Second Glance

This is the bamboo fountain that resides in the small Zen garden on campus; usually it might get a passing glance from students rushing to their next class, if they happen to hear the thump and splash the tube makes when it has filled enough to tip and pour the water into the pool.
However, on the day that I took these photographs, something was different: there were flowers floating in the water. White flowers, with one solitary red one in the center, made the little pool inexplicably extraordinary. Whomever had placed them so carefully had left no explanation, so we were all left simply to wonder...and to take a second glance at something often taken for granted. Is it a memorial? A shrine of sorts? A celebration of something? Or just a random act of generosity, bringing a little beauty back into the world, into our everyday lives?
It was interesting to see the reactions of others, as I sat on a bench nearby to eat my lunch. One guy stopped and stood staring for almost five minutes, as if in a trance, meditating, or just plain puzzled. Others walked on by, oblivious, talking with friends or buried in their phones. Many gave the scene a second glance, a few wandering closer to look, to wonder, to smile and move on.
When the extraordinary is unexplained, even if as simple as this, it takes us by surprise. Does it have a purpose? Who knows... but at least it invites us to think, to look again. I think that good art has this same quality.

Gripes and Thanks

"If at first you must complain, count your blessings afterward."

The past week or so has been miserable; the restlessness I described in my last post has been replaced with pain and exhaustion, and there are a number of four-letter words I could use to describe my current physical and emotional state. I sit here now, waiting to become comfortable enough to sleep, and recount some things that came to me as I made my way home from class.
I was contemplating how more and more negative things have been reducing the inventory of positive things in my life, and how the well of peace and happiness is running low and I just need to gripe for awhile and get it over with. However, I wondered at myself, if I am so dependent on circumstances to make me happy, and if I need to use people or things to "self-medicate" to make myself less miserable, what am I really made of? When happiness, health, and peace are stripped away and life is just HARD, what do I go on when there is nothing left but the core of my Self? And so I asked God.... and a few simple reminders came: "....the Lord is my strength, a present help in trouble..." "...greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world..." "....what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and has a purpose for your life even if you don't know what that purpose is yet!" and "...This too shall pass!" And thus I was reminded that this week is Thanksgiving, and one of the best ways to combat the negative is to count the blessings I do have; so, first I must complain a bit, and then I will sweep the Gripes out the door with some Thanks. :-)

Last week my body decided it had had enough of heavy backpacks, bad shoes, hard chairs, long hours at a desk, etc. My back problem became a whole-body problem, as it first put my legs into a constant state of cramp, and then into a state of trembling weakness and spasms, none of which is conducive to walking across a large campus, studying, or sleeping well. As they say, "when it rains it pours," and "misery loves company." I couldn't dance; my new orchids started to die; I got a summons for jury duty in Washington; I got a nasty paper cut on the card from my Grandma; I had a ton of papers to grade and an overwhelming number of tests to study for and papers to write. On top of it all, I had to face the disappointment of a professor over the state of my midterm exam and recent tendency toward tardiness, a dismal state of affairs that I was already ashamed of. It was a painful meeting, where I would have liked to have said "Yes, I understand that I approached this the wrong way, was not sufficiently prepared, and did not meet either of our standards. I got a grade that I have never gotten on a test, so yes I will do the extra credit and will be an exemplary student for the rest of my degree program. Now let me get out of here!" I am used to being an exemplary student in all of my classes, so it is a new experience to have to prioritize which class I will choose to do the best for/focus my energy on. I found that I am the ONLY musicologist-to-be in this school of music, surrounded by a sea of performance majors, and that my musicologist professors expect me to produce work/grades at a much higher level than the rest of the playing field. I understand why, of course, but it is a terrible feeling to doubt myself, to doubt whether I really am capable of making it through a Master's program, to wonder if I can meet their expectations or write as well as I thought I could, and to wonder if I really want to be a professor enough to withstand all the pressures I must go through in the coming weeks and months. I am admittedly a perfectionist, but I can't be perfect all the time, especially when my health fails and I have lost interest in the class I am supposed to be the best in. I am sleep-deprived, in pain, depressed, and to top it off, I have indigestion from the cup of coffee I had before going to my evening class.

Now the Gripes are out, hopefully not a burden for any one person who may read this, but silently collected and carried away by any angels listening in. Now to reverse the negativity by counting blessings, which I hope the angels will remind me of often in the coming days.

The cup of coffee I had, before it made me sick, was the most perfect cup of coffee I have had in a long time. I may have bombed one test, but I did pretty well on a few others, got a big paper revision done and out of the way, and have the next few days to rest and catch up. I may have had a few hard words to swallow from my professors, but at least they are people I respect and want to do my best to please.
Life is hard right now, but it didn't go from hard to harder, more like from "stuck-in-a-rut hard" to "climbing-up-a-cliff-amid-rockslides hard." Last year at this time I was working every holiday as a grocery-store checker, trying to teach young children at the same time, and feeling drained and like I was going nowhere with my abilities. Chronic laryngitis killed my voice, and with it a source of happiness that had kept me going, and the rest of me was out of shape as well. Now, I am struggling with another health problem, but after a relatively long stretch of good health. I have avoided respiratory bugs, gotten into better shape by dancing and stretching regularly, and my voice has returned to what it once was. It is the season for Christmas music, and I get to sing "Noel Nouvelet" and the "Halleluiah Chorus" with a functioning voice. I get to go home for Christmas, for two weeks instead of two days. I have a family to go home to. I have friends to call or write cards to on Thanksgiving.
As for this temporary disability, it is just that, something that I am currently dealing with, will learn to accommodate, and will eventually recuperate from. I have hope of dancing again soon, and I have a kind dance partner who cheers me up and has not abandoned me to go dance with someone else! I am also now better able to empathize with a friend, who has lived with a condition like mine but for her entire life. I think now I know what it feels like to be her, the obstacles she faces in the ordinary things that everyone else takes for granted, like walking up steps, bending over to pick something up, carrying a backpack, or holding oneself upright while feeling like the wind could blow you over. I may have it bad right now, but there are others I know of who are worse off, or whose condition is chronic rather than temporary. Such realizations make me pray better and more often.
Last but not least, I am thankful that here in my blog I have a refuge, a place to let go, and in the process of writing be restored. Here, there are no academic writing requirements, no critics, and the world can be put back into perspective. Next year when I read this post, I'm sure I will have something to be thankful for as I reflect on this part of my journey through grad school. Right now, it serves to remind me that I may not be happy and I may not be physically strong, but God is my strength; the person the world sees when I battle difficult circumstances should not be so different from the one it sees when life is easy and I am enjoying smelling the roses.

Restless Musings

It has come to that time of the term when the excitement has worn off, homework and responsibilities threaten to overwhelm, insomniac nights and weary mornings are a common occurrence, and my mind wanders to thoughts of Christmas vacation.
I am looking forward to a break, and the good things that a visit home will bring: the good company of a faithful old dog, walks to the river, a piano in the living room that I can play whenever I want (or linger to compose, if inspiration hits), the smell of woodsmoke, evergreens, and frosty air, familiar music of the season, Christmas baking and gift-wrapping, holiday traditions, long conversations, quiet moments, and hugs from dear friends and family.
I haven't had a hug for three months, and I probably get a bit grouchier (or weepy) the longer I go without any human contact/affection. I need to find a church soon, and volunteer in the nursery just so I can hold babies and hug little kids who cry for their mothers.; I need them as much or more than they would need me. I miss getting hugs at recess from my young students, who would surround me on my way inside from the music portable; they always knew that, even if we had a disappointing class due to bad behavior or whatever else, I still cared about them and they could always get a good hug out of me. But now they have a new teacher, and I see hundreds of people each day, none of whom I am on hugging terms with. Thank goodness for the girls in my choir, whom I can be a sort of peer mentor to, as well as have that comraderie that one can find in a choir; a choir is family, of sorts.
I have more thoughts, collected over many days, that I need to spill out here; they have been contributing to this restlessness that makes me feel as if I am about to explode with energy that demands I do something, although I'm not exactly sure what. I want to write creatively and descriptively instead of academically, for a change. Part of this restless feeling is due to being forced into sitting-at-a-desk posture for too many hours of the day, when I would rather be active. Several recent events have reminded me how much I miss dancing, and the inner gymnast has also been screaming for release much more often now that I am regaining flexibility and energy. Salsa and Ballroom dancing have helped to channel that energy, but I find myself needing additional ways to release all that is pent up inside. Years of training in precise movement, attention to detail, spatial awareness, expressive gesture, becoming an embodiment of music, and self-discipline don't just go away when you grow up, you still remember how it felt, and there is a haunting sense of loss because you just don't have opportunities to move like that in everyday life. For some people, the past experience becomes just a pleasant memory; for me, it is an engrained part of my identity that only sleeps at times when it is ignored.
This restlessness leads me to sing in stairwells, walk barefoot on the grass, go for walks at night, do split leaps on curbs when no-one is watching, and write blogs in my mind while trying to fall asleep. I turn off music and listen in the silence, get lost in thoughts, and under it all lies this desire to do something. I want to write a book, write music, make some art, capture a moment of beauty or authenticity in a photograph....there is so much that just has to wait for now.
I feel like I am getting ready for something good, besides just going through all the work -which is worthwhile, of course- of getting a degree, but I'm not sure what... Maybe it is just a reawakening, a coming back to life, a rediscovery of possibilities, of finding that the door to the future is open again and I am enjoying going through it.

Leadership

Most of my life, I have gone solo and independent of the mainstream, cultivating my skills and talents for myself and by myself. I was a gymnast, a dancer, a pianist, and homeschooled, then an organist, a choral singer, a teacher and music director. With the exception of choir, these have been largely self-guided pursuits, where I have had to be in charge, in control, and the leader. Add to that the fact that I am a perfectionist and single -which means looking out for myself and taking care of whatever has to be done- I find myself labeled a control-freak and over-achiever (mainly by people who know me well enough to get away with saying so). I didn't always seek to be a leader, I kind-of just ended up that way. When you have standards, you take action to ensure that those standards are reached, but that means ending up in a lonely place where it is hard to find others who are also "unique" enough to put up with you. All this to say, I am used to working and learning by myself, but sometimes it is wearying and I wish I didn't have to be in control, that I could let someone else be in charge.
Well, now I have the opportunity to put this wish into practice, and learn how to follow instead of lead. I am taking a Salsa/Latin dance class, so for the first time in my life, I have to coordinate with someone else who may or may not be as experienced in movement and music as myself, and let him be in control of the situation. It is both a challenge and a relief to not be the leader, and I find myself instead in the position of being an enabler: I do my best to know my own steps so that I am easy for the man to lead, since he has to decide which move we are going to do next. He gets to drive, while I hopefully make the ride enjoyable! Yes, there are fumbles and awkward moments, misinterpreted directions and sweaty hands, but the simple thrill of helping someone else build their confidence as I learn how to make following look beautiful, makes it all worth it. I am learning how to keep my mouth shut more and not expect instant perfection from myself or others, even if my goal is to get as close to perfection as possible! I don't want to be a control freak, so maybe my love of dancing will help to free me from it, at least in one small part of life, no longer solitary.

Field-Guide

A Layman's Field-Guide to Identifying Pipe-Organ Species - a humorous explanation generated during a sleepless night

1. Lesson number one: all organs are not created equal; the one you saw in your grandma's parlour or heard on a gospel choir recording are not the same as the one in Notre Dame.

2. Lesson number two: Any musician knows that it can be difficult to adapt to a different violin, piano, bassoon, etc. than the one they are accustomed to playing. For an organist, there are several species of organ, and each organ has its own touch, feel, and for lack of a better word, competency, often drastically different than what the musician prefers. Harpists particularly will understand the organist's plight, as the instrument is relatively rare, and one must go to the organ in order to practice it (and unlike the harp, it is not portable for concerts). Organists flock to the really good instruments, politely fighting each other for practice time and memory pistons on which to save their configurations of stops. In order to explain what is so different from one organ to the next, it is necessary to outline for you the four general categories, or species, of organ that I have identified, complete with ample metaphors and analogies to illustrate each.
The four categories are as follows: the Noise Machine, the Beast of Burden, the Runner-Up, and the Work of Art.

A. The Noise Machine
If this instrument were a car, it would probably be a golf cart; fun to play with, but it can't really take you very far. Instruments that fit into this category are the kind found in homes (or attics), or the expanded versions found in some churches. Noise Machines are comparable to the button labeled "organ" on a keyboard/synthesizer, and in some cases are inferior even to those. The keyboards are too short to play art music on, as is the pedal board (all four or fives keys of it), and it functions best as a harmonic support for hymns, to play chords on, or to annoy neighbors (or a visiting organist). The Noise Machine has several buttons that are meant to represent stops (some even include rhythm sections!), but they all have a very phony and overdone vibrato that has nothing equally annoying to compare it to in the natural world.

B. The Beast of Burden
To continue with the car analogy, this instrument would be a jalopy, or perhaps a VW Bus. Beasts of Burden are a step up from Noise Machines in that they typically have a few ranks of pipes, two full length keyboards and pedalboard, and one can attempt some art music on them. These organs are commonly found in practice rooms of universities, and some churches have larger scale models that nonetheless function and feel almost the same (with the exception that there may actually be pipes for the bass pedal notes, instead of harmonics approximating the sound). Beasts of Burden do not respond well to the organist's touch, with keys that are the equivalent of running in the sand or a bog, and a key or pipe stop may become stuck at times so that the pipe keeps sounding until you deprive it of wind by turning the bellows off. These instruments try to do what the organist demands, with much bellowing, wheezing, and shrieking like a chorus of donkeys, geese, and alley cats. The benefits of this instrument are that one can sometimes clear the adjoining practice rooms of people, so that there are then fewer musicians to hear the blatantly loud mistakes and profanity directed at the organ. One can also practice fingering and manual changes that are not possible on a piano, although this is sometimes better done with the organ turned off.

C. The Runner-Up
This instrument is comparable to a modest sedan; it is like the athlete who fell just short of the bronze medal, and is the wannabe of the organ world. It is certainly better than a Noise Machine or Beast of Burden, as it is either a quality digital instrument that can fool the listener into thinking it is the real thing, or an instrument with several ranks of pipes and a reasonably stylish facade. These organs handle decently, have a fair selection of stops, and may be found in churches in rural areas or in churches that paid a good sum for an organ, but not enough of a sum to get a Work of Art. An organist will settle for one of these, and may even moderately enjoy it and do less negotiating than with a Beast of Burden. Art music is possible on a Runner-Up, it just may not be quite as brilliant or have the ease of touch of the next category.

D. The Work of Art
This instrument is a Porsche, a Corvette, or perhaps even a Ferrarri (but one usually has to go to Europe for those). A Work of Art commands a room, and its beauty of presence (the arrangement of facade pipes, the wood carving of the case, the way it is situated in the room, and so forth) is matched by its beauty of sound. These organs have three or more manual keyboards and pedalboards that include stops for 16- and often 32-foot pipes. There are rows of stops to choose from, including reed, string, and brass stops in addition to the Principles and Flutes, and usually a few harmonic Mixtures available also. These instruments sparkle with brilliance, and full organ (pulling out all the stops) has a power that one can feel under one's feet and radiating through the air. The touch still varies from instrument to instrument, but they are generally responsive to the organist's wishes, and the development of good technique becomes easier to measure and perfect, creating more of a symbiotic relationship with the keys rather than a tug-of-war. The Work of Art inspires an organist to work hard to be worthy of playing it.

This concludes the field guide. I hope that you have the chance to experience a Work of Art at least once in your lifetime. For goodness sake, at least get a CD from Amazon that lists Bach as a composer and has a picture of the organ on the front! As for me, I battle with Beasts of Burden while I wait for a turn to play the real thing, a Work of Art, in the Organ Hall!

A Beautiful Storm

I think S Oregon, where I grew up, has the best climate I've found so far; it gets hot and dry enough for it to feel like summer, the rain brings back the green and then the clouds move on, the snow falls sparingly enough for one to be excited by it but not imprisoned by it, and the seasons do not overlap each other unreasonably (unlike 9 months of rain in NW WA and 10 months of sun in AZ). I do not mean to offend anyone in WA or AZ, that's just my personal opinion of what feels like home.
However, I have been looking for things to like about living here in AZ, so that it feels less foreign and so that I miss the Northwest less. I like the sunsets, going to school in shorts, freckles instead of paleness, and blue skies surrounding the tops of palm trees. Another thing I found to like, are the thunder storms. On Camano the storms were heavy, gray, depressing things that blow wind and rain for days and make you cold and glum, particularly when the power goes out. Here, the summer storms so far have been evening events that are over and moved on by morning, after dumping some warm rain, blowing some gusts of humid wind, and giving a lightning show. Last night's storm was a bit more violent than the others, but also more exciting.
I went out on the balcony of my apartment to watch the lightning sizzling across the clouds, back and forth from both sides of the patch of sky I could see. The clouds had moved right overhead, and the lightning was almost nonstop, the thunder a continuous rumble punctuated by louder cracks and rolls. The rain created small lakes in the low-lying places, and the wind tossed the branches of trees and made my bamboo wind chime dance. The lightning was a thing of dangerous beauty, branching out clearly and brightly so that I could see the definition of its form, not just the flash of light. Thankfully, it spread horizantally rather than vertically, causing a lot less damage than it could have. The hot air was at last cooled, and I stood barefooted in puddles, just watching the play of light and sound. There also sounded the ominous wail of sirens, a sobering reminder that people do stupid things or just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time during storms like this.
This morning, the sun shines down as usual, down upon the wreckage of battered trees, broken windows, and giant puddles that fill parking lots and make lakes out of lawns.
It was a beautiful storm, and a tangible reminder that we are mortal.
The birds are happy; they wet their feathers and cool their parched throats, wading in the puddles and splashing amongst partially submerged cacti and agave.

Confessions of a rambling introvert

Most everyone has had one of those dreadful foot-in-mouth moments, when you say something with the best of intentions (or perhaps not) but it comes out wrong, or at the wrong time. I seem to excell at a milder but more frequently occuring version of foot-in-mouth, that being Ditz Rambling.
I am an introverted person around those I do not know well, and tend to blush easily when I say something stupid or am embarrassed. Most of my life this meant that I followed the adage "It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."
In college I started speaking up more, when I knew answers to questions and was excited about what I was learning. As a teacher, I learned how to stand in front of a class and pretend that I had thick skin and could not be embarrassed, and I also got better at conversing with strangers when forced to meet new people or work in groups with other teachers. Working as a checker definitely improved my skills at making small talk, when I had to come up with something to talk about with the unfamiliar person standing in front of me while I handled their groceries.
With a multitude of orientations and such last week, I found that although my tongue has been loosened, I am still an introvert. Now that I am back in the kind of academic environment where I fit better, I am excited about meeting new people in my field of study and discovering what makes them interesting. This leads to Ditz Rambling, because when I meet someone interesting I tend to ask lots of questions and spin off of their comments in many directions, either because I am excited to find something in common, or because I am not exactly sure what to say so I just ramble on. I am usually embarassed later, because I realize I may have been talking about myself too much, or trying too hard to prove I have something in common with somebody else, and ended up sounding like a ditz.
For example, at a Fine Arts TA meeting, I found myself seated at a table full of interesting people, with questions and conversations going across the table in several directions at once as we all tried to get an idea of who everyone was, where they came from, what they were studying, what instrument they played, etc. etc. etc. It was exciting but overwhelming, so I think my mouth took over for my mind at several points, and I'm afraid that first impression was a bad representation of myself. I am not a ditz, but when I am nervous I talk too much and end up feeling like a ditz regardless.
The antidote for these regrettable episodes is a good conversation, a welcoming smile, a friendly greeting, or some other chance to slowly uncover who another person really is, and to be genuine and thoughtful in the process of discovering and being discovered. For example, I was present at a small, informal gathering of professors and TAs in a public place, where the conversation flowed freely around the table and I was able to just listen for awhile and absorb what others had to say (and also to determine which people I preferred to listen to), until the time was right when I could add something to the conversation. It was particularly rewarding to hit on a few specific topics of interest with one professor, and the dialogue was one of those really satisfying moments of "releasing butterflies" like I have mentioned in earlier blogs. I hope that this chapter of my social evolution sees the transformation of introverted nervous rambling into more restrained, composed, and confident first encounters with people, so that I have less ditziness to release and more butterflies, a few gems to leave behind to provoke curiosity, and fewer reasons to blush.

Technophilia and Technologitis

Technophilia: Love (bordering on obsession) of technological gadgets.

Technologitis: Symptoms exhibited by a human whose technology has broken, crashed, misplaced data, or otherwise failed to function in the capacity expected. These symptoms may include anxiety, depression, headaches, nausea, insomnia, and /or sudden outbursts of profanity or frustrated ranting. Other symptoms still being documented.

Definitions from April's Unstandardized Dictionary of New English Terms

This week I have experienced both Technophilia (a word recognized by Spellcheck, by the way) and its evil twin, Techologitis.  The gadgets I own tend to not be the latest prototype or new thing to hit the market, and perhaps not as glamorous, but sufficiently modern (i.e. cell phone, laptop). This has served me well in getting better deals and letting the flops flop publicly before I invest in something potentially more trouble than it is worth (cough-cough-Windows Vista-cough).  I have longed for an iPod for awhile however (I am a music specialist, after all), and now the time was finally ripe to indulge in some new technology necessitated by the move and organizational needs of grad school.  Thus, the iPhone (3G) has become a recent acquisition and constant companion of mine, and I am enamored with it.  Finally, I won't lose my to-do lists, be calendar-less when writing down appointments, be lost in the city without a map, or be bored and have no music while studying away from home.   Among other things, I can also keep track of the temperature I am experiencing here (104F) versus my friends in Seattle (69F), check email, surf the web, and see what time it is in London or Seoul, etc. etc. 

 Here at the University technophilia is also quite evident; it is amazing how many class documents and interactions have now moved online to Blackboard, blogs, discussion boards, etc.  As I walk across campus, it seems that anyone who isn't talking with someone in person is on their phone, or texting, or plugged in to music, living in a parallel digital universe. 

  The other day, I finally jumped on the iTunes bandwagon to download some music that I desired, and after doing so (and creating two fantastic ringtones from Dvorak's American String Quartet No.12, might I add) brought my laptop home to sync it with the phone. Since I am currently handicapped by having no wireless internet at home yet, online errands have to be done on-campus. So, full of anticipation for the new music and ringtones I was about to make portable, I wake up the computer and... it crashes.  Screen flickers... Hard drive whirs, but... Nothing.    So, the music is trapped, and I also could not watch my Netflix movies since I have no TV/DVD player. Arrgh...

So now my laptop has been taken to the doctor and I impatiently await its prognosis. To pass some time between events and get my internet fix, I placate myself here at one of the campus computer labs in the company of a shiny new Apple, complete with widescreen, the flattest keyboard I've ever typed on, a platform that can run Mac OS or Windows, more Adobe applications than I've had in one place, and a USB port so well hidden that I have had to look hard to find it!  It is slick like a sports car, but I need and miss MY computer.    

Being cut off from the internet makes me paranoid about what I am missing, what with information being passed around so rapidly that announcements could be made about a class changing rooms or a sudden outbreak of the plague, and I would be in the dark and clueless. It's like the whole world is talking behind your back, or you're wearing earplugs and you can see that people are talking but you can't hear them.  

Time to get a flash drive and practice patience, I guess...

Water Illusions

It is the heat of summer here in the desert: when the wind blows, it is a hot wind that slaps you in the face; when the sun sets, the night is hot darkness; when it rains, it is humid but not cool. Being a transplanted Northerner, I have noticed how water is used artfully in public spaces to create the illusion of coolness. You see, the sun is merciless and heat constant, so the only way to survive is to move quickly from one air-conditioned space to another, or be tricked into thinking you are cooler than you are. One cannot help but be outside sometimes, so fountains are placed strategically to give sweaty pedestrians hope that relief from heat can be found. These fountains are a welcome sight, but also terribly cruel. The water splashes and pools, inevitably into a shallow space where you may be able to reach out and touch it, but no swimming! The sound beckons you, spinning an illusion that here at last is coolness, but seeing the water reminds you that you cannot possess it and are destined to leave it as hot as before. The water, upon closer inspection, is most likely quite warm and not very clean. So, you shun the fountain and seek out a swimming pool. Alas, the swimming pool has been soaking up direct sunlight all day, and is warm as bathwater. Some relief is obtained by getting out of the pool and having the water evaporate off of you, and walking around thereafter in a wet swimsuit with water dripping out of your hair. Nothing more can be done, except to stick your head in the freezer while grabbing ice-cream. I wonder when it will be that the pool is actually 70 degrees, and I can sit contentedly by the fountain without it taunting and teasing. November? I’ll let you know…

People Containers

I am back in a city again, and nowhere am I more aware of it than at home. My home for the next two years is an apartment, which means that there are people above me, people below me, and people around me on all sides. This makes for ample people-watching opportunities, but it also requires an adjustment from the space I had before. When I come home, it is for me a retreat away from the world, a space that is comfortable and hopefully peaceful enough to recharge me for my next encounters with humankind. Here, that world is waiting right outside my door, walking by my window at all hours, and often generating noise that keeps me awake at night. Still, my little space here is decent, and I am working to make it my own.
This apartment complex is nicer than many, in that it has trees and grass (sustained by the sprinklers I hear at 11:00 pm), faces inward rather than out to the street, and there are decent people managing everything. However, when I drive in and out of the parking lots or walk the rat maze between units (which all look pretty much alike), I can’t help but notice that these are nothing but glorified People Containers, designed to stack and fit as much humanity as possible into a corner of the city. These Containers are like bus stops, where people wait or come and go as they try to make a living, maybe stuck for awhile or passing some time in an interim stage of life, some staying much longer, either content with Container living or else dreaming of something better someday. Here we rest our heads after doing our daily living and work, making the space our own with our possessions, voices, cooking, and people flowing in and out. Yes, my apartment is home base, but most of my living will be done beyond its walls. The University is a city unto itself, full of paths to tread, spots to discover, and the energizing dynamics of intellects being fired up and set loose on the world. When surrounded by the possibilities and opportunities of education, a Mind can be free of the Container because the world is open beyond it, and there promises to be a way out.

Packrat Penance

I realize now that I have suffered from “Just-in-case” syndrome, as well as Time-Induced Pack-Rat syndrome. Over the years, I have saved various things just in case I need them, some because of sentimental value, and the majority because I haven’t had the time or inclination to sort through it all and cull a major percentage. Well, these bad habits have caught up with me and now I am paying the price for being a pack-rat. It feels rather like paying penance, or going into rehab, as I go through so much old stuff and random pieces of my life that I will most certainly be cured by the end of the exercise.
It is amazing how much junk (swear-word diluted) has been hidden in the corners and dark places of this little house. I have found not only boxes of textbooks, notebooks, memorabilia, and unnecessary stuff from college, but things that found their way here when my parents visited –bringing with them childhood articles of mine that they had cleaned out of their house. After a week of sorting through time capsules in the bedroom, bathroom, and half of the living room, I found yet more surprises awaiting me in the laundry room when I opened a storage tub that I thought was empty. I want to scream, cry, and use every swear word I know, but I’d feel guilty afterwards and the neighbors would probably call the police, too. So instead I write about it, so that I can laugh it off (eventually) and get back to it all again tomorrow. Ugh.
Disposing of unwanted things is another headache in the making. What can be recycled? What needs to go to the dump? What can be saved for yard-sale? What can I give to thrift stores? Who will take my furniture? Hmm…I thought this pile would all fit in that box… I hope I can keep these… Here I am, with slightly less than two weeks before the Big Move and I feel the desperation of impending failure –what if I’m not done in time, what if I can’t get everything to fit in my car? And then the emotional ship rocks back toward optimism –if I keep this pace of progress, success is imminent. After all, I am already living out of a suitcase, eating with plastic silverware, and have most of my books in boxes. I got a lot done today, but it still feels like time flies when I need more of it –and right now, it is looking back at me in its dust and laughing.
It sure would be nice to have some help; sometimes living alone really bites, right now especially. I just spent a day (alone) reliving memories found in boxes, getting grossed out by spiders, recycling mountains of paper, and listening to the radio while I sorted more. I found bittersweet reminders of childhood worth keeping, poetry and writing embarrassing to behold (and thus into the garbage it goes), piles of receipts and old bills, and notebooks full of materials from student-teaching that give rise to memories I’m not sure I want. I feel like I have been time traveling through pieces of my life with every box I pack.
This penance is giving me the chance to think hard about what I should keep and why, and what I will not keep in the future! Believe it or not I prefer to be organized, and this is my chance to make my stuff manageable. I don’t want to feel this overwhelmed ever again. I am learning to be merciless and discriminating through this process, and hope that this penitential pack-rat can be reformed and sin no more!

Bittersweet

At long last, the school year has drawn to a close. I set a personal record for cleaning up my classroom, a heavier task this year since I had to make sure everything was in order for someone else. Seeing the buses depart with kids waving goodbye, seeing my classroom without my plants by the windows and pictures on the wall, but seeing the invisible evidence of my presence here in the memories and hugs of students, it all leaves an empty feeling behind. Empty, like my classroom as I turn off the light and close the door, empty like the dark office, where I turn in my keys, empty like the playground, silent for the summer.
Saying goodbye to my 300 + students has been hard, especially the ones I am making sad by leaving, the ones whom I have a closer connection with, the ones who found a safe and happy place in my room.

I have been here only 3 years, which is relatively short, so it would be much harder to go if I had been here longer. However, it has been long enough to make some good changes, gain experience, form relationships, and to confirm that my talents lie beyond elementary music. I don’t want to become a bitter grouch with a smiling face, I want to leave when the memories are mostly good and the kids can remember me as a caring and positive person, unlike my predecessor. I feel like a jerk for not telling the kids sooner, but I guess I wanted them to be happy and secure as long as possible, and not feel totally abandoned by taking the cowardly route and not telling them at all.

Now I have to let go and trust that the next teacher will do just fine, accept that they will change things (a hard thing for the control-freak in me to do!), and hope that my children make the transition to being someone else’s children without much heartache. The new teacher will have to be a strong individual; it is harder to follow in the steps of someone who is well liked than it is to follow someone who has left behind a void to fill.

I think that anything truly significant and valuable makes a lasting impression; I hope I have left some impression, whether it be something I taught, the way I taught it, or God touching them through me. Hopefully those things will provide a positive foundation for the next person to build on. So this is bittersweet; letting go of the people and the good things I have here, but moving on toward something I have dreamed of, moving on to new relationships and new happiness and a future open to many possibilities.

There is a sign hanging in the teachers’ lunch room that is a good reminder: “They may not remember what you said, but they will remember how you made them feel.”

A day for flipflops

Today is the kind of day that makes a person love living in the Northwest. Summer is the best time of the year in WA, and we're getting a taste of it today with 85 degree weather. After a very long stretch of wet, cold, gray days, it feels quite hot to us pale northerners, and it is surprising to open the door and find that it is warmer outside than in! Yes, this is a day for wearing shorts and flipflops, and sunglasses can be worn because of sun rather than white raincloud glare. I deliberate between my Slick Silver Shades and my CSI Miami Shades, and choose the silver pair for today.

I hear the sound of lawnmowers, think of sunscreen and summer haircuts, and pet the cat as he rolls on his back in the shade. The smell of lilacs floats by on a breeze, while clouds of dandelion fluff are blown helter-skelter. Swallows seem to embody happiness itself, as they show off their aerial acrobatics high up in the clear sky. Seagulls float by more lazily, as boaters venture out on the water below them.

I am happy just to absorb it, as my weekend work shift is an unusually short and late one today. I am counting the days until I move to AZ, alternately wanting out of the wet NW and yet dreading the extreme heat and desert of the SW. Mostly though, I am looking forward to letting my voice heal, and setting my mind free into the great unknowns of grad school. That element of the unknown is exciting, because it means discovering new places, new people, and new challenges.
For now though, I enjoy the freedom of flipflops and the joy of a sunny day in the Northwest, with happiness like the swallows.

The Piano's Gift

My fingers find the comfort of a familiar embrace
in the keys of a piano;
black, white,
each key with the potential for greatness and romantic synergy
beneath my touch.

A need to speak without words,
to give and to receive
is the magic bond between the piano and I;
alone, no-one hears me but the piano,
and I need no-one but the piano.

Embraced by the piano,
I dance the bright and cheery counterpoint of Bach
and sigh the melancholy waltzes of Chopin,
finding a way to transform the emotions of a day
from ghosts into mourning doves,
and smiles into woven gold.

In that small moment of time,
I awaken sleeping music from the piano
and it in turn restores to me
my humanity;
I begin to feel again,
to thaw from numbness and superficiality,
to remember what I have lost or forgotten.

I tell the piano how much I have missed it
with the help of Bach and Chopin,
and it assures me that all is forgiven
as it sends me on my way with this poem in my heart.

Reflections

Across the way, frogs send their familiar melodies into the night, awaiting the coming rain. In town, the cherry trees along the sidewalks promise spring with the appearance of their pink and white blossoms. I notice these comforting signs of changing seasons as I drive home, weary and spent, after a long day. The neighbor cat is waiting for me by the door, a welcome bit of furry company, who after much fussing settles down on my lap and consents to let me pet him while I listen to relaxing music and type mostly one-handed.
Tonight was a concert night, and I always have much to reflect on after performing or directing a concert. Letting the thoughts run over and out of me this way helps to release the stress and adrenaline, and even if I refrain from writing all the details, I have processed it and can move on, hopefully.
My voice is tired, so very tired; I have over-worked my fatigued voice again because my kids needed me and there was no choice but to use it on a day that I would have stayed home sick if it weren't for this concert. Only a month after being ill and voiceless, I caught another respiratory bug and am now back to square one of trying to recover my singing voice and general health. But at least what voice I had did last through the day just enough for me to corral my choir kids (which is often like herding cats).
I went into this concert with a feeling of trepidation and dread, knowing that 60% of my little group did not know their music securely, and that this was the least-prepared and least cohesive group I have ever taken to a public performance. The inexperienced and hyperactive students tend to overpower the experienced and well-behaved ones...but thankfully I didn't have to make anyone sit out the concert, even though I often wondered during practice if I would have to do so. Our first song was supposed to be sung as a round, but the younger kids would always end up singing the same thing as the ones who were "chasing" them, so I settled for a bit of a compromise but more secure option: all the kids sang the melody together while the singers on the recording provided the harmony of the round (usually I use accompaniment only for performances, but this was a necessary exception). It went decently, and potential disasters were avoided. The second song was one everyone knew the best, and with the exception of the sound being a little too low and an "oops!" moment where some singers came in early, it went pretty good and was a crowd pleaser.
The two large group pieces that all the choirs performed together en masse (there were two other elementaries besides us and a high school jazz choir) were a feat of logistics and something we directors prepared for as best we good and hoped we could pull it off without disaster. Being a music director means living in a spotlight and wearing a calm expression even when underneath you are acutely aware of how well or how horribly things can turn out in the next five minutes! After a lot of problem-solving via email, we had one practice all together right before the performance, and then closed the concert with those two songs. I directed one; it was a bit nerve-wracking being in front of and in charge of 4 choirs at once, but it was also a powerful and beautiful thing to bring the song to a full realization that could not be achieved in our separate rehearsals, simply because of the number of voices needed. It felt like...confirmation, a big "ahh...yes...this is what it should be," and I hope the students were able to be free of anxiety so that they could enjoy the moment and the music they were making.
I wish it weren't such a struggle; teaching children to sing well and in harmony is no easy thing, it is a battle against bad habits, misconceptions, short attention spans, and the time that limits how much can be taught and practiced. I just listened to the incredibly pure and precise singing of the Libera boys and the boy choir on the Lord of the Rings soundtrack, and I more thoroughly appreciate how much work has gone into such beauty. I also envy the directors, who get to work with a whole group of dedicated kids who love music enough to want to work at it; the few students I have who are like that are the ones who give me hope and get me to keep trying, they deserve the keys to unlock the abilities they possess. All kids deserve the opportunity to learn to sing, don't get me wrong. But not every kid in the choir will develop into that rare gem that a teacher secretly longs for: an Artist. The voice of a child who sings skillfully and beautifully is an incomparable, fantastic thing, not to be underestimated.
With a voice that is broken and incapable of beauty right now, it is torture to listen to others and not be able to join in; I must vicariously sing through them, sing from the heart, for that is where the root of my art lies. I guess this is what the sacrifice of being a teacher is; I give up my own voice in the service of helping my students discover theirs.
Like looking in a pool that glimmers with light on ripples, these reflections once again show me a bit of myself, and make me hope that I can give my students at least a taste of what it means and feels like to be an artist.

Stilled Voice

The human voice,
a beautiful, terrible, powerful, potentially annoying, always unique, amazing thing;
capable of great musical feats, the power to communicate, and the ability to reciprocate and respond,
the voice is a strong connection between Self and the World.
But alas, when a voice is lost -held captive by sickness or even sorrow, psyche or injury-
much of great worth is also lost, held away by a glass cage of inability!
My voice, my instrument that God gave, feels broken and futile
and aches to be whole again.
Weak and helpless, unable to control, unable to respond, what can I do but listen,
when I would rather sing?
But I listen, and the Sunday hymns surround me,
their words clearer to my mind while my heart sings their meaning and my voice lies silent.
"Tune my heart to sing Thy grace," says one, and it is true
for that is what I want, more than the service of only lips,
when my voice returns.
My voice is my power to be present and be known,
but is it more important to be known
or to know?
To know things proved once again in my helpless state:
that trials build strength, that every cloud has a silver lining,
that to be deprived of the means to utter praises
will give me more joy and gratitude when once again I sing,
for to sing is to be free from the inside out.
To sing is to give more beauty to ordinary words,
to make them noticed, remembered, and pondered;
to sing is to express in a fuller spectrum
the colors felt by the heart and seen by the ears;
to sing is to know and be known and to learn,
all at once.
But for now
ink and type fall, like tears translated,
into silent words on white pages sent off into the distance,
like doves, swans, or angels' wings,
with my message here being the sad song
sung silently,
and sent to heaven by a lost voice
waiting to be found again.





A bit melodramatic, I know, all this to say in an out-of-the ordinary way what it means to me to have the teacher's curse of laryngitis! Still, I mean it.

Ramblings after an unusual quest

Yesterday the sky was clear and blue, the mountains visible with clarity and the water of Saratoga Passage sparkling in the sunlight. During the precious bit of time between church and work, I went out to the E.B. Preserve to absorb some of that beauty. I parked further up the road and walked down to it, following the cheerful gurgling of the roadside stream down to the area with the covered picnic table, walking path, and boardwalk for wheelchairs. I went down the boardwalk a ways, and sat down on the edge to read a book for awhile. It is a peaceful place, best visited on days like this. The sun was bright but not warm, so when my behind and the rest of me were numb from the fresh chill air, I walked back up to the car and went home.
Today was also sunny and a pleasant day, a day off that I could have used to get many things done but ended up not; and that was fine. This past week I have been more productive: I went to the gym three times, got some things taken care of at school, and actually cooked a little. On Wednesday I fixed my craving for French toast -something I had messed up royally the last time attempted, but this time did the smart thing and used a recipe- and I forget which day it was, but I made my favorite Asian-style chicken noodle soup (my fingers smelled of garlic for days afterward!). The sesame noodles and vegetables was not entirely pleasing, but I ate it anyway... waste not, want not. Today was simple, blueberry pancakes and Arby's since I was out shopping late.
It turned out that the one thing I was hunting for required I go first to the Fred Meyer in Marysville and then to the Everett mall to find. It was an unusual quest: primarily I needed one of those disco lights that has colored lenses and makes colors swirl around the room, for the sake of adding some pizazz and fun to our school DDR night on Thursday (ask me later...). The secondary mission was to replace socks and unmentionables whose longevity has outlasted their intended life expectancy (but are now desperately needing to be retired from service), or that have disappeared altogether the way socks like to do.
I set out on my quest at dusk, heading east right toward the bright, nearly full moon making an early appearance among the few pink clouds. When I reached first the FM and eventually the mall, I allowed myself the luxury of window shopping, a diversion that woke my imagination up a bit. I even wandered into the Bath and Body Works and left smelling rather strongly of three scents I had tested, as well as weaving through a few gifts shops (one that turned out to be rather more pagan than just ethnic clothing store, and another that had nice wind chimes but little else of interest to me). I also found the disco light I was after, at the back of a shop I probably would never have voluntarily entered otherwise. The second mission was also completed, with much disgust at the price of unmentionables and the time spent trying to find the kind I preferred. The socks had been much easier.
Once home, I assembled and tested the disco light, and it was exactly what I had hoped for. Quest complete! As for the other items, they bring satisfaction too; after all, there is security in knowing that your black socks are actually black, will keep your toes from popping out, and the unmentionables will be able to do their job and not need to be mentioned!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/quonky/257925499/

Some moments of sweet satisfaction

Since the last few posts, I've been on the upswing and had some good moments to cheer me during the last week. After two straight weeks without a day off to recuperate, the small moments of sweet satisfaction were especially welcome.
On Monday, I was scheduled for a shift at the store (school holiday made me available), and actually enjoyed the first half of it because I worked an express lane. That meant shorter lines of stuff, a spot near the doorway where winter sunlight reached me, and a rare chance to work near a kindred spirit -the lady who trained me. She is one of those people who has contagious smiles and an upbeat attitude that are genuine. Her sense of humor and camraderie brought out the same in me, and we found small things to joke about during the brief durations between customers. It was nice; she is one whom I will miss when I move on.

As for school, my worries about what to do with my dysfunctional choir led me to make some changes: beginners meet on one day, intermediates meet another, instead of both together. This will allow the more experienced singers to progress at the speed they are capable of without getting frustrated by the immaturity of the others, and I can help the beginners learn at their pace without the pressure of me expecting more of them than I should. This has also helped to retain the students I wanted to recruit for Honor Choir, who were on the point of dropping out. They are much happier now, and so am I.
On Thursday, a former choir student invited me to their choir concert at the middle school that night, so I went. It was encouraging to see "my girls" as leaders in their group, singing beautifully and looking so grown up in high-heels and styled hair, but still sweet enough to run and hug me, and be delighted that I had come.
Two of the songs were a deja vu of sorts, one of which I had conducted with a highschool choir at their graduation, at the end of my student-teaching days.

I have also been encouraged by more classes that feel like a success, like I was helping the students discover things rather than force-feeding them. Yesterday, the most meaningful moment was not teaching, but just being a source of comfort for a kid who needed a hug. I realized that, after a few careful questions met with a shake of the head, I didn't need to diagnose or even know why she was sad, I just needed to let her stay there with an arm around her shoulders. I couldn't cure the source of sadness, only soothe the wounds, but to be able to do that was enough for the moment and a lesson for me, the fixer.

Something else that made the week nicer was the clear, cold weather all week. It made for bright days with sun coming in the window, birds singing, scarves and gloves, frozen breath and frozen puddles, frosted mountains clearly visible against blue sky, brighter spirits, and crisp evenings with a full moon rising yellow through a pink sunset and turning white amongst the stars, making the frost covered ground sparkle. The thermometer lingered in the twenties, but I walked to get lunch anyway.

Random discoveries:
The difference between a job and a career: a job is work that you do for money and it feels like work (or slavery!); a career is work that you do for a purpose and has more worth/value to you than just the monetary equivalent of your labor.

Two green tea drinks that I am currently addicted to: Enviga sparkling green tea, and Cricket cola (a sushi bar favorite of my past that I joyfully found at a local store that carries it).

A blue day -the good kind

Getting all that stuff out on the last blog DID help a bit, and I think I've moved out of self-pity mode for the time being. I've also changed the song on my homepage to "Salva Me," a different song by Libera (the words to this one are mostly in Latin, but being a music geek I know what they're saying and it's more applicable than the vague poetry of the previous one).
Today was one of the nicer kinds of blue days, where the depressing gray, soggy clouds of yesterday were blown away by the wind and left behind some clear space of blue sky, the cheerful kind that reflects off of windows and puddles and makes the pale sunlight seem to smile. The air was cold and brisk, a welcome thing after teaching some Dance-Dance-Revolution in a dark gym with a double-sized class (team-teaching has its pros and cons!) that smelled of sock feet, and getting all warmed up. It was a pretty good day, with the exception of 5th grade and choir, which often make me feel blue in the negative sense. I'm disappointed because choir used to be what I looked forward to most with the kids, because they wanted to be there and we could really make progress fast on some beautiful/fun music. But last year's 5th graders are gone and I now have an uneven group: some 4th graders who are focused and experienced because they were in choir last year and are ready for a challenge, and then a large group of newbies who need to be babysat, coaxed, and given The Look just in order to make it through a rehearsal. I feel like I am losing the kids who are the best singers, because they have to wait for everyone else to get their act together and follow their example. Progress is also very slow, and I am getting worried about how many songs we will actually be able to do passably for a performance...I hope that once I get practice CDs to them, things will get better.
Well, after kid choir chaos, it was a relief to go to my own choir rehearsal and sing some Mozart, with lots of high notes and fast runs. Singing is a salvation from everyday drudgery for me, a way to bring some energy and beauty back into life even though I am tired, and it is something that is mine and I can excel at. It used to be that gymnastics was the thing that was mine, that I could enjoy being a perfectionist at, then it was organ, now singing is the one thing I have left in my body that I can still use and perfect artistically on a regular basis.
The best part of today was getting home and finding my birthday gift to myself in the mailbox: several CDs I had ordered from Amazon. I got the Libera CD yesterday, a nice meditative and ethereal kind of mood music (still awaiting one more CD of similiar taste), and now I have the contrasting bright and happy music to pick me up: a Bhangra music collection (a real upper!), and two Baroque recorder CDs (Vivaldi concertos and Telemann sonatas/fantasias, in case you were curious). I wish I had an iPod so that I could listen to these during my work break tomorrow, just close my eyes and escape into another, happier place for awhile. But I don't have an iPod, so I guess I'll listen in the car and while I'm at home. Maybe some of this music will get stuck in my head, and it will be my own personal soundtrack while I work. That would be a nice change from having the DDR music stuck in my head!
Finally, here I am in bed with my computer, blogging a bit and getting ready to watch a bit of Law and Order SVU, with, of all things, a blue drink to keep me company and help unwind some of the stress.
Thank goodness for the power of music and blue skies to bring me some hope and happiness in the midst of these gray days!

Free me to fly

I don’t like to rant or unleash the griping self-pity monster if I can help it, but this is one of those times when I must let some things out or I will a) blow up b) sink into depression or c) give up the fight. I tend to internalize stress and conceal emotions, a survival skill learned in gymnastics and refined as a teacher. However, if I boil below the surface too long without venting, I am afraid I will say something to someone or do something that I will regret. I prefer to write about beautiful things, but I have nothing to draw on right now to do so. So perhaps if I get this out of my system, there will be room for something better.
I feel like I am trapped in a glass cage of Self, watching as Me who is not really Me slaves away in service to society, working to survive instead of working to share what I am good at in a way that is fulfilling. Life is unfolding and passing me by as I watch from within; I am only happy when I am not working, which tells me that making enough money does not matter if the job is only a job and a thief of my time and intellect.
I have had some bitter experiences lately with the work schedule of my moonlighting job. I have nothing against the powers-that-be, and cannot blame the establishment for being what it is: retail, which encourages consumers to consume and demands that employees be available to meet the need, selling their birthright to any holidays or weekends. So far, all of my holidays have been stolen –Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years- and now it appears that my birthday is not exempt either. Wednesday is my only day off, but because I am available, apparently I may be scheduled to work retail that day every now and then (surprise!) too. I was looking forward to this Wednesday to have a little time for myself to celebrate my birthday, even if it’s as simple as going to a movie, eating Chinese sit-down instead of take-out, having my scheduled massage, and going to choir practice. Irony of ironies, I am scheduled to work THAT Wednesday –during the time of the massage appointment and choir practice, of course. I feel like there is a mocking soundtrack playing “Crappy Birthday to you…” My bad attitude is partially due to having all my other holidays screwed up, generally feeling tired all the time, and not having much time for myself to be myself. I sometimes feel like breaking down in tears, or yelling out my frustrations before the anger fades to hopeless resignation. I want to quit, but I am not a quitter. I also cannot afford to quit yet.
When I am teaching, I feel a bit more genuinely like myself. I can think, share, have a sense of humor, encourage, and rest between classes. I also have to do a lot of crowd control and endure classes that feel like nothing was accomplished because the students were like molecules bouncing off each other and creating chaotic chain reactions, creating fires that I have to put out instead of making the lesson a learning experience. I feel a silent sadness, a plea for respect and a desire to share worthwhile things with people who desire to understand them.

I long to be free of the glass cage, free to fly somewhere that I can be the best of who I am but have hidden deep inside, where I look forward to work because I want to be there doing it. The internalized scream is getting louder, more persistent, and I can only contain it with the hope that if I can hang in there and stick with this through the end of the school year, I will have a chance to break free. I’d rather go into debt going to grad school, than have the “security” of a dead-end job and a mismatched profession that trap me forever in the glass cage.
There is a beautiful song, “Far Away,” sung by the boy’s choir Libera (it’s the one playing on my MySpace page); the words and melodies resonate with what I am feeling right now; the longing to fly away, feeling lost in the dark but following a shining star that is God, who can lead and rescue me. The powers of darkness are glad that I am miserable. Such adversity tells me that something good must be around the corner, if I can withstand the struggles that come before it.
Part of an old hymn comes to mind: “Are ye weary, heavy-laden, burdened with a load of care? In His arms He’ll take and shield thee, thou wilt find a solace there…”

I have thus reached the end of my rant, and hope that the next blog entry I write will be a much nicer, more positive one. Honestly, life is hard right now and could be a lot better, but it could also be a lot worse. It’s not the end of the world if I have to work on my birthday; maybe there’s a great one in store for me next year. Maybe I’ll have the gift of having survived and put this year behind me and moved on to greener pastures, where there are no feelings of glass cages…Maybe I’ll be a free bird!