Happy Birthday PaCharley!

With love and slobbery ear kisses, from one doting granddaughter plus four schoolroom pupils :-)

if the paw fits

For the animal print "series": this one was spotted by Ellen as we neared the house, walking back from the schoolhouse. Probably a leopard and, if not, a similar variety of large feline.

under african skies

If I had ever labored under illusions of any real scientific giftedness, I would have probably aspired to be an astronomer. But I had no such illusions and so no such aspirations. I did, however, pursue as much knowledge about astronomy as I could justify in my undergraduate studies.
And so it was with great delight that I finally did something I have been meaning to do since before arriving in this hemisphere several months ago: I studied the proper constellations and then located my first of the constellations visible only from this part of the world: The Southern Cross. It is a small but distinct diamond that can be found closer to the horizon in a line that runs diagonal to Orion’s left shoulder.
I should also confess that I was ignorantly surprised that Orion was easily visible here—I guess since I was so familiar with his distinctive presence, I thought he was a more northern constellation . . .
Also of interest to me here has been the brilliant presence of Venus each clear night—she shines brightly well before other stars show their nocturnal faces. And my youngest pupil has an inexplicable but quite delightful name for this planet; she is always quick to point out “The Fairy Star” when she appears :-)

two kudu

Though difficult to see here, these are two Kudus--they were photo worthy when I saw them as it was the first time I had seen these relatively less common variety of deer-like animals around here. Plus, their great size makes them quite striking to come across in the wild.

in-print

bug hunting

It occurred to me today that I may have hit a point of no return, after which I will never be able to return to the confines of a "normal" school curriculum--I am falling in love with the freedom of my schoolhouse setting. This afternoon we went on a bug walk, thanks to a day of being a bit ahead of schedule with our day's goals. Armed with only a blank notebook and pencil, we took off on a makeshift path through the grasses behind the schoolhouse. We first experimented with "owl ears," a trick I learned back when I was the Nature Teacher for summer camp; by imitiating the shape of owl's super-ears, cupping your hands behind your ears, you can noticeably improve your ability to hear the sounds around you. This makes for great fun when you close your eyes and see how many different animal sounds you can pick out as you listen.
Then it was time for tracking "bugs," just open to seeing what we could find. I told them, as an intro, of the man I met in the jungles of Ecuador, whose house was filled with jars of brand new species of bugs. He lived so deep in the jungle that the village was only accessible via plane. After our Cessna landed on the strip, he greeted us and proudly showed off all the insects that he had been classifying over the years. After each discovery, he would report his findings to the insect experts [I'm afraid I forget who this was], who would confirm if it was truly an as-of-yet undiscovered variety. It turns out that there are in fact a great many creatures, especially out in such remote areas, that are still waiting to be “discovered” and properly classified.
Admittedly, my crew this afternoon had no such aspirations ☺ We did, however, happily observe several interesting insects and butterflies. Carefully sketching them and noting colors, size, and such, we eventually returned back to the school. A book of the insects of Rhodesia in our library allows for reasonable accuracy in pinpointing the species.
And so the first entry of hopefully many future Bushwalks is now carefully noted in our “Bushwalk Journal!”

Kimba goes to the city

Thanks to a family weekend in the big city, Kimba got to experience Lusaka's water fun park . . . and in case you can't tell, he is here sporting a huge grin of having-a-grand-time :-)

the sky's on fire . . .

. . . is what I was saying to Marieke as I walked into the office and back out again to snap this shot, before its glory had finished setting :-)

what remains

This is what remains of the evening's visit by a hungry lion. What does not remain is one not-quite-fast-enough Puku, or so reported the Zambians who told me about the prints and the marks of the struggle.

flushing froggy

As is customary, I took my morning walk from my room to the Bush Camp shower and toilet house I use. As is also customary, I then used the toilet before hopping in the shower. The bathhouse being dimly lit, I do not generally peer very closely into the toilet bowl, but this time I noticed something there after flushing. I guess the last visitor left a little something here . . . I thought, slightly amused. So I waited a moment and flushed again. Still there. And again. Still there. That’s odd, I thought. This time I bent down and looked closely into the toilet bowl.
Then I laughed.
There looking up at me was a good size bullfrog, toes gripping the sides tightly and an expression of what I perceived as annoyance on his froggy face. Rightly so, for sure. I apologized out loud to him then, for showering him with such a rude morning awakening.
Leaving the toilet cover up this time [it is generally left shut], I was relieved to see that he had left his post by the time I finished my shower, presumably to a more sanitary and suitable habitat.
I was, however, amused to learn later that this does happen regularly, not because they jump into the toilet bowl but rather because they come up through the pipes themselves . . . so maybe he did not escape to such a sanitary abode after all ☺

a birthday "card"

Happy Birthday Helen!
with lots of love, and creative energies, from:
Lara, Eva, Ellen, Annie, & Anna
[in other words, the entire crew of my little one-room-schoolhouse :-)]

weekend visiting

A friend and her little one, during a Sunday spent visiting with her at her home in the village.

for the sake of the blog

You should know that I risked my life for the sake of you blog-readers today . . . this shot led to a charging hippo and to a nearby shout to me of "Just run!!!" I then sheepishly apologized to folks here for ignorance as to the speed capacities of these lumbering creatures, and for causing some quickened heartbeats :-)

another setting

I warned you not to mind multiple sunset shots, did I not? :-) When the school day lasts until around 5:30 these days, I'm afraid a captured sunset is generally all that time remains for. But I dare say, when it looks like this, one could do worse than capturing a setting sun!

the day's greeting

As a way of sending out a festive greeting to you all in my little blogger's world, here is one of the projects from the day's themed art class. It went over well, and prompted a discussion, that warmed my teacher's heart, as to which was each student's favorite out of all our art projects thus far :-)

beautiful relief

Another long and tiring day of teaching is done, and I am intensely grateful for this beautiful close of the day . . . so you will have to have patience with yet another captured sunset :-)

Kimba's first Zambian birthday

Kimba and friends celebrate with the birthday girl. And I learned Ngili Ngindo Maama, Mbela Mbela. Ieee! . . . ["Happy Birthday" in Nyanja].

the setting sun

Another evening of an on-fire sunset I had to capture, after my jaw un-dropped itself :-)

in a while, crocodile

My first croc-in-the-wild sighting since I was a child . . . I was intrigued to discover that my chiildhood fear has not seemed to dissipate with age, as my heartbeat quickened noticeably and I drew a sharp, quick breath when I saw this one :-)

rainy days and mondays

A[nother] day of rain has left me considering how easily things that used to be taken for granted have now become luxury items . . .
Dry clothes and shoes, for instance: the combination of constant rain plus no machine washers or dryers equals an all-pervasive dampness, and occasionally outright drenchedness.
Hot showers are another. My cold shower this morning very nearly didn't phase me; a fact that left me rather proud of myself, as the first few cold showers were quite difficult.
It is a blessing to realize that when life demands adjustments, the grace is given with which to adjust . . . I pray, that is, that I am adjusting gracefully :-)

safari sunset

Last night I went on my first game drive for this time in Zambia. Few of the animals I remembered from childhood drives were out, though we did see several elephants, plenty of kudu and impala, and a Spotted Eagle owl. The highlight of the evening, however, was this view of the waning rainy season sun.

i think that i shall never see . . .

. . . a sight so lovely as a tree . . .
This Baobab has become my favorite nearby tree and I have finally taken the occasion of a free Saturday morning to take a camera-walk.

inadequate expressions

Not having my camera, this is my feeble attempt this evening to capture the peaceful sunset moment I am looking at . . . thanks to Mac photobooth. After an intense day of classroom discipline, time outs, the relief of a return to peace, an intricate science experiment, and all-around adventure of a day, I am intensely grateful for a moment of peaceful African sunset. I also am struck by the deep joy of loving children enough to discipline; it was indescribably meaningful to know today that I was playing a role in the education of these sweet youngsters, and a relief to see that when I am consistent in my firm love for them, they recognize that and respond with great affection . . . the highlight of my day was an apology that came in the form of a tearful hug. At the moment, I was so relieved and so proud of her that it was all I could do to keep from crying myself.

roots

Coming to the country of my father’s resting place could never have prepared me for the apparent grasp-ability of a first visit to his grave.
Here I am, just over one week into my sojourn as a teacher, not connected in the slightest with my childhood roots, and yet I have happened upon quite a close connection.
Finding out my Zambia history, the owner here at the lodge said he thought one of the guides was from that area, and that it may not be very far from here. Sure enough, the next night this guide asked to see me.
His name is Meekson, and he is indeed from my home village. He also returns there every weekend during the dry season, when the trip takes only a day. This man was working for the school where my father taught, and he also went to the church to hear my father preach. The day my parents’ car accident was found, Meekson was involved in handling the crushed vehicle. He described the white car, gesturing to indicate the V-shape that I could picture perfectly from the pictures I saw. He was able to describe Daddy’s grave, and to reassure me of what I’ve always wondered: there is a woman there who has faithfully tended his grave for all these years.
Meekson had me write a letter to the one woman I remembered by name—the other widow of that accident’s fatalities. He knows her as a teacher there, and will see her this next weekend when he goes. She will certainly send a letter back this coming week, he assured me.
My own visit will likely have to wait several months yet, until the rains abate and the roads allow for a manageable length of a trip. But that is alright with me; the knowledge that it is feasible is enough for now.

lion pals

Kimba and his new pal, relaxing after a tiring day of tackling flooding in the schoolhouse, slaying giant centipedes, and trying to get some studies done in the process . . . it's a lion's life :-)

tili bwino

This first full weekend has been spent surrendered to the skilled hands of women in the neighboring village. A new friend, named Blessed, has been hosting me in her hut while the women plait [braid] my hair. I have no idea what their plan is with my hair, but they clearly do; they are chattering contentedly and occasionally interjecting an English praise of how “Beautiful!” it will be. I have no doubt it will, judging from their own lovely plaits and striking beauty. I have been gazing at them in wonder, amazed by their multitasking hands and mesmerized by their stunning features.
What is also amazing to me is how quick they have all been to shower me with hospitality, freely sharing the precious little that they have. It is humbling to have only small trinkets to give them in return.
This weekend has included my first nshima meal for this time in Zambia; it brought back comforting memories of childhood meals, and tasted just as I remembered it. The experience held also an oddly spiritual dimension. Blessed’s instructions of “Wash,” “Take,” “Let us pray,” and “Let us eat” felt much like a communion supper. We ate quietly, taking bits of nshima from the shared bowl and eating each bite with a piece of chicken. It was good—very good.
And when we were “satisfied,” more women filtered back in to join in with the plaiting. In the process, babies were nursed, crying children tended to, and hungry toddlers fed bananas. “Muli basanji?” a passerby asks. “Tili bwino,” we reply. How are you? We are fine.
It is a sweet privilege to be welcomed into this community . . . fine. Yes, we are fine.

how do we know

It is a frightening thing to be in charge of the mental formation of three young minds. It is a terrifying thing to be entrusted with their spiritual education!
How ever-so-humbling it was to sit by Eva, preoccupied by a simple social studies lesson, when this thoughtful nine-year-old suddenly thrust at me the most difficult of spiritual dilemmas: “But how can we know that Christianity is true? If there are so many religions, how do we know ours is right?”
As we were in the midst of a lesson on the main religions of Zambia, it was a logical line of reasoning in one sense. But I was nonetheless floored, having never before explained my coming-to-terms about this issue to such a young and impressionable mind. In that moment, watching this furrowed brow and intensely thoughtful young face, I was as certain as I could be that this was a moment of great significance, now and for eternity. I was awed by its realness and honored to be allowed to participate in it.
Somehow, in the midst of my own uncertainty, I was able to put words to an explanation that seemed to satisfy her reasonably well. Eva nodded and, with a thoughtful “Hmm . . . ok,” returned to her lesson. And I spent the rest of the day somewhat dumbstruck with reverent wonder.
May I live in such a way as to be open to moments such as these, and may I never lose the humility that allows me to see how unworthy I am to receive them!

it is good

I am watching the monkeys frolick outside my bedroom window as I ponder the first week of my time here in Zambia. It is a difficult thing to make any sort of coherence out of the scrambled flurry of thoughts, reactions, experiences, and wonderings that are jostling about in my head, but I shall make a valiant effort, I promise . . .
Perhaps it will help if I list [lists help me think :-)] some of the difficulties and some of the joys of my time thus far, beginning with difficulties, as that shall be a decidedly shorter shortlist, I suspect:
-It is difficult to be disconnected, in that the internet access I expected to have does not exist. This may or may not be fixed while I am here, but for an indefinite period of time at least, the wireless network does not, er, network ;-), and so I am limited to the [extremely limited] times when I can borrow the wired computer in the lodge’s main office.
-It is difficult, in a similar vein, to be dependent upon others for all that I am used to being decidedly independent about: housing, schedules, laundry, meals, coffee [I unfortunately made the error, upon first arriving, of hooking up my water heater, via the electric adaptor I had brought with me; shorting out the electricity led to the embarrassing realization that I could not use such energy-using appliances!].

-But it is good, also, to have said level of dependence, in all its difficulty. I needed to let go of some of my self-sufficiency, to break out of all my comfort zones.
-It is good—more than good—to spend my days with my students. To have a day fly by, morning to night, in a flurry of lessons learned, questions asked, questions answered [hopefully correctly!], tests given, warthogs chased out of the schoolroom, etc, etc. [yes, I’m afraid the warthogs have decided I am their new favorite person, and so they make all-too-frequent visits to whatever happens to be my current location]

By the way, now the bushbuck is the current animal outside my window—he is my favorite “friend” so far :-)

-It is good to chuckle at the “Where are you running to?” question that I have been getting as I jog past those walking along the local paths.
-It is good to see memory-jogging sights, such as women pounding cassava, heads laden with loads of firewood, babies papoosed onto working mamas’ backs, men rhythmically whacking the grass with their scythes, etc, etc.
-It is good to walk along the path surrounded by a crowd of little ones fighting for a turn at hand-holding and shouting over each other to ask me the one question they know in English: “How are you?”
-It is good to be getting to know the individual learning styles of my students. I see that Eva needs to be allowed to go off on learning tangents once she hits the point of no-return-fidgetiness with Science lessons. I see that Ellen has her most productive period in the late afternoon, once sisterly distractions are lessening; she even likes staying late, apparently enjoying her work more in the quiet of a classroom that is empty except for me and the occasional critter. I see that Lara often needs to just begin a new project in order to realize that she really does enjoy it after all . . .

It is good--it is so very good--to be here.

internet access fyi

Just in case the post below is my only one for a while, I wanted to send a quick FYI that I am so far unable to use my Macbook here, and must rely on borrowing the lodge office computer when they are kind enough to allow me to. It seems my snazzy new computer is not being convinced by my efforts to coax it to recognize the satellite wireless hook-up here . . . such is life, I suppose . . . but my efforts will continue :-)

a welcome visitor

This lovely sight greeted me upon my arrival to my home for the duration of my stay here.

an unwelcome visitor

I, who happen to have a horrid fear of warthogs, had this decidedly unwelcome visitor upon my second day in the chalet. My attempts to coax, shoo, prod, er . . . holler to remove him proved futile. Finally, a passerby came to the doorway and kindly used his weedwacker to assist the extraction. Not before I had lost a few possessions to the beast's un-discriminating appetite. I suspect, however, that he may be on the shorter end of the stick: among his courses I realize are three quarters of a bottle of shampoo and the blade from my shaving razor . . .

my sentry

Kimba Leo makes his African debut, taking up a post as guardian at my door, clearly primed to ward off any future unwelcome visitors.

remains of the day

My lingering remnant from last night's going away party, thanks to Jillanna's fine henna artistry. Thanks also to Lisa for so kindly coordinating the festivities :-)

those special spectacles

By the time the Judge called me up this morning, I was so involved in listening to others’ tales that amusement had taken the place of a good bit of my prior anxiety about my first speeding ticket court appearance. And frankly I felt a bit silly about my mentally rehearsed explanation for my spaciness when comparing it to the bizarre tales I had been listening to while awaiting my turn. But I still pleaded “distractedness” when she asked how I wanted to plead—I explained that some combination of my power outage that morning, preparations for moving, and mental rehearsals for work and church speeches had made me lax in watching my speedometer on my way to work that morning. And she was kind, for sure. She forgave me the ticket itself due to it being my first. Then she asked how long I would be away. With a slight grin, she said that on condition that I maintain a violation-free record for the next six months, the citation will not go on my driving record either . . . “I suspect that will not be too hard for you,” she concluded. Laughing, I thanked her and said that I suspected not.
Backtracking slightly in my tale . . .
The case that made me nearly violate the rules while in the courtroom, stifling the laughter that threatened to make itself audible, involved a young woman and an elderly gentleman. The two had been involved in an accident, upon which it was discovered that both were under “moving violations.” The girl [who looked to me to be in her late teens] had been found to be without her license and without proof of insurance at the time. In court today, though, she was able to remedy that by providing both documents. The gentleman’s story was a bit more complicated . . .
The Judge began, kindly: “Sir, can you explain why you were driving without a license that day?”
“Well, I didn’t know they was going to ‘voke it. I didn’t know ‘till later it was ‘voked . . .” [At this point the officer standing nearby offered a translation of “revoked,” to which the man nodded with an air of annoyance at being interrupted]. “See I got these cataracts. And I’m s’posed to get some special eyeglasses but I ain’t got those yet so I cain’t see real good. But I didn’t know it was ‘voke. I guess it was in that letter, but I got these cataracts, see, so I couldn’t tell . . .”
The Judge spoke again here: “So you know now that you should not be driving?”
“Oh, yes, I do know. My lady—she’s in the back there [he pointed to the back of the courtroom]—she drove me here. I’m not driving now, not ‘till I get those glasses. No ma’am, I don’t drive anymore. But those glasses, they’re s’posed to fix these cataracts . . .”
“And a driving license as well, right?” the Judge prompted.
“Oh yes, of course, ma’am, I’ll get that license . . .”
By this point, I think I was not the only one fighting laughter. I also think that I might just have to steer clear if I ever see the gentleman on the road, even if he is wearing those special glasses . . .

to infinity and beyond 

Introducing Kimba

Allow me to introduce my traveling buddy, fondly known as Kimba Leo. This friendly little lion has just arrived here in TN, as I brought him with me from NH. Over Christmas I met a family who dropped in for a visit one afternoon. I have corresponded via blog a bit with them, as they are friends of my folks, but had not yet met them in person. Knowing they were going to see me, the 3 children brought along this little fellow and asked if I could take him with me to Africa--they were excited about the prospect of seeing him on safari back in his presumably native land. So he is now, as you can see, ready for international travel, and anxious to begin 6 months of hobnobbing with his fellow carnivores, hunting antelope, prowling through grasslands . . . and all other manner of activities befitting such a clearly wild-natured and ferocious fellow. So stay tuned for future photographic adventures :-)

the giver

My brother made me cry. No, he didn’t pull my ponytail, take away my Barbie doll, or call me a sissy . . .
Rather, he gave me a gift. And this gift brought tears to my eyes. Not so much because of the gift itself; more so, it was because of what it made me realize about my brother. Suddenly my baby brother has become a thoughtful, and intentional, young man. Granted, the apparent suddenness of this transformation is probably largely due to my distance from him during his recent adult years, but each encounter with his “grown-up” self catches me off guard all the same.
This particular encounter began with his shopping for the other brother. For the few days prior to Alex’s arrival, Ian had been on a quest for a full-size paint-by-number kit. It took some time to locate what he was looking for but, in his typical laid back way, he would not be daunted by the number of stores that he did not have success with. And finally, he found it. Alex was not expecting this and, truthfully, he wasn’t sure what to make of it when he first opened it. Ian explained that a roommate of his had done one a while back, and that Ian had seen it, been impressed, and thought Alex would enjoy it.
What I see in this instance is Ian’s quiet thoughtfulness. He knows Alex is a dabbler of sorts, always interested in trying something new—from ballroom dance to water polo, from barber shop quartet to poetry writing, my high school math teaching brother is always up for a new challenge. Painting is one area in which he has not yet had any experience, and it is a difficult one to jump into for someone who doesn’t necessarily have a great amount of patience with what may seem at first like failure. But he will be thrilled to be able to hang a piece of his own artwork on the wall of his new apartment, and paint-by-number will be an easy initiation into an otherwise possibly inaccessible art, relatively speaking. And Ian knew that. So he set his sights on the perfect gift and drove the hour-long trek to get to the store that carried it.
As for my gift . . . I opened the small package to find a uniquely formed blue and gold cream pitcher. I held it up admiring it and thinking about how I didn’t actually own one, and how it matches the set of dinnerware that I use daily at my place. As I did, Ian explained, with a laughing apology, that he had bought that for me back when he went to South Africa and had forgotten to give it to me till now. Then I saw that there was something inside the pitcher; he had placed a neat roll of bills that I realized amounted to a significant chunk of change. He had decided to contribute to the purchase of my first personal computer, and had done so in a very generous manner. That is when I cried, being overwhelmed by his kindness, utterly impressed by his maturity, and humbled by my own tendency to worry. I so quickly lose trust in God’s goodness, and in His provision, and sometimes He catches me off guard by using those closest to me to teach me [again!] that lesson.

house rules

Knowing to expect a zoo of a household is one thing. Adjusting to the reality of it is another. The zoo I am referring to is that of my home—or at least the home of my mother that is, by nature of it being hers, mine as well. Obviously, this is not the home I grew up in—when she married, Mom moved to New Hampshire with my stepfather. But it being my mother’s home, it is now endowed with all the qualities that made our home what it was when I was a child as well . . . cats and dogs abounding, clutter reigning, and happy insanity all around.
My own tendency is towards a decidedly more calm environment . . . if I am honest, I should probably admit to being a neat freak, in what I hope is a laid back sort of way ☺ It is something I think about more often when here at Mom’s place, understandably.
At any rate, what I was going to write about was my initiation into the nature of home as it is here. I arrived late Wednesday night, and my brother picked me up at the airport for our long drive out into the “sticks” where home is now. I went straight to bed that night, sleeping in the neighbor’s guest room, thanks to a shortage of beds here. So when I woke up in the morning, Mom had left for work already and the rest of the house was asleep still. As a quiet-morning person, this was fine with me. I started the coffee, cleared a spot at the table, and opened a book for some morning breakfast table reading.
As soon as I sat down with my coffee and cereal, I felt a jolt behind me. Leaning back in my chair, I discovered that Poldi [a very cat-like cat, with a long history at this house and, previously, at my sister’s] had joined me in my chair. I absentmindedly nudged him down and returned to my breakfast. A moment later, a motion drew my eyes up to the table in front of me, where I saw that Poldi was now on the table, walking towards me. Daring to presume he should not be on the dining room table, I then ordered him “Down!” with a wave of my hand. He promptly turned on his heel and jumped down . . . or rather, he made a motion as to appear that he was jumping. Instead, he paused when on his haunches and stealthily peered back towards me. I didn’t realize this until I looked up again, and realized he was still there. This time I stood and lightly smacked him, assuring that he completed the move. And I returned, again, to my breakfast . . . another motion in the corner of my eye . . . This time Poldi had quietly made his way up on the opposite corner of the table, where piles of papers and knickknacks nearly kept him from being visible. Not near enough, however. I still enforced my own rule that time, but I also was rather amused at his almost-successful enforcement of his rules in this pet-ruled abode.

all in a name

It was a perfectly legitimate, usual sort of news program, accompanying my usual afternoon commute. But I'm afraid that I lost all serious concentration as soon as the NPR commentator had introduced the scientific expert by name. From that point on I giggled girlishly, repeating his name out loud for my own listening pleasure as the poor man unknowingly continued the report on his research findings . . . Mr. Lambkin Butts will hold an unsought special slot in my mental archives from this point on :-)

where's the manual?

The other two children and I were debating the finer aesthetic points of Mr. Potato Head’s features when I heard a “Hey!” from down the hall. Then, after a moment, a louder and considerably more insistent, “Hey!” Assuming myself to be the likely intended audience I handed Trevor the red, oblong nose and yellow-rimmed spectacles and headed in the direction of the voice.
There on the loo sat an increasingly impatient little one who, when I looked at him questioningly for a moment, ordered [with some measure of annoyance at my slow heeding of the call], “Wipe my bottom!”
So I dutifully went to obey my orders and he duly bent over to assist in the operation. It was then that I realized the last time I was in charge of bottom-wiping was quite some time ago, and it was for a little girl. I was, in short, feeling a bit rusty in my bottom-wiping skills. But I did it and then asked if that was ok, not expecting a reply. He did, however, reply, to inform me that it was not, in fact, good enough. I tried again. Still not done correctly. And again. Finally I informed him that it was enough, and I had him hop up, pull-up, and re-zip.
But I suppose I must humbly admit that I am a failure at bottom-wiping . . .

on this day

Faithful blog readers may remember this post, as it's that time of year again . . .

I remember, this day--November 30--in 1988. On this day, I awoke excited--no, more than that--I was ecstatic. I was running through lines of the Christmas program in my head, eagerly rehearsing for the program that night. You see, tonight we were performing for our families, for my family. They were on their way by this time, I knew, beginning the drive early that morning that would bring them along many lonely dirt roads, winding through villages and across open plains, to arrive here.
It had been 3 months now since I last saw them, when I boarded the little Cessna on the grass strip of our village, clutching my stuffed bear in one arm and holding my sister's hand with the other. We stood there waving goodbye one last time on the boarding stairs, and then waved again out the window as we sped along the airstrip and lifted off into the air. I loved that moment of lifting off in the airplane--and have ever since--the exciting rush of becoming airborne and soaring faster and faster through the air.
That day, however, my excitement of the beginning was tinged with the sadness of knowing I would be away from my family for many nights now. The days were always full of learning, fun adventures in the bush with friends and with various creatures to be discovered and trees to be climbed. The nights were the hard part, though, when I fought the tears that often came in spite of my fierce will, silently dampening my pillow while I stifled the shortened breaths that may give away my tears to the classmates sleeping near me in rows of bunk beds.
The 3 months since that last flight had passed quickly--3 months of good books read, math problems solved, geography discovered, play weddings acted out in free time, and all manner of grade 4 activities. I had also turned 9 the previous month, and knew my family would now celebrate my birthday and my brother's 4th birthday 3 days earlier, as soon as we made it back home. While on a shopping trip in South Africa, my Dad had acquired our first car, so the decided to make the road trip instead of Helen and I flying home as we had always done before. So, I knew they were loaded up in the Isuzu, along with 2 village friends--a teenage student of my Dad's and the Zambian pastor he worked with in our Church.
So that afternoon, after various activities designed to keep all us boarding students preoccupied so we wouldn't be bouncing off the walls with the excitement of our families' arrivals, we all filed out the drive-up area to await the first arrivals. I had in my mind the perfect picture of what to expect, so as each vehicle arrived, I craned my neck to see my mom's long arm waving out the window and Alex's goofy grin peering out from her lap. But the cars came, parents claimed their clamoring kids, and my picture-perfect arrival still had not appeared. Finally, a lady I recognized as the mom of some friends who lived fairly near us went over to our Dorm Mother and said something to her, gesturing in our direction. She then came and told us to go ahead and get ready for the program--not to keep waiting for our parents there.
I was disappointed, but assumed they would arrive at any moment, so just kept waiting as we practiced our songs. My mental image just altered itself to adjust to a late clamor of hugs and kisses rushed in before the program started . . . but the program came, began, and ended, and they had not arrived. The next morning we were taken to the Cessna, and told we were going to go back to the village by flight after all. This time I imagined the whole family standing there on the airstrip, coming into focus as the plane landed, with eager smiles and waves--still, no. The parents of a classmate took us in their car instead--so of course I changed my expectation once more, this time thinking they were taking us to our house where the family would be, picture-perfect, waiting in front of our little home.
Instead we arrived at their house. Auntie Elaine (according to British habit, all family friends were "Auntie" and "Uncle" to us kids) finished up dinner preparations while we helped set the table. And then, instead of sitting down to dinner, she asked Helen and I to come and sit with her on the couch--"Anna, Helen--I have some really sad news . . . your Daddy went to heaven . . . " Before the sentence was finished, I had burst into loud sobs, Helen looked at me and started crying, and Auntie Elaine and her daughter were both crying and hugging us.
I don't remember any mention of the rest of the family at that point--nor did I wonder, as far as I can remember. The rest of the day, of the week, of the month, passed in a sort of a fog, in which my memories are clear but displaced, as if each memory was plucked from its proper place in the continuum of time and placed instead in some never never land of homeless moments.
I remember falling asleep with fitful dreams, waking up convinced I had dreamed reality, and that Daddy would walk in and comfort me any moment. I remember being reunited with my brothers, staring at Alex's discolored and misshapen head, and carting Ian around carefully in his body cast, propping him up against walls . . . supporting him and holding his modesty blanket over his midsection as he pinned the tail on the donkey at his belated birthday party. I remember visiting Mom there in the Zambian hospital, horrified at the sight of my strong, active, beautiful mother lying there on the stretcher bed unable to move herself. At one point during a visit, the nurse had to turn her over so that she wouldn't get a bed sore. As she did so, she let go of the sheet and mom was briefly exposed to us all in the room. I didn't know whether to blush, sob, or scream--I wanted to just run away, to disappear forever into the endless, dreadfully beautiful African wilderness. I hated seeing mom like that, and dreaded the visits . . . and I hated myself for feeling that way, thinking there must be something wrong with me if I didn't want to see my mother . . .
Somehow, time passed. My Daddy's funeral passed in a blur of friends, strangers, languages I didn't know, and wails I knew only too well. As soon as mom was strong enough to be transported, we were shipped to the U.S., where hospitalization and then physical rehab came for her. I hid in my books--in beautiful worlds of fantasy--to the extent that my grandmother still teases me for always having my "nose stuck in a book" as a child.
And eventually Mom was well enough to take over the care of the 4 of us again. I still don't know for the life of me how she did it--a paraplegic supporting and caring for a home of her own and 4 not-always-angelic children. She did it well . . . she loved us well.
On this day, when we were children, Mom beautifully commemorated the anniversary. She would buy what looked to me like hundreds of helium-filled balloons, bringing them home so that the house was bursting with balloons. Then she tied note cards to the string of each one, and told us to write notes on them--as many as we wanted, and whatever we wanted to say to a stranger. I remember writing things like "Jesus loves me this I know . . ." and "My Daddy died on this day, and he is now in heaven with God, because he loved God. I do too." I wrote silly notes, but meaningful ones, longing, in all my childhood intensity, to somehow tell the world that I had a great Daddy, and that some day I would see him again.
I still catch myself, when I am still enough to listen to the deeper desires of my heart, craving moments of remembrance of my Daddy, and eagerly clasping to memory any tidbits about him that people from his past may be able to share with me. And thankfully, my own mind clamped down firmly on all the memories I had of my times with him, out of a personal need for them and, I suspect, out of a nagging suspicion that someday, somehow, there would be a greater use for, outlet for, it all.

and now, for some utterly mindless fluff . . .

honorable mention . . .

Not sure how noteworthy--if at all--this is, but I was just congratulated for the award of Honorable Mention at this writer's website:
http://www.storyhouse.org

the red lantern

When in decorating or furniture rearranging mode, I tend to climb on anything that looks reasonably likely to hold me. This morning I had a gift from China--a lantern presented by some Chinese guest speakers--and found the perfect spot to hang it. The only downside was that this perfect spot required getting to the high school ceiling in order to do so. So I crawled up the library bookshelves and thankfully found them sturdy enough for me to perch long enough to jimmy a hook out of a paperclip in order to . . . raise the red lantern?
Spying an unexpected motion out of the corner of her eye as she passed the library, one of the teachers came in and stared for a moment before making some sort of a comment about how it is not every day that one gets to witness a levitating librarian. And then using the only camera available--a cell phone--she snapped this shot, as visual proof, I suppose . . .

levitating librarian 

approved

Yesterday an envelope arrived in my mailbox with a return address that made me hesitate to open it: The Embassy of the Republic of Zambia . . .
Once I had gathered my courage, I was immensely relieved to find an “Approved” stamp—my passport had been returned to me with an official Visa stamped within. On a significantly more frivolous note, I am also enjoying Zambia’s intricately lovely official emblem . . . getting closer :-)

casting my vote

I sort of hesitate to write this, feeling a bit self-conscience about my bundle-of-contradictions-self, but . . .
I love to vote.
I get annoyed by voting coverage, I despise campaign ads, I hang up on solicitation phone calls, I turn off NPR’s coverage when normally tuning in as an NPR addict . . .
But before the polls opened this morning, I was there. I was eager as I confidently filled in the bubbles on my ballot, thrilled to be standing in line with my district neighbors, flashing my voter registration card, signing my name . . . and casting my vote. Is it odd for someone as relatively abnormally-citizened as I am to be so passionate about a normally-patriotic citizen duty?

running, & re-running, in the rain

This update went out via email to some of you blog-readers, along with a visual aid . . .
We returned from the last Cross Country race in the pouring rain, each girl emerging soaked to the bone and quite bespeckled with mud splatters and smears. But what I am most proud about is the fact that not only did all finish, but all finished with at least a minute of a faster time than her best race so far. I teased them as they moaned about the rain pre-race, saying that the rain would make them run faster. One new recruit, still naive about my occasional propensity for sarcasm, looked at me curiously and asked "Why's that, Coach?" So I did not hesitate, post-race, to grin at her and say, "See? I told you rain makes you run faster!"

blessings and benedictions

So today I met with the headmaster, to tell him about the strange new opportunity on my horizon. I trembled with fear of the unknown as I broached the subject, knowing that I could not go through with this unless he not only said it was ok to leave, but that I could see that he really meant that it was ok.
As I began to explain the background and current situation he stopped and got up to shut the door [his office door is usually left open]. He got tears in his eyes, and then proceeded to tell me several instances lately in which he had been especially thankful for my work there. He said that I would be an asset as long as I chose to stay at the school. And then he spoke of how clearly God speaks to us through our lives at times . . . and he told me that I had his blessing if I went ahead with this plan.
I guess that pretty much clenched it for me: I spent much of the day on the verge of happy, decided tears: sad at the prospect of leaving but increasingly confident that I must follow this "unknown" path before me.
Incidentally, I also spoke today with the man who trained me in my first library job. He was preparing for a 2-year mission abroad, and I was blessed to benefit from his tutelage before he left . . . And now he and his wife are back in the U.S. trying to figure out where to devote their work energies. For this semester he is teaching 2 classes at the school . . . and he said he would seriously consider taking over the library if I were to do this. I would end up [sheepishly] training him in the ways of my library, if so . . . Strange to realize that this would bring us full circle, in a sense--in a bizarre, God's-sense-of-humor sort of way :-)

pursued by a dream

Africa has been pursuing me for as long as I can remember, but with a bit greater intensity for the past several years. I have not known if it is processing, writing, analyzing that is required or if it is a nudging towards something more active in nature. I have wondered if missions is in store, with a background that should presumably leave me prepared for it. But I always dismiss it as impractical for now-- But then again, I am wondering, perhaps my single, as-of-yet un-settled status makes it time to think about it after all. After spending time in France, China, Peru, Jamaica, Mexico, and other countries, my past several years of work as a teacher, writer, and school librarian have left me content and yet with a nudging in my heart towards overseas work that never quite leaves. I used to push it aside thinking that it would be more suited to once I was married. Now, however, in my late 20's, I am realizing that it is a cop-out to push God's voice to the background out of some sort of a fear of living an independently fruitful life . . .

So I wrote a few weeks ago. And tonight I am asking myself what I have gotten myself into . . . So what do I do when a dream is within reach and I, only I, can answer the question of whether or not I should take hold of that dream? Africa has been pursuing me . . . and this past week it caught up with me. Do I leave everything in my life at the moment in order to fill an immediate need for a teacher in Zambia? Because the need is there does it mean that I am the one who is meant to fill it? Is it right to change current commitments in order to answer an apparently more pressing need? So many questions . . . and so little time left now to answer them . . .

today is . . .

According to a story on NPR, October 5 is the most common birthday in the world. Strange to me, as I do not know that many people with this birthday. So when the most common day of birth combines with the least common personality type [according to Myers Briggs], you get . . . ?? ;-)

natural causes

Tragedy has struck in the hills. But after extensive investigation city officials have concluded that the victim died of “natural causes and was not the victim of a dog or coyote attack as originally feared.” All the same, protective measures are now being taken to prevent harm being done to the others . . . guard donkeys, it seems, are the solutions. These are no ordinary donkeys; these ones “know how to deal with dogs or coyotes with a strong kick” So the newspaper reported this week. We mourn the loss of one of our appetite-endowed goats. But we have emerged wiser and more prepared for potential attacks in the future . . . and there will be a replacement goat, our goat farmer assures us, so that we can continue fully-forced in the battle against kudzu.

all dogs go to heaven

My neighbors lost their puppy this weekend—he swallowed something that lodged itself firmly in his intestines and a trip to the vet for emergency surgery was unsuccessful in saving him. That afternoon the 2 girls—3 and 7—had come to the market with me while Six [named for the six-shaped spot around his eye] was at the vet. Two events in particular made me realize how much they were grieving. First, a visit to the balloon man led to a prompt request for a puppy from the 7-year-old. When he asked what color she wanted, the myriad of choices displayed were not even glanced at; she knew it had to be white. And of course, white was the color of the puppy. Shortly thereafter, the younger of the two had abandoned her one-eyed frog [he did begin his life with 2 eyes but had sadly already popped one of them]. She then had persistently pleaded until sister agreed to loan out the puppy. She promptly resumed the same game that had led to the casualty of froggy’s eye—tossing the balloon into the air and letting it fall onto the concrete floor. Predictably, the balloon lost its life soon thereafter. What surprised me at this point was that, rather than an angry reaction from big sister, there was first a violent bursting-into-tears by the younger. I cannot help but assume that somewhere in her 3-year-old heart, a sensitivity to the whole family’s concern over their puppy caused her to react as if that popping of the puppy balloon was a bit too close to possible reality at the time.
And then, unfortunately, that “possible” became reality . . .
This evening I got a phone call from their mother thanking me for the card I had made for the girls. She said I should go into the Pet-Sympathies card business, as the poem I wrote about Six made the older of the 2 girls cry. Not sure if I should take this as a compliment or not, she then assured me that they were good tears, and that she had loved the poem. I can’t remember exactly what it was that I wrote now, but I am glad it was appreciated, as I did actually agonize over it a fair bit, in an effort to speak on an understandable level for the girls without talking down at all, or making the grieving process worse. It is a greater honor to speak to the heart of this little one than it would have been to move a room-full of grown-ups to tears . . .

to run the race

To those of you DBCS Cross-Country Fan Club members . . . if you will permit me a few moments of bragging, I must say that this was a huge victory for us, especially for the women's team. This time all my girls finished the race. Which may not seem like such a huge deal but for us, it was. You see, my asthma-plagued runner has not yet completed a course--she has difficulty running on her own and so, once her asthma gets to her, she gives up if I am not there to coax her along. So before this race I gave pep talks over and over . . . and over again, that they all could finish--they just had to remind themselves that they could. If they had to take walking breaks, so be it--but just keep going again. Walk, then run again. Just don't give up altogether--keep trying!
Well by God's mercy, they did . . .at the very end the other coaches were beginning to take down the finish line and gather the time sheets when I ran to stop them: "Wait! I still have a runner out there!" Then I turned back around towards the course and threw my arms up at the sight of my beautiful runner, solitary but steady, persistently nearing the finish . . . "KAT!!!" I beamed at her and shouted a few hoarse cheers as she finished. As she finished. Yes, it was a victorious evening, and the ride back that night was a happy one--a tired, sweaty, somewhat smelly, and contented homecoming :-)

i spy

I saw them with my own two 20/10-vision eyes today . . . I saw the goats. A patch of black amidst the green caught my eye as I passed and, looking twice, I laughed heartily at my own luck. There they were, those famed goats, contentedly munching away and surrounded by tellingly sparse patches on the kudzu-covered ridge. One black, one white, several multi-colored . . . sure enough, the slow goats were indeed at work.

small tokens

It seems one of my runners has a propensity for sports bra stories . . . Updating me on her weekend run today, she told me her discovery. It was actually a timely revelation, as our conversation was centering at the time around the, um, convenience [?] of the bra as an in-a-pinch sort of impromptu storage facility. At any rate, she was on her run in the ritzy “Legends” neighborhood when she spied a shiny coin on the road. When she saw that it was a quarter, she was so excited that she exclaimed something to the effect of, “Oh wow—it’s a Legends quarter!!” And she just had to have that "Legends quarter" . . . So she quickly snatched it up and popped it, without a second thought, into her sports bra—as we all know, bras being the perfect makeshift pocket. She promptly gasped and stifled a cry upon the rudely shocking discovery that this lovely little legends token was also quite sun-soaked and, consequently, painfully hot to the touch. And now we know: what glitters may be gold but its acquisition may not always be pleasant--or painless :-)

goats at work

My morning run the other day brought me to an unfamiliar sight on a familiar road. Newly adorning the neighborhood street were 2 large back to back signs declaring SLOW GOATS WORKING. What kind of a joke is that? I wondered, laughing as I passed. And how did someone ever come up with such an idea—and get away with it??
By the end of the day, however, I had forgotten all about it . . . until yesterday.
After school yesterday, we caravanned both the women’s and men’s teams to my neighborhood. Our plan was to hold practice there, for a change of scenery [running routes around the school leave much to be desired]. It was also a practicality, as after practice we had a beginning of the season ice cream party with the parents, there at my house.
The girls are understandably self-conscious about running near the guys, so I took them in a markedly different direction. Returning, in the loudly sweaty fashion high school runners are inclined towards, the guys were talking about “the goats.”
“Goats?,” I asked—“you mean the signs?”
“No—the real ones. And the news cameras filming them. Up there,” he said, gesturing up the hill.
Turns out there really are goats “at work” in my neighborhood.
Today’s paper included an article about the pioneer project beginning this year—starting this year and continuing for 2 more, goats have been commissioned to tackle the kudzu overgrowth. A local goat farmer’s team of 30 goats are now employees of the city, eating away the kudzu. Theoretically, after 3 years of clear-cutting-by-goat, the kudzu will be permanently damaged and unable to grow back the next year.
Who would have thought? . . never underestimate the power of a goat and its appetite!

just a dream

It was only a dream. Only . . . except that it was heartbreakingly real. Except that I awoke with an exquisite ache lingering throughout my too-tangible being. I was left only with snippets of dream-moments . . . and a painful longing to return to the dream. There is no whole to it, as far as memories go, just bits and pieces. But what I do remember is a soaringly beautiful saga-like story. And so, upon remembering the dream since and being unable to grasp ahold of it once again, I cry with the ache of it. I even put a notebook beside my bed the next night and concentrated on the remaining memories of it right before falling asleep, in hopes that I could re-dream it somehow and be ready to write it down before rising in the morning.
I wonder what made this one so striking. In the past I used to dream often, and with great detail and depth. I would write them down and spend countless hours analyzing them, wondering about them. But I do not dream any more. Or at least I do not remember the dreams. Perhaps this is what touched me so--the loss of past dreamlives. Something in the recent several years of working, stressing, and generally attempting to live a responsible "adult" life has also stealthily stolen my ability to dream.
But maybe I have taken ahold of dreams again, in some subconscious awakening. Although I have not been successful in re-dreaming that one, so lovely dream, I have been dreaming since, for several nights in a row now. There is hope, I suppose, for even the most dream-deprived among us.

quote of the day

Mmmm . . . I love the smell of rich neighborhoods
--from one of my runners shortly after we started out this afternoon, on our first run in a nearby gated community of depressingly [to me, at least] cookie-cutter homes.
Initially, I just laughed at the amusing absurdity of the statement. Since then, however, I've been pondering it and wondering if there may be some disturbing deeper significance behind the words . . . then again, perhaps it's just par for the course when it comes to random comments from prep school teenage girls??

hell hath no fury . . .

We have taken to telling stories as we run. At first it was an unconscious action on my part, as I used our run to relay tales of the day that for whatever reason had come to my mind at the time. When I realized it was becoming a habit, however, I became intentional about it, as it seemed to be an appropriate way to both bond as a team and to engage them in a way that distracts from the physical woes of exhaustion, heat, aches, and pains. So now I hint about the stories of the day before we begin and then tell full, drawn-out tales as we run—I also invite each girl to tell her own that may come to mind.
Yesterday one of my runners admitted that she had a story to tell. Rethinking by the time we started practice, she said that no, actually she was too embarrassed to tell everyone. Further into the run her asthma forced her to take a walking break, at which point I stopped to check on and then walk with her. Curious, I mentioned her story again and she said that she just didn’t want her peers to know—yet. She suspected that it would get around soon enough . . .
Turns out she had lost her patience with one of her peers that day in gym class. They were playing ball and she had grown uncharacteristically impatient in the heat of the competitive moment. After a series of affronts, he got on her last nerve and she [having never before done such a thing], without thinking, just reached over and relieved him of his shorts. It shocked her, I think, more than anyone else, at the time. A moment of confusion passed before he shouted a threat of telling the headmaster.
So here she was, at the end of the day, fearing the moment in which she would be summoned to the principal’s office. Clearly shocked at herself, she assured me that she didn’t mean to do it, and that she had never been disobedient. And now she worried that her “spotless” high school record would be ruined forever . . .I laughed, and assured her that I did not think she had anything to worry about. In fact, I suspected that the headmaster would also be a bit amused by it. There may need to be some sort of disciplinary action taken, for appearances sake, but I really did not think she had to worry about her future. What I did not tell her is that I am secretly rather proud of my girl’s gutsy spontaneity :-)

the best of intentions

I have now officially entered into the adventure of coaching a start-up Cross Country team and, one week into it, I am already growing proud of, and attached to, my girls. It would be wise, however, to let go of any aspirations I may have had towards championship trophies [ok, so maybe I never have actually had any of those :-)]. The following tale ought to demonstrate this necessity pretty effectively . . .
On our first practice together this week, I began our run together asking if they had done their “homework,” as I had called each of them a week earlier and asked them to begin easing into running before we met together. One of the girls promptly responded that she had “almost” done it.
“Almost? What does that mean?,” I queried.
“Well I got ready to go out, and put on the running shoes I had just got since you said to get some. Then I was trying to decide what else to wear and I looked in the mirror. And I noticed that I looked pretty good in my sports bra. So I walked around in my sports bra for a while, feeling proud of myself for heading out to run. Then I realized I was hungry so I ate some potato chips instead . . . I really did mean to run,” she repeated.
And you know, I believe she did intend to. My private amusement did not stop me from sternly pushing them in practice that day though, like I imagine a good winning coach should :-)

survey says [take 2]

The end of Session #2 [all boys] of Creative Pages led me to, once again, request anonymous feedback from my students. And, once again, the results provided some happy amusement . . . :

1. What did you like best about “Creative Pages.”
2. What did you like least, or what would you change about it?

1. The story.
2. Having it outside. [sure enough, soaring heat indexes had already forced us indoors halfway through the session]

1. Painting the book. 2. Nothing.

1. The different art forms we got to try out.
2. Nothing. Nothing at all. [In my head I imagine this response in a proper young British accent :-)]

story telling--the first time for my first children's story :-)

pink and green plaid

So here’s the story behind the boots . . .
Yesterday UPS arrived on my porch with a large box. I was confused, not expecting anything, and even more intrigued when I saw that it had come from Northern California, from the mother of the bride from my “Just another wedding day” blog entry [January]. Inside I was delighted to discover the now famous boots I wore to trudge through the mud on our rain-soaked wedding promenade. In a sweet letter she explained to me that my story had made them famous amongst her friends, and that she had meant for some time now to send them to “their rightful owner.” Also included in the package were photos of Batman, Kiwi, and Mahina—the newest additions to the family. Any guesses as to the nature of these children, befitting the blog story? They are, according to Sarah’s descriptions in the letter, befittingly mischievous goat-kin :-)

calling any faithful blog readers . . .

If someone can tell me to which blog entry the photo visual aid below rightfully belongs, I'll tell you the story behind the picture :-)

what came in the mail today

with a cherry on top

My boss is awfully persuasive it seems [is that an oxymoron? ;-) ] . . .
After initially turning down his request back in the Spring, today I re-thought and gave him a final, reconsidered "yes." Granted, I suppose it could have been the student's request I was agreeing to more so than his. What it was that I agreed to was starting up, and coaching, a girl's Cross Country team. There is a small Cross Country team at the moment--has been for 2 years now--but it is only for boys as there has been no female coach.
My reasoning in not doing it was that I felt unqualified, having no coaching experience beyond my experience running on the team myself and running on my own ever since. Besides, the prospect of starting the team from scratch just seemed terribly daunting.
But this morning one of the high schoolers came to my desk in the library [after the headmaster had just asked me to think about it again], and she asked if it was true that I was going to start a team up this fall. I told her that it was true that I was thinking about it, but that I wasn't sure if I was up to it and explained why. Looking at me with a convincingly pleading expression, she assured me that there were only a few girls, that they would be "easy" to coach, and that she really wanted the chance to run . . .
And how could I possibly turn her down at that point?
Hearing me laugh as he walked by the library, the headmaster poked his head in and innocently asked what she had come to see me about, what she had said?
Laughing again, I replied that she had said "Please" :-)

lifestyles of the rich and . . . artistic?

An evening spent experimenting with oil paintings has just convinced me that I am not a true artist [visual, at least]. I think that a real painter would have been satisfied with the process as an accomplishment in itself. I, however, was not able to create the image I had in my head and consequently ended up feeling as if I had wasted my time. Hopefully more experimentation would lead to greater success in the medium, but my conclusion [about my artistic inclinations] remains the same. And unfortunately I doubt I will have many other chances to experiment like I have at the moment--this is simply due to a house-sitting stint in a lovely home that is equipped with an art studio. Like I said, not many occasions like this in my daily life :-) I'm afraid my own young art students do not have a teacher well-funded enough to provide them with such materials . . . so far they seem to be content with their watercolors, acrylics, charcoal, and ink, thankfully!

special specters

I was given an unusual gift this week. While I was on my way home in the afternoon my neighbor called to warn me about a possibly easy-to-miss item in my mailbox. She explained that her 3-year-old had been hard at work on a project that she absolutely forbid her mother to see. All her mother was allowed to know was that it was for me. She then carefully wrapped it in tissue paper and delivered it to my mailbox--insisting on riding her bike for the great 20 yard trek between their house and mine. During the phone conversation, my neighbor explained that she was a bit concerned that the package may have been carried off by the postman, as it probably would have had to be closely looked for in the mail box. I echoed her concern, intrigued by the prospect of such a surprise and hoping to actually get it. Thankfully the package survived the mail delivery that day. Its packaging did not, I'm afraid--I assumed the torn bits of kleenex to be the "tissue" wrapping of the original gift.
So what was the present? Why, a list of spelling words of course--need you ask?! It was a small piece of notebook paper with lists of repeated words: "mother," "sister," "friend," and "love," among others. After a moment it occurred to me that my little neighbor would not actually have been the original scribe of the words--I have worked with her on writing projects enough to be pretty certain of that. A moment later, however, I happily discovered her personal contribution: the result of her reported laboring efforts--on the back of the paper was a small drawing that I instantly recognized as her artwork. Every time she is offered some sort of writing utensil and something to write on, the result is a figure that distinctly resembles a ghost. The dimensions may vary slightly, but the effect is always the same. It does make me curious to see what her artistic inclinations develop into as the years pass.
For now, though, I am quite content to prominently display my new ghost on the fridge :-)

my happy librarian-heart

The sight of my workplace this morning made me cry. Not in the way one might expect, mind you: these were tears of relief, and tears of joy. See, my school was vandalized in the early morning hours. I found out about it via an early morning phone call from my grandparents who had seen it on the news. They called in a panic, on my behalf, telling me that the school had been ransacked and fire extinguishers sprayed throughout.

What you should know at this point is that such action has the very likely potential to completely destroy a library—to completely destroy the work of this past year, in my case. I have spent a year designing and buying furniture, installing technology, buying new books, sorting through donated ones, cataloging, shelving, organizing, re-organizing . . . basically anything I could think of that was needed to turn a room and a library grant into a functioning school library.

What you should also know is that I am prone towards perfectionism at times. As a result, one of my work stresses is that it is difficult for me to find the time to keep it clean. Libraries are surprisingly difficult to keep clean, with the tendency for dust to settle in nooks and crannies, for old books to harbor mites, and for little hands to leave gifts of candy wrappers, pencil marks, and the like. So I notice accumulated dirt and worry about it.
Well this morning’s discovery was two-fold:

1. The library was wonderfully unappealing to would-be vandals. They walking in, picked up a few magazines, threw them on the floor, and left. The priceless collection of knowledge was left untouched.
2. Thanks to the school-wide mess, a cleaning service was hired [not the usual for our small, do-it-yourself school. They cleaned the library. They not only cleaned it—they treated it as carefully as if it were some proud librarian’s child :-) They dusted every nook and cranny, even lifting up magazines and books to dust underneath. I have never seen it sparkle so, or smell to fresh.

So I stared, gasped, touched surfaces . . . and smiled through my teary eyes. Blessings come from the strangest sources. And this morning the message to me was to let go, to not try to do it all, and to sometimes, every once in a while, be ok with just being.

it's all in the kisape

This morning a ransom inspiration proved to be oddly fitting, in a symbolically ironic sort of way. It all began when I started making deliveries to my students, taking the newly-bound version of their completed books to them. Two had just finished their stories, artwork, and cover designs, and so I had planned to use this morning to present them with their fine works of craftsmanship.
Both lived within easy walking distance, so the first delivery was made on foot. By the time I was to make the 2nd, however, I was running low on leisure time and decided to bike rather than walk. Normally when I bike I simply carry whatever I need with me in my purse, as it is [intentionally, for this very purpose] a small backpack-style bag. This book, however, in the bag I had packaged it in, was definitely too large to fit in my backpack.
Brainstorming for a quick way to make the trip, I had an “Aha!” moment and thought “My kisape!”
Here I should probably stop to explain, as only a handful of my readers will be with me still . . . A “kisape” is the all-purpose cloth used by Zambian women [or at least that was the term in the area where we lived: it is called by many different names]. This one is the one we brought back to the U.S. with us, and it is what Mom used to cart the 4 of us around while she worked. It is simply a large rectangle of cotton, normally brightly colored in one of infinitely many beautiful prints. The Zambian women also use their kisapes for head cushions [under a load of firewood, for instance], wrapped clothing, and all manner of other practical uses.
This morning, however, I used it draped over the book, under one arm and over the other, the way Zambian children are carried. So, in essence, I thought as I biked, I am carting this book as if it were a child. And then I realized that my student should certainly be informed of the same, so she would know [as if she did not already] the great value of her creation . . . At least that’s what I reported when I arrived and undid my small bundle in order to make the presentation :-)

survey says

As I have definitely decided to hold Session #2 of “Creative Pages” Camp, I asked my Session #1 students to provide a bit of anonymous feedback as to:
1. What should be changed about Creative Pages for next time?
2. What did you like the best about Creative Pages?

Listed below are some of the responses my students offered me. As you will see, a few did little more productive than merely providing a bit of an ego boost :-). All the same, mind you, all gave me seriously helpful/useful things to think about. And we must not neglect the ever-helpful pleasure of a few good laughs. . .

-best. books
-change nothing
-ritinge in ore book [translation “writing in our book.” This was in fact from the disliked part of the survey]
-I think we should do more canvas paintings.
-pating leaves [translation “painting leaves”—a watercolor & leaf project we did one day]
-I did not really care for the homework.
-learn more writing skills

so afraid

It is another day in which I am proud of the creative words of my students. Today, however, it is a floored--and saddened--sort of pride.
Floored by talent.
And saddened by simple honesty.
Below is a quote from a 12 year old, a portion of the poem she wrote for one of the assignments I gave her. As you may guess, she and her family are preparing for an unanticipated move to another state.

"Moving"

Moving, Moving . . .

I don't want to move

I want to stay where

I am . . .

Upset

Moving

. . . so afraid

h is for . . .

I am feeling rather proud, in a teacherly sort of way, after a day of being thoroughly wowed by my youngsters’ imaginatively creative output: poems, sketches, stories, watercolor, prose, pastels . . . no art form or media seems to intimidate them. It makes me wonder if I could have ever been so bold as to unconscientiously consult my own muses when I was only 11, 9, even 6 years old; I highly doubt it, as my memories of those years are those of a timid youngster, stilted in my creativity by a lack of encouragement in the arts. For that matter, I do not recall even learning there was such a talent as that of creativity until well into my teen years—rather, it seems that I only knew to think of the arts as a sort of hedonistic pleasure to be indulged in only when there were no other “productive” activities left to be accomplished.
That is part of the reason I suspect I have been so passionate in my attempts to spread the good news of the creative arts among children in my sphere of influence. My deep longing is to teach them that it is a good thing—and a productive thing—to spend time pursuing creative talents . . . and to teach the worthiness of Art as an end in itself rather than solely as a means to an end.
All that to say that, again, I am proud. And as such, here is one of the works of the day, by a 6-year-old budding artist:
The assignment for them was that of a Letter Poem, and below is the poem itself:

“H”
H is for mynam [translation “my name”]
H is for horses
H is for helpforechusr [translation “help for each other”]H is for Holly [as in the green and red variety seen at Christmas time]

with love and paint-splatters

In the mail last week I received a copy of a book recently published by a Doctor, about his almost 40-year career in Zambia. Gazing at the book’s striking cover [blazing orange sunset over unmistakably African plains], the author’s name brought a flood of bittersweet memories. Unaware that the book existed or, for that matter, that any book about my home village had ever been written, I opened it with an uneasy thrill: thrilled to revisit memories of those close to my childhood heart, and uneasy with the fear that it would be in some manner deficient in its portrayal of the home I loved so deeply. Or worse: that it would fall prey to the easy temptation of all outsider perspectives on a native culture—that of devaluing, even in the most unintentional or miniscule manner, the society’s ways of living, of being.
So the other night I set aside my lesson planning, school readings, and ongoing art projects, and read the book: To Africa with love, by Dr. Jim Foulkes. I did not put the book down until I reached the end that night [barring a mid-reading break to take a phone call].
It was no doubt more meaning to me, with my particular interest, than necessarily to your average reader. And the writing itself was not award-winning, at least from my limited experience as a Creative Writing teacher :-)
But the stories that were told—and more importantly the people about whom they were told—were tremendously inspiring. It is humbling to realize how caught up I get in the stresses of daily life here in the U.S. [the minor, fleeting stresses], when daily life for some involves stresses as to . . .
whether that was an innocent fly on little Jacob’s knee earlier . . . or if we should suspect a Tsetse fly and be wary of Jacob’s drowsier-than-usual little eyes . . .
Granted, I try not to downplay any one manner of life stresses as inherently less valid than others: I am fully aware that we are placed in this one life, in this one season of life, by divine providence—“for such a time as this . . .”
It behooves us all, however, to daily remind ourselves of the grander scheme of it all, and of the relatively minor nature of many of the things it is so easy to waste worrying energy on. I, for one, am prone to forget, at any given moment, that when all is said and done no one will care about [to draw from one current scenario in my daily life] the spot of “Dove Gray” paint that mysteriously drifted from Bradley’s paintbrush, over his head, and squarely onto little sister’s new light yellow Pocahontas purse. What will matter, however, is the burst of excitement and artistic achievement that caused Bradley to swing his paintbrush-laden arm into the air to begin with.
This is my reminder to myself, at least, after a day in which I was disappointed in my own ability [or lack thereof] to remain focused on students’ learning processes rather than on interruptions to my day’s to-do list . . .

about that princess

My friend, you suspected correctly--turns out she was not the pink sort: she was delivered to her new bedroom outfitted solely in sapphire and sterling.
In fact, I did not break out the "princess pink" until today, for Acrylic day with my Art Camp students . . . the bottle actually was almost depleted in one day, thanks to my eager student's dashingly pink Walrus on Canvas :-)

the gimp speaks

Every once in a while I inadvertently make a public display of the normally private oddities of my quirky brain. Case in point:
Thanks to an injured foot, I have spent the past several days hobbling about in an increasingly halting manner—“increasingly” because of my stubborn tendency to ignore the injury and continue running on it until I have significantly worsened it. Before a chorus of chastisements comes my way, I should at least clarify, in my own defense, that 8 years of running has left me spoiled by an odd lack of normal runner’s complaints. The worst of my injuries is usually a nagging pain that just goes away on its own.
This particular one, however, is worse. I don’t know how it happened, but the nurse I talked to said it is probably just a sprain but possibly a fracture. An x-ray is necessary to determine that for sure, and I’m not financially ready to spring for that one yet.
And so I hobble.
The point of all that is that, being spoiled like I mentioned, I am beginning to get rather childishly sulky about it. It is decidedly frustrating to not be able to run, and to not be able to stand without pain.
So last night, after hitting my limit of being out and about, my brother and I settled in for a game of Scrabble. At some point in the course of the game I was trying to convince him of something: probably the use of a word that I technically should not have played. He justifiably balked at my plea, at which point I continued more insistently.
Come on, Alex, just this one play . . . I have a good reason for whiny gimpishness at the moment . . .
At that point, eyebrows raised, Alex looked up from his letters. “What did you just say?”
What? . . . just that I needed to display my whiny gimpishness.
Convinced that he had heard me correctly this time, Alex snickered. He then proceeded to roar with laughter, apparently unconcerned with the fact that he was laughing at me, not with me.
And I continue to hold unswervingly to the perfectly normal nature of my descriptive phrase.

the not-so-little princess

She so far wears a golden tiara and silver-white gloves, is looking up at a crescent moon, and has a partially-painted sapphire-blue dress. Decidedly girly, I dare say. I have not yet found a place for the "princess pink" paint, but it does seem like I shall have to do so, does it not??