't do anything.

I felt so stupid.

I just couldn't even get out of bed.

I mean, if this is because of the post traumatic issues, then it is treatable. Why does it have to take so long? Why can't I just take a pill and be done with it? I work on introspection when I work on my novel - why isn't that enough?

 I have a lot on my plate and that I have to stop being so hard on myself, since anyone would be upset if they had to find a new job and pay their bills and had a garbage bag over the window of their car and antibiotics for a tooth they can't repair and didn't get the job they needed so desperately all at the same time.

Well, I say that other people have a lot more on their plates and they get it all done.

I know it's hard for them, too, but they get the job done and done well and on time.

I feel like some angst-ridden teen, and it irks me.

Last year I started noticing the PTSD symptoms over the summer because I was without a job and worried about making ends meet, worried about being homeless again.

Not everyone knows what that's like, either. All your worldly goods in a bag at your feet, hiding your valuables inside your pillowcase under your head at night so that no one can take them from you. (In my case, the cell phone my sister sent me from Utah) Shivering inside your van at night, hoping the police don't come by and kick you out of the abandoned parking lot of the old K-mart building. Wondering what you will eat tomorrow and where you will sleep and

I'm whining about this here, but really it wasn't so bad. I woke up to the sunlight every morning and read from the Bible and then made plans for what I was going to get done that day, and there was no one to tell me how to do it or why or when. It was all up to me, for the first time in my life, it seemed.

But sometimes the all up to me part of it is the opposite of reassuring.

Sometimes I get scared because it seems I made a lot of decisions in my life that turned out to be the wrong ones.

I'm older and smarter and certainly more experienced now.

I'll keep telling myself that.

I'd done a good job up until now of telling myself that I can do this a day at a time if I don't look to far ahead and try not to look back.

But it's starting to feel like a horror movie, where the protagonist is inching along the hallway and you just know that something is going to jump out in front or behind, and you just don't know exactly when.

I think when I've gotten everything done, I should go get a professional massage - I've never done that before.

My only fear is that I might start bawling the minute someone laid a finger on me.

I feel very isolated.

I try not to be.

I've been known to be in plays.

But it's very hard to find people with whom I have anything in common.

And my uncommon friends lead such busy lives.

 

This sounds all so terribly unhappy, and yet I am not.

Not entirely.

I have a supportive family and friends who care about me.

I have this beautiful day into which I can step without a jacket.

I don't have the anxiety attacks anymore - and I get up every morning and fight evil like a teacher/artist/writing superhero.

I have this insane optimistic streak that keeps me dreaming and planning and getting up every morning.

 

Yet I feel such empathy for all those who can't crawl out into the sunshine.

People tip-toe around them and I think judge them without knowing what it's like in the cave.

Makes me think of the Allegory of the Cave.

Oh, how much more we could know and understand if only we were able to turn our heads and see!

 

Finding Myself in Unexpected Places

The year before last I received a scholarship that enabled me to study abroad in Scotland and Ireland for two weeks out of the summer. The journey was both very exciting and highly emotional for me. I remember I was sitting in the front seat of a cab in Ireland one sunny afternoon discussing this with the driver. In Ireland, it is not uncommon to find yourself squeezed in the front passenger side of a vehicle with nothing between you and the driver but a gearshift. I imagine these men could get pretty fresh if they chose in those tight little vehicles, but luckily for me they were all unbelievably charming. This particular driver introduced himself as “Billy,” and was an older gent with white hair and twinkling blue eyes.

“So what brings you to Ireland, me dear?” he asked genially.

“I’m studying abroad,” I explained, “But I guess I’d be lying if I said I were here for any other reason than that I’ve never travelled anywhere in my entire life and jumped at the opportunity. I’d never even been on a plane before!”

“She’s ridiculously enthusiastic about everything!” announced Mary, an older and more travelled member of our group, from the backseat. “Why, yesterday, when it was pouring out, she was dancing in the rain and yelling, ‘At least it’s pouring on me in Ireland!’”

Billy beamed at me. “Ah, now tat’s ta spirit!” He gazed out at the road and his eyes got kind of misty-like as he added, “I came here to Galway on holiday as a young man, and I never went back…”

“I’ve heard that from no less than five people this week,” I marveled.

Billy smiled, and with a twinkle of his eye informed me, “Ah, well, t’ere was a t’ird party involved!”

I smiled back, detecting a hint of romance. “And who was that?”

“Me girlfriend,” he said impressively, “Now me wife of over forty years. Now tell me, what have you seen outside of America so far?”

“Scotland,” I told him, "We were there last week."

“Ah, yes,” he said, “My grandfather was Scottish, don’t you know.”

“So was mine!” I exclaimed, as if the world were indeed very small after all. “My grandfather was Scottish, and my grandmother was Irish, and it’s said that they fought a lot – I can’t think why.”

Billy was well pleased with this, and said, “I might have known ye was one of us, for Heather t’is a Scottish name. A pleasure speaking with you, miss. Here is your stop.”

He let us off at our destination, which was actually just a stop for an Irish tour bus that was going to take us to see the sights.

All of my life I’ve kind of hated my name. In every classroom throughout school there was always at least one other Heather – in one class there had notably been three others. I became known as Heather H, and never felt as if I had a name of my own. My parents swore that the name had struck them as unique at the time they had chosen it.

“It’s a weed,” my dad told me, not very helpfully, “They grow all over the place in Europe – England, I think.”

A weed.

Figured.

And so I progressed through school, a common weed, and struggled to stand out and overcome what I felt was the stigma of a common name – the stigma of large family with three sisters and a brother and never enough to go around and never a chance to stand out in the shuffle – yet for some reason I came to Scotland and I thought one day of the heather out on the moors. I looked everywhere for it, but had no idea what it might look like. People were always trodding all over it in Jane Austin novels and such, so I imagined it must look something like ragweed.

The Wild Wickelow Bus arrived at last, manned by a dashing fellow by the name of Stephen. He was hysterical – kept making cracks about being from a large Irish family. Before the bus got going, I told him shyly that my name was Heather. “My parents tell me it’s a weed,” I told him. “Is it possible you might be able to point some out to me during the tour?”

Stephen’s laugh came out like a bark. “Oh, you’ll be seeing a bit of heather on this ride,” he assured me casually.

Stephen drove us over hills and dales all over Wickelow county, telling stories and jokes and sharing the rich history and poetry of his land until suddenly the fields blossomed with fairies and legends and also something much more to me. Out in the blackest of bogs, where naked, blue-painted men once sunk the bodies of their enemies in the grimy pitch, there now blossomed patches of endless purple and gold. “The yellow flowers are the gorse,” Stephen explained, “and the purple – the purple t’is the heather.”

The heather.

Miles and miles of bright purple bursts among the dark pete – and it was beautiful.

My throat tightened and tears sprang to my eyes, because it was so much more than a mass of weeds on the roadside. They were common, I could see that – but look how lovely and how very unlikely all the same. They thrived here on the dark and the muck, and it was not despite the adversity that they grew and were beautiful, but because of it. That is not so common as it is a miracle, and all the more rare because we so seldom notice it there.

When I stepped off the bus at the end of our journey, Stephen smiled gallantly and said, “Goodbye – Heather,” and gave me a wink. My name had never sounded so lovely as it did at that moment. Like the heather upon the moors, I bloom where I am planted.

The library.

Some people love forests, some love the wide open plains. Some love the city, or the ocean. They love grand cathedrals, cabins in the woods, the mall, the skate rink, the pub.

I love libraries.

Books upon books – buildings full of free books on loan.

God bless the person who invented the concept.

God bless the people with their personal libraries scattered throughout Europe and beyond in the olden days.

God bless Gutenberg.

I love to walk into a library for the first time and go splunking.

Some have the most delightful little reading nooks. The children’s sections are the best – posters that promote reading – little houses with rocking chairs to read in, or bean bags. One clever little library had a room just for teens, with reading lamps and a beaded curtain, comfy couches and throw pillows and shelves of all the latest greatest and classic Juvenile fiction.

The most fantastic library I’ve personally ever visited was in Salt Lake City. It was a work of art worthy of Frank Lloyd Wright. It has a sweeping, glorious design with a towering glass wall along one side that takes up all five stories of the building and bathes the rooms with natural sunlight. There’s a rooftop garden that you can walk to along the steps of the sweep. There is a statuary outside containing the most interesting sculptures. Upon entering the five story building, one enters the "Urban Room", which is paved with limestone from Israel. There are shops and art galleries and a fantastic white birds dangling from above which, upon closer inspection, are books in flight. There’s a spiraling grand staircase and three glass elevators. Perhaps my most favorite feature was the children’s library. It was filled with little side rooms with reading nooks. The best of these looked like a little polar icecap zone. When I looked up, I saw through the clear ceiling the bottom of the little pond that I had seen from above outdoors.  Funny – I travel to a new place, and the library is what fills me with pure, unadulterated joy.

I love libraries that were built in the past century with their creaking floors and the pungent smell of a forest floor. I travel its vistas and admire the sweeping row of stacks on oak shelves so lovingly worn that they shine. I touch the cities of books – Chinatown, The Reference Section, Travel, Religion, Nature. I plunge in and oceans of information envelop me in an ecstatic embrace. I can visit wherever, whenever, or whomever I choose. I am free to explore all of time and space – next stop: Everywhere. When I step into the hush of such a library, it is a religious experience for me; it is sacred. I am home.

 

Ten Minutes

In ten minute's time my outer life ends.
My body will turn to repetitive, meaningless tasks while my mind roams abroad in search of a star.
Perhaps I will go back to Scotland, Ireland, or Japan - visit Paris or London...
When midnight strikes my voyage will not end with a pumpkin.
I will ride upon magical wheels to live in victorious abandon and blind hope.
The world is so beautiful in pieces.
It breaks apart into shards of images - the stars shining outside the sweep of my windshield until the garbaged-bagged window obscures them - the smile of a man with a dimple in his cheek - a girl with Audrey Hepburn's eyes - The rainbow glow of factory lights against the clouds...

Today I can't help but think of Halloween.
I work until midnight.
I long to find someplace afterward in a little pub or a huge ballroom where I can wear my hair up and dress in a Louis the 16th Ballgown.
I think it's those damnable Disney movies that I watched as a child.
Don't get me wrong - there are a lot of good things tucked away in some of those movies, but there's also the prevalent thought that to dress up and be a Princess is some sort of desirable state.
Or perhaps it's more that I sometimes feel I belong to a different age, one where having the qualities of Jane Eyre or a Jane Austin might be more desirable than not.
Then again, it is most likely that I know damn well that I'd look stunning in that dress.
And there haven't been enough balls in my life.

Next year I'll as likely become a zombie or an enchantress.
This year I might just walk the streets and admire any stragglers in costume as I wend my way homeward.

"That's Life, That's What All the People Say..."

I dreamed I was visiting Manistee and walking the streets from the school like I used to do in my teen years...

It was a nice summer day and I had someone with me who must not have mattered too much, because when I saw the people dressed as rabbits and flamingos going into the Ramsdell Theater, I took off after them without a thought for my companion.
First I saw a man in full brown rabbit costume with a waistcoat and a watch, and the only thing that indicated to me that he was in costume was that his very human face showed through.
There was a placard out front that said "Now Showing: Alice in Wonderland!"
Then I saw the White Rabbit, and I ran into the theater to watch the show.
I was worried, because I knew if I had them run my credit card it wasn't going to cover the full price of the ticket.
I thought maybe I could catch Katherine, the director from Ferris from when I was in The Importance of Being Earnest, and ask her if I could help out backstage.
So I went backstage, only all I could see from back there was the bare boards of the back of the set, and it was so dark and cramped - like a stairwell in Scotland - that I could feel furry people brushing past me as they disappeared into Wonderland without me, but i couldn't see them...
I broke out into the left wing, where light from the stage shone into the corner where I had sat when I played Helen in Born Yesterday, waiting for my turn to go onstage.
I slipped out the side door and into the Green Room at the Ramsdell, which delightfully had actually been green. ( I desperately hope it is green still despite all the remodeling)
In the Green Room, waiting to go on and lounging around on the couch were, respectfully, Tom Baker, resplendent in his Doctor Who scarf, Bob Dylan, Misha Collins, and Pat Codden.
They all smiled and waved at me, then continued their conversation.
People kept talking to me as if I were an established member of the cast, coming in and out looking me in the eye and calling out for props from me - people from high school and college and Grand Rapids. There was an air of this being a reunion, and that I was supposed to be there.
I didn't need to buy a ticket.
I looked out at "the fourth wall" and it wasn't there - I could see the audience
Three girls tap-danced in from the side.
Two of them were the young girls reading "They Beat the Girl Out of My Boy - Or So They Tried" from The Vagina Monologues with me, and one of them was Dawn G from high school - and they grabbed me and said brightly, "Let's go!"
We danced (me not so gracefully) and joked and laughed while the audience and Tom Baker applauded.
I was a little embarrassed but mostly exhilarated.
From where we stood I could look across the footlights and see the "Real" stage adjacent to us with its formal Alice in Wonderland set, but I realized that this show was partly script and part improvisation, and that this was the great fun of it.

Sort of like Life, I thought, and I was very happy.

Building

I think in order to be a really good teacher (or parent), you have to step back once in awhile and recall what it is to learn something for the first time. You know, really humble yourself and be willing to take on something new that's difficult for you, so that you can view the acquisition of knowledge from the eyes of a student.

Right now I'm building filing cabinets and wardrobes and bookcases for offices at a factory. Long hours and hard labor. I often come home with a new appreciation for the phrase "Bathed in sweat," but I take stubborn pride in working hard to care for myself and my family and to make ends meet until my means fit the ends.

So if you know me well, you know that I'm pretty proud of myself for figuring out how to use a hammer by myself. And the occasional screwdriver as well. So power tools have been a lot of fun for me over the past month as I have learned my new job. I think my enthusiasm has been amusing to all the hardened laborors who have worn down under the pressure of years of hard work toward little results. Like a good teacher, my coordinator patiently showed me how to start with the most simple tasks, and then added new ones as I mastered each. I have felt a toddler-like joy at using a riveter successfully and wielding a power drill. Ha! I can build a six-foot tall filing cabinet from scratch! You need a wardrobe assembled? Piece of cake - take that!
But then building combination wardrobes, bookshelves, and cabinets this week has confused me no end. Sudddenly I have to take each individual task I have learned and combine them in different ways, and the guidance is gone. In two weeks' time my boss is impressed with my progress and assumes I know enought to fly solo. I could do the tasks separately, so now I am expected to remember everything and then put all the pieces together.
The coordinator throws "traveling orders" on my work-bench one after another and I am expected to read them, see what needs to be done - do it - and then place the finished pieces in the correct location so that others can complete the product. I find myself whizzing through and singing to myself random songs - "One two three four five, six seven eight nine ten - eleven twelve - doo do do doo doo - do do do doo do - DOO!" (Sesame Street in the 70's - with the pinball - anyone recall?) "Get a rhythm, when you get the blues - get a rhythm, when you get the blues..." (Johnny Cash) "I've got a feeling - that tonight's gonna be a good night - that tonight's gonna be a good good night..." (Blackeyed Peas, baby!) I'm concentrating, I really am, and the music helps me concentrate. If I'm not singing to myself, my mind starts to wander and daydream. Some kind of full-on Walter Mitty thing could happen if I'm not careful. But suddenly I forget which rivets were for the bookcases, and which were for the wardrobes. I forget if the lock goes up or down on one style or another, or I misread the order and put the wrong handle on. Somewhere in the process, everyone has forgotten that I was never taught how to read the entire traveler. I ask questions when I have them and listen closely to the answer - then forget them the next day.
In three weeks, my boss is getting really impatient with all my mistakes. "Heather!" he shouts from across our area - I rush up and he shows me that I've put hinges on wardrobe doors when hinges only go on cabinets. I apologize and fix my mistake as fast as I can. There are many rules like this that make no sense to me, but I try to memorize them. I begin to cringe when my boss calls my name, because I know it's never for anything good. He will show me yet another glaring error, or he will explain something to me - again - in that pained, longsuffering voice - or demand that I do one more thing that I don't actually know how to do. I find myself sheepishly saying "sorry" so many times that I become annoying even to myself. Today I had to put on a lock that I hadn't had to assemble since the first day. All my childlike pride in my budding success is shattered, and I start messing up even more...
Today it's like the coordinator suddenly had some sort of epiphany about me.
Either that, or he's attended a management seminar.
It dawns on him that if he slows down and tells me WHY they do a certain door in a certain way, it will make better sense to me - and then when he SHOWS me the finished project and I can understand the big picture, I remember better. He uses humor to point out errors. "Hey - Heather - get a look at this hinge! Get thee to the paint-line!" (We've got a running joke that only people of low IQ get stuck there.) He has me fix my error, then comes by and declares: "Perfect!" or "Beautiful!"
At the end of the day, I find I am relaxed, confident, and haven't made any errors at all.
He comes and tells me that I did an awesome job, and tells me to enjoy my day with my kids tomorrow.

I leave work thinking I'm the best damn Rosie the Riveter the world has yet seen. I learn fast and I can master any task set before me.
As a perpetual educator, looking at everything in light of what I can learn and how I can teach it, I can't help but think how this relates to teaching reading. There is such a heavy emphasis placed on speed right now. Speed, cleverly disgused in the blanket of fluency. Is it important that a student read fluently? By all means. But how do they do that? The Dibels test would have us believe that the faster a student reads, the better a reader they are. They are pressured to read fast - faster - fastest - and in the midst of this pressure they must also read and then recall accurately. Mind you - we are talking about random selections on various disjointed topics. Students must master the pieces and then are assumed to comprehend the whole.
What happens when they fall behind? What if they are not reading more slowly because they are struggling to understand, but because they are the kind who need time to let the meaning soak in? Some people don't care. They rush through and rivet their doorstops on one after another with speed and accuracy and never stop to admire the way the door clicks perfectly into place when it is attached to the cabinet.
Such a student becomes frustrated. They forget things because they don't understand why they are supposed to do them. They fall behind and are afraid to ask questions and be humiliated by a sharp word, a cool assumption, or a withering sarcasm. They fear appearing half-witted or feeling like a fool. They don't understand how they could have done so well before and are doing so terribly now. They begin to think it is too hard for them and they are tempted to just quit.
How much better if we as teachers and parents just please step back for just a moment and remember that EVERYONE, children and adults, learn better in an environment where they are not being pressured to be perfect immediately and as fast as possible - without pressure. Given time to develop accuracy, a student will automatically develop fluency. They will be whipping out those doors and drawers and cabinets like an expert. They will develop pride in their work, confidence in their ability, and they will remember and even be able to teach what they have learned to others.

They learn by our example.
They learn through careful, deliberate guidance and positive feedback.
They are willing to step back and question, to learn a new thing, when they are allowed to make mistakes and given time to develop their skills.
And we, in turn, can learn such a lot from them.

Hello again.
I am Heather.
I am a sometimes-Whovian.

"Hello Heather!"

I have not watched a Doctor Who episode in six months.

"Good job! Keep up the good work! Fight the good fight!"

Having dropped my Master's Thesis for the time being, I am considering substitute teaching again while awaiting the results of my interview. Meantime, the mindless drudgery of factory work leaves me free time to write and read and see whatever culture i can get my hands on.

I consider it a win-win situtation, except when I look at the time on the lower right of the computer screen and realize that I have to go and get ready for the above-mentioned mindless drudgery of factory work now.

Perhaps I will post more often.