The NWP and Me (or How to Revitalize a Teacher)

Three summers ago, I decided to take a break from sipping Bloody Marys poolside (which is, of course, a teacher's typical summer activity) to participate in the Red Cedar Writing Project.  One of my former professors suggested I should apply, and since I hold her in the HIGHEST regard (you know who you are Sue:), I figured I'd give it a try despite the serious dent it put into my leisure schedule.

Our first day, I was convinced I had gotten in way over my head.  There was no way, I was sure, that I could possibly keep up with all the amazing teachers I had somehow managed to get myself mixed up with.  These people were phenomenal.  They published articles, taught honors classes, understood that hyperbole is the BEST thing EVER.  This was a room full of the people I want to be when I grow up; how could I even hope to fit in?

Turns out, I did fit in, because this wasn't a cut throat environment; this was heaven. A group of people - educators - that wanted to grow, wanted to share, wanted to learn.  And we did.  I don't believe a single one of us left that summer as the same teacher who entered.

I have since participated in two more Summer Institutes as a Co-Director with the Chippewa River Writing Project, and am about to plunge into another season of learning, sharing, and growing.  Those Bloody Marys will still be cold in July.

Mamma Mia

In four short weeks, I will again be a married woman. This is bringing me great joy, and of course, great anxiety.  I am absolutely convinced that marrying John is the greatest choice I've made in many years, and I fully expect to spend the rest of our lives in wedded bliss.  So, only the joy is coming from the whole being a married woman thing; the anxiety is coming from the becoming part.

Twenty-some years ago, I  stood up on an alter in front of a few hundred people and, after an uncontrollable bout of the giggles, married my first husband.  It wasn't a ridiculous wedding - well not overly ridiculous anyway - but it was enough to satisfy any fairy-tale dreams I held about just how a marriage should begin, and was kind of emblematic of the entire relationship.  Presentation was more important than truth.

This time, I'm looking for less flash and more substance.  And beginning the journey intimately makes sense, so the initial intention was to include only the kids in the ceremony, illustrating our commitment to each other and our family.  No friends, no extended family, no parents.  Enter the anxiety.

Because of recent discussion - John with his dad, who would like to be a part of the day. Me with Ally who hit my heart by asking how I'd feel if I weren't invited to her wedding - we've been rethinking including our parents.  The truth is, I have no problem with John's dad joining us; it's my folks' inclusion that I'm not so sold on.  And now my question: Is my hesitancy in inviting my parents because I'm still harboring all that teenage angst and I just need to get over myself?  Or is it because I'm afraid of Mom's subtle rejection and fault-finding?

Writing for Catharsis

It seems Karma has a way of being, well, Karmic I suppose.. So long as I live the clean life - take the high road, keep my nose clean, remain on the up and up - my life travels down a grand path.  And for the last year or so I have kept so clean that I practically squeak.  And life has been full of loveliness.

All it takes is just one, teeny tiny stupid choice to muck things up a bit though.  It's amazing how that which at one point of my life is standard practice, can, at a different point put a serious dent into bliss. Karma makes me pay for those stupid choices -

What did I do on MY Summer Vacation?

What summer vacation? 
Ask my kids, or John, or Sue exactly how much summer vacation I get - go ahead, ask them.  Aren't teachers supposed to get this vast amount of time where we just laze around sipping sangria?  Something that we don't need to do because, as so much of my extended family reminds me of regularly, we don't really do much the rest of the year except get weekends and holidays off.  Not to mention snow days. 

AARRGGHHH - do I sound frustrated? I don't mean to sound frustrated, but I've got so many demands on my time, and so little time for my demands.  The summer of my divorce was the most glorious summer in my life - I actually had time to do nothing - with no guilt of "I should be . . ." lingering around.  It was lovely - lovely, lovely, lovely.

I think I need to be done for the day.

Who Am I?

I am a mother
I am a lover
I am a friend
I am a woman

I am a teacher
I am a reader
I am a writer

I am laughter
I am a smile
I am a tear

I am full of art
I am full of anxeity
I am full of hope

I am an opimist
I am a naysayer

CRWP - live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.

So, why am I here? Why, for the third year in a row have I relinquished my rights to a proper summer vacation - a much needed vacation - to sit inside all day and write and learn and write and learn?  Well, because how could I not?  I am passionate about my work, and how could I pass up any opportunity to become better at what I do? Especially an opportunity as significant as this one? And to then be able to replicate the experience summer after summer?  What else could I do.

But then, I hear from the people I love, the people who love me.  And they support me, and respect my dedication to my career, but are feeling neglected.  During the school year, I am careful to balance work and love - careful to remember what is most important and ensure, through my actions, that they know.  But summer is supposed to be a time for them.  A time to make up for all the time I can't give them throughout the school year, and the writing project gets in the way of that. 

So?

Celebrate Good Times

I am a birthday peacock.  Take me to one of those restaurants where the waitstaff comes out and sings some cheesy birthday song - better yet, take me to several of them - and I will get up on the table and bow, blowing kisses to my adoring fans.  Buy me a big silly hat that proclaims my advancing age in foot tall glitter, and I'll wear it as if I were the pope.  Pin a pair of "kiss me, it's my birthday" flashing lips to my chest, and I'll accept smooches from drunken strangers (so long as they're directed to the cheek or forehead  anyway).  Presents are nice, appreciated, even sometimes amazing, but all I really want is your attention.

FYI the big day is August 11:)