As this first week draws to a close…
May you collapse into the knowledge that you made it. May you rest in the realization that you did, and you can, do this. May you find comfort in the confession that you are glad it’s Friday. May you pass into the peace that, yes, you have definitely got this. Maybe not completely. Maybe not perfectly. But, yes, you’ve got this.
May your weekend rest be blest.
It was quiet when I woke up — Husband was still asleep beside me, and neither Kiddo nor my mother had stirred out of their rooms yet. Not even the cat was at my door yet. So I decided to take advantage. I slipped out of the bedroom and downstairs for a much-needed hygge morning. I made some coffee, gathered my books, journals, and pens, put some comforting ambiance on TV, and slipped on a new, comfy sweater. Then I settled in to contemplate some simple but beautiful things.
I love the pen I have been writing with lately. It’s a Uniball Air, exhumed from the depths of one drawer or bag or another, and I have been re-discovering just how much I adore it! I don’t know what it is about the construction of these particular pens, but they feel so…dainty yet controlled. It reminds me of someone in China or Japan writing the most delicate characters with just the tip of their brush. Such control and skill! That’s what these pens feel like to me. It as though I am using the daintiest tool yet executing my writing with such elegance, though a different type of elegance entirely from, say, a fountain pen. Needless to say, I ordered more.
When the pen I am writing with feels beautiful, then the writing I do feels beautiful. When the writing I am doing feels beautiful, then I want to do it more. I love writing longhand and did it so often when I was younger, of course. I would fill notebook after notebook with my stories, all painstakingly handwritten. Nowadays, such a practice almost feels like an indulgence: taking that extra time to handwrite when the world is so often encouraging us to work faster, work quicker, do more. Handwriting takes time, it takes thought, and it takes effort…none of which can be rushed.
As the summer starts to wind down and the school year approaches (*digs a trench around myself*), maybe this is my sign to keep on slowing down. Maybe less, with focused intention and attention, is better than a lot. Maybe I need to be more aware of when I am trying to cram in more when what I and my students need is for me to slow down. So maybe I have accidentally stumbled onto a goal for this year, for myself as well for my classes: to slow down and focus on the dainty and the elegant points that might be missed if I rush onward.
Yesterday, on my Instagram, I posted one of my favorite cos-bound outfits from this year: Lady Danbury from Bridgerton in one of my favorite color palettes of peony pink and plum. I noticed, with some measure of joy, that my silver streak at the front of my hair is becoming even more noticeable, too, which one thing that I adore about Lady Danbury’s style. In the caption for my post, I noted that I am still very much in my Bridgerton/Lady Danbury era and that has stuck with me over the last 24 hours. The way I described Lady Danbury was classy, smart, sharp, and heart for days. She is undoubtedly my favorite character in the Bridgerton series and that may easily be attributed to my own “advancing age”. As I have entered my forties, I have been finding myself less and less concerned with outside forces, as it were.
I want to look and feel good, but I care less about how my body and personal style stack up against social beauty standards.
I want to be respected, but I care less about pleasing people just so they will like me, even my students.
I want to be around people who feel like home to me, so I care less about being seen as “antisocial” because I get to pick with whom I expend my energy.
I want to live my life in a way that is true to my faith, and I don’t care if my love for and welcoming of others make people uncomfortable. (I mean, when was the establishment ever comfortable with Jesus, after all?)
The older I get the more I realize that I want to be a combination of Lady Agatha Danbury and Lady Violet Bridgerton: sharp, smart, classy, and heart-full. I want to be fierce in my defense of those who need it, gentle and generous when souls are weary or hurting, sharp in my dress and comfortable in my own beauty, and strong to shore up loved and dear ones when they need it.
As a former people-pleaser, this personal transformation is proving to be nothing short of foundation-rocking. Growing up, I cared so much about what people thought of me and how that reflected on my family that I drove myself to distraction to be perfect, to live up to expectations…to be the diamond of my community as it were. It has taken me the majority of my life to reach a point where I am now concerned with my own happiness with my life and the truth and integrity of my own being. Am I being true to God and what I feel He is saying to me? Am I being true to myself and the woman in whose skin I always want to feel desperately at home? Am I doing what is not only good for others but good for myself?
In my 41 years, I have won, I have lost, I have worked, I have achieved, I have loved, and I have been hurt and disappointed, just like everyone else around me. But, as Lady Danbury says, the benefit of having lived a life is that “I have earned the right to do whatever I please, whenever I please and however I please to do it.” I know that I am far from done with living my life, but I do like the fact that I am getting to this point of doing what I enjoy and what is good for me without the same debilitating fear that was my companion in my first few decades. Are there things that I still need to be mindful of? Of course! But I am enjoying solidifying my core while still softening my edges.
Last year for Mother’s Day, my darling kiddo made a gift for me in their class at school. They made a “jar of love”. Inside this little plastic jar are notes full of love and care from my child. I adore and treasure this little gift, in part because it reminds me of the notes that my own mother would give me as a kid and teenager. She would write them on calenders, in devotionals, on lunch notes, and daily prayer cards so I could always have them with me. Always have a reminder that she loves me deeply and dearly.
A few mornings ago, the little jar on my desk caught my eye, and I reached for it. I could use some love this morning, I felt. So I reached in and drew out one of the lovingly written-on scraps of paper and smiled as I opened it. It was doing its work even before I read it. I love this jar; I love the written evidence of love.
My husband endeavors to find meaningful, beautiful cards for me on special days or occasions. I love him for his effort in agonizing over “just the right one”.
My heart flutters excitedly when I get letters in the mail because I love seeing people’s souls in their handwriting.
Writing takes effort and effort translates into love for me. Even signing your own name with a pen these days takes extra effort in this digital society. I don’t care what your handwriting looks like (I teach grade school, don’t forget). The fact that you sat down and put pen to paper for me means more than can adequately express. It’s your mind and soul living on paper. Shimmering in glittery gel ink, swirling dramatically in chromatic fountain pigments, or calmly sitting in rounded ballpoint — your words live there, you are there, speaking to me from the page.
This little jar holds joy beyond compare for me, not only in the loving notes it holds but in the reminder of so many other notes, letters, and cards that have preceded them. Writings that have made my life full and memorable and made me feel remembered, seen, and loved.
Book Review: That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Demon by Kimberly Lemming
There are days (sooooo many days) when all you need is a bit of something fun. Whether that is a game, a movie, a show, or whatever. For me…that is often (frequently, usually) books. And I have been in desperate need of something riotously fun lately. Not that the books I have read so far this year haven’t been awesome; they absolutely have. But there are some books that are just plain, laugh-out-loud fun. Kimberly Lemming’s Mead Mishap series is definitely in that category. In fact, it might be its current Queen.
I mean, let’s start off with just the titles: Book #1 is entitled That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Demon, continued with That Time I Got Drunk and Yeeted a Love Potion at a Werewolf, and finally culminating in That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Human. On that basis alone, how could you NOT want to know more of what these stories are about?? Not to even mention the gorgeous covers. Oh, so to die for! Each shows a perfectly adorable and hilarious spin on the classic romance novel cover, including handsome men in shirts that are either suspiciously deep-cut around the chesticle area or just falling off due to the garment’s lack of will to stay put on its wearer.
What next and definitely attracted me about these covers was this: all of the main women are women of color. And we aren’t talking about just your willowy, woodbine, fiery-haired damsels either. These are short, strong heroines with skin that warms and glows, bodies that range the gorgeous variety between svelte and thicc with generous busts and hips, adorned with pink hair, braids, and wild curls. Women who love food and coziness, with strong hearts, sharp minds, and tongues to match. In short, all of them look like me! In a fantasy-romance novel! Oh, my stars! I had no chance of saving myself.
Beyond these already-tempting details, these books are bonafide geeky. There are little Easter eggs and pithy references that will make your inner D&D party member giggle gleefully. Yes, they are romances so there are indeed spicy scenes but, on the whole, the selling point of these books is that they are just FUN! I laughed more than anything, re-reading particular paragraphs or whole scenes just because they made me smile and giggle.
Let me tell you this: a book like that is a treasure. Not only a good read but fun to read. A book that gives you unmitigated joy is an absolute jewel. Lemming does not claim her books to be tomes of the highest literary order, not a chance (Have you seen this delightful human’s endpage bio? You should!). But what she has gifted us with are books that bubble over with readerly joy.
I needed that joy this week. It’s the fourth quarter, testing season, and everyone is just done! I do not blame them–students, teachers, or administrators–it has been a…what’s a diplomatic word?…fustercluck of a school year, and the emotional drain and saturation are real. We can all use an infusion of joy wherever we are able to find it at this time.
So for that I say HUZZAH and THANK YOU, Kimberly Lemming! Your Mead Mishaps came along at just the needed time for me, and I cannot wait to read the rest of them. I appreciate and laud you and your work and all the joy that it undoubtedly brings to myself and countless others! You are amazing!
Late this morning, the snow began to fall. We have not had a proper snowfall this winter and today seemed desperate to make up for that. It has been snowing for close to 8 hours while the world has transformed. And quieted.
I know I have written before about the profound silence of snowfall and the peace that it brings me. Today, when I got home with my kiddo, I let them thump their way upstairs while I took my sweet time divesting myself of my things. When I heard their bedroom door shut and knew my husband to also be safely ensconced in his office, I pulled my arm warmers back on, wrapped up in a fleece shawl, and slipped out the front door to sit on our porch to watch the snow fall.
As I sat there, I let the silence of the snow wrap around me. After hours, days, a week of words and movement and change and work, I deeply needed silence. Even if just for a few moments. So I sat very still and watched my little neighborhood become Narnia as the outside lamps and lights of the houses turned on amidst the swirling snow. Snowfalls can make the familiar magical, the rush slower, the busy calmer. I welcomed it, breathed it in.
I sat there until my fingers grew cold beneath my shawl and the wool of my arm-warmers. But, before I could move to go inside, I was surprised by a flash of color through the white. Bright red. A cardinal. Then another shot by to join the first in the neighbors’ tree, shaking the snow from branch to ground as they hopped from limb to limb.
I smiled to myself and could not help but think, a story line unfurling in my mind like the runner on a dining room table. “Cardinals love the snow. They love to splash and flap in it, washing their ruby feathers until they shine and their color glows bright against the stark white. They are one of Winter’s favorite ornaments.”
We often define mercy as giving someone better than they deserve. Dr. Barry H. Corey of Biola University wrote in his book Loving Kindness about having a “firm core with soft edges”. Edges that are givable, shapeable if mercy is needed, but that surround a solid, strong core of love and integrity. That is what teaching feels like at times, honestly: needing to have a solid core with soft edges.
When a student makes a poor judgement call, I have a choice about which edge I show that student: a sharp one or a soft one. At my core, I’m going to do what is best for my student, but how will I get them there? I can lambaste them for their poor decision and cut them to the quick with that sharp edge, filling the cut with shame. Or I can address their choice more softly, laying out the facts before them and the reality of their poor choice in a way that makes sense. I can let them see it how I and others see it, what it tells us about their core, and can hold them accountable in a way that hopefully helps to solidify and strengthen that core.
This is mercy. The chance to understand, learn, and try again–do better. Yes, mercy can be squandered, the chance refused, or the lesson ignored. But that choice is not my responsibility. My responsibility is to offer the mercy.
Mercy is challenging. Mercy is hard. Particularly, when the other person’s choice or action angers or hurts mercy. Mercy is often so hard because it involves us thinking about what will benefit the core of the other person, what will help them be better while still holding them accountable. That can be a difficult line to walk.
However, we are called by God to do justice and love mercy. Having a solid core with soft edges is where our merciful strength comes into play. I am hoping and praying that, as I continue into this year, I continue to solidify my core and soften my edges. The world we live in makes it so easy for edges to harden and sharpen, just to be able to survive in an environment that has become very harsh. As Vonnegut admonished: “Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard.” Let’s love mercy and hold our firm core with soft edges so that we may welcome others in gently and help them strengthen their cores, too.
Yesterday, I reposted an old Twitter post by Stephen Bryce that starts out “I am utterly convinced that God will have all kinds of grace if we got the theology wrong…” It continues on to say that we might be more upsetting to Him is if we got the part about loving people, seeking justice, and being merciful wrong, a statement mined from my favorite verse of Scripture, Micah 6:8. My heart leapt the first time I read this. Yes!
I fully believe that God will have compassion on us if we got our theology and eschatology wrong, if we got our Scriptural interpretation a bit off. But if we have chosen to love others with kindness, seek justice for those who need it, show mercy to those to whom life has been harsh, and live our faith humbly and gently in the way He commanded, I fully believe that God will smile upon us at the end. “Welcome home, Dear One.”
Is it possible that I am wrong? Of course it is! I am only human; I am no theologian; I am not gifted with deep discernment in Biblical matters. But, to be honest, I would much rather err on the side of love, justice, and humility while I live this life. Jesus was not dogmatic; He always put others first. Before Himself, before the Temple and priests, before the Sabbath. He reached for people, not pedagogy or precept.
It feels a little like how I teach. I would rather reach for improving my students’ hearts and empathy for others rather than skyrocketing their test scores. I’d rather teach them to take risks in the course of doing good than clinging to the rules as their validation. Perfection does not equate to a well-lived life.
“But I did everything right!”
“But, dear one, did you do anything good?”
I have a Friday night routine. Of all my nights, Friday nights are the most sacred. They are my Sabbath. After I leave work on a Friday evening, nothing work-related happens—no emails, no grading, no lesson-planning, nothing. I need one entire night that is dedicated to not working. However, I still have a routine but it is a routine that leads me to rest.
When I get home on a Friday, there are chores to be done, such as washing the dishes, cleaning the catboxes, and making sure there is something for dinner. These are more than just chores; they are steps that help me transfer from being at work to being in my home and to have a home that I am content in. Not everything needs to be spic-and-span, necessarily, but enough has been done to ensure that major chores are dealt with. Dishes, litter-boxes, trash, recycling, etc. Sure, I have a partner who can and does help but I also find a bit of calm and reassurance in doing these chores myself. Then, once they are done, I can eat contentedly and then head up to my shower to scald and scour off the week.
Not until all of this is done can I truly feel safe(?) enough to relax. I have been productive both at work and at home and now…now I can sit. My family is cared for, the important spaces of our home are clean and tidy…now I am free. I can feel the release as I settle on the couch and Husband asks if he can get me anything. Sometimes the answer is yes, sometimes the answer is no, but regardless I am now in my calm space. My routine done, the night is now mine to do with as I need and choose. Reading, writing, catching up on movies or TV shows, or just sitting in silence for a long while…whatever the night holds is utterly my choice. And that is a beautiful, necessary thing.
In fewer than 48 hours, I return to the classroom after our two-week winter break, and whew! That letdown is hitting hard this year. I have done myself a great service in that I gave myself several days of absolute planless laziness. Hours to just read, nap, watch movies, etc. I needed that, desperately. Usually, I would be kicking and cursing myself right now for such stupidity because I would be neck-deep in grading for report cards that are due next week. However, this year, by some miracle, 95% of the grading is done already, so I thankfully do not have that particular stress currently on my soul.
That doesn’t stop me from being an anxious, sad puddle of a person right now, though. Last night, as I desperately tried to sleep after a very mentally-taxing evening, all my brain could do was think about my classroom and my first lesson next Tuesday. Then I had a random thought (yes, even more random than normal):
“Do I even remember these kids’ names?”
Vacation-related memory atrophy is absolutely a thing. At the end of the school year, my brain shuffles out most of the 150+ names that I had to memorize because it knows that in just a few short weeks, I will be shoving a whole new set of faces and accompanying names into its databanks. However, on the heels of this particular random thought came another:
“If I am struggling to remember what name goes with what face…can I really expect these teenagers to launch right back into schoolwork off the bat? Will they even remember how things work in our classroom? Have they even charged their Chromebooks once during break?”
So I am considering migrating my currently planned lesson and replacing it with a refresher course on how to “do school” after two weeks off. Maybe we could all use a day to start back at the beginning.
That can be scary sometimes, can’t it? Starting over? Starting back? Beginning again? And yet…here we are…at the beginning of another year. We are literally starting back at the beginning. So, with that in mind, why are we not willing to give ourselves the grace that comes with starting over, with being new at something?
We have never seen 2024 before; it is brand new to all of us. These days are still shrink-wrapped and shiny, and we are still wobbly on our new-year legs. It hurts my heart that we expect ourselves to barrel into this year as if we are old hat at it. We aren’t. It’s new; it’s different. Maybe we can allow ourselves to approach it the way we approach a new experience or new skill: one step at a time, with the willingness to take it slowly and learn what’s needed, and giving ourselves and others the grace to say, “It’s okay; that didn’t work so let’s go back, figure out why, and try something else.”
So maybe my coming Tuesday will be about taking it slow and re-learning how to exist in our classroom and in our school instead of throwing myself and my student heroes feet-first into the deep end of Quarter 3 (incidentally, it’s also the longest quarter of the school year). Maybe if I make the time to re-teach them what is needed, then we will be able to move more smoothly along with what is expected as the quarter proceeds. Better to set the bone correctly than to have it heal wrongly and have to re-break it and start over, if you’ll forgive the analogy.
So, as you find yourself at the beginning of this year, please do give yourself the grace of a beginning. It does not need to be perfect; it does not need to be rushed. Review and reinforce what is important for you, whether that is consistency, routine, rest, process steps, etc. Whatever you need as you begin, please give that to yourself now. Rest and re-learning go hand-in-hand. Sometimes we need to start back at the beginning in order to move forward.
MWGS: Mom, Writer, Geek, Superwoman 