Closer to Heaven

“I don’t believe in higher walls; I believe in longer tables.”

José Andrés (founder of World Central Kitchen)

“Perhaps the World Ends Here” says Joy Harjo in her poem about the role of the kitchen table in our lives. Both José Andrés and Harjo acknowledge the centrality of communing over nourishment as central to feeding more than our physical selves. Coming together is truly soul food.

“What are you doing for Passover?”asked a guest I had just met at a party last Saturday. It gave me pause because here on the Oregon Coast the question is an unfamiliar one. That was much less true when I lived in a busy New Jersey town near to both New York City and Philadelphia. Obviously this friend of my son’s was aware that we had raised Sam in a reformed Jewish temple, that Sam had been raised Jewish.

I somewhat sheepishly admitted that after leaving my husband’s family behind in our move west, we had abandoned celebrating the traditional Seder with any frequency. I had attended an all-faith community Seder held in a nearby town a couple of times with a close friend—neither of us ourselves Jewish, but both having Jewish husbands and mindful of the most significant of holidays. Passover is certainly that, a holiday that commemorates the Jews release from bondage out of Egypt and extends to the ideal of freedom for all.

Later I spoke with his wife who said she was hosting their first Passover Seder ever. Nineteen people would gather around their table for this holiday. I recalled how my sister-in-law always invited a large group of guests in addition to our boisterous family and gladly accepted any last-minute attendees. Anyone who had nowhere else to go was always welcome—Jews and non-Jews alike.

We would observe a modified service, the “highlight reel” of the Haggadah, the Seder plate with its symbolic offerings and the youngest child—a new face shining each year—asking the four questions. The food, the conversation, the community was the heart of our holiday. That the freedom, the safety we often take for granted was being denied to others even as we gathered remained at the center of our commemoration.

Several stories from our times together have stayed with me. One I remember addressed the difference between heaven and hell. In hell, everyone is crowded around a banquet table groaning with the weight of platters of all types piled high with sumptuous food. All the people are emaciated despite the feast before them. They have arms that cannot bend. There the food sits, unattainable, while they shove and starve.

In heaven, the setting is the same, but the stiff-armed people are rosy-cheeked and happy. In heaven, they have learned to feed each other.

Whatever causes us to gather together around the table, I’m hoping it brings us closer to heaven.

Just the Right Words…

What to choose? What to choose? Tomorrow is “Commit a Poem to Pavement,” at our local Literacy Park throughout the day. Color chalk will be available and all are invited, encouraged, enjoined to scribe a line or two of a well-loved poem on the sidewalk near the library. This day-long event is one of the activities offered by the Newport Library, and adds to the month-long “poem-in-your-pocket” push. (Did you know that the official date for carrying a poem and sharing it with others is Thursday, April 18th?)

I plan to be there tomorrow. The opening question, “What to choose?” I pondered in earnest until yesterday morning. Now I have my answer, and as so often happens, it came in slant.

My son and daughter-in-love are having their celebratory “Baby-Que” this Saturday for their soon-to-be-here son, my first grand-baby, his projected arrival date of June 4th. It’s a couples celebration at the beach, emphasis on “celebration” and “beach”; the baby just gave them a joyous excuse!

I have done little to help with the ‘Que; I figure my role will (hopefully) increase a bit as babysitter in the time to come. When I offered to make an additional dessert, a back-up to the cake, I volunteered cookies. I have quite a bunch of winners to my credit, but yesterday morning the idea seized me: What about some specially designed ones? Wouldn’t that be fun?

I found a place with rave reviews online located in the town where they live, easy for them to pick up as they head to the coast. The website was professional and appealing, understated and —okay, I’ll admit it, no spelling mistakes, an important consideration for me! I filled out the contact form, realizing that I was pushing the timeframe “Cookie Hugs” laid out. Oh well, I could certainly bake cookies if they couldn’t, so why not ask?

In less than an hour, I received a call in response to my inquiry. I do love responsive businesses. There seems to be a dearth of them lately, so the cheery voice on the line was its own kind of embrace. We chatted for a bit. I acknowledged how this was a last-minute decision, that I’d totally understand if she were unable to accommodate my request.

“Oh no, Trish,” she bubbled, “I’m excited to help you with this for your kids’ party, glad to be a part of it. I just love making cookies.” Her voice carried sincere enthusiasm, matter-of-fact pride in her chosen work. We settled the details, and after I hung up, I knew the poem, and the lines to commit to pavement.

The entire poem by Marge Piercy is a longtime favorite of mine, one I have in my head and heart. Do you know, “To Be of Use“? It was added to my 2018-19 journal:

As soon as I heard Valere’s words, her passion about baking an echo of mine about teaching, about living, I knew I had my lines:

“The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.”

Just the right words…

Igniting Curiosity

“What did you learn in school today?” My siblings and I may entertain different childhood memories, but on this routine dinner table query, we remain unified. Sharing something that we learned during our day, began our weeknight gatherings and greased the wheels for whatever six kids found food for thought. Even now I remember returning home for a visit to hear my father asking that question of neighborhood kids who would stop by for my mom’s cookies after school. This was well into their retirement and after the dinner table had emptied of the six of us.

Yesterday I thought of my dad as I reflected on my school day. I had been asked to go over an article with the students about Snapchat. Structured as a debate/argument, it posed the question, “Is Snapchat Safe for Teens?” Oh, the discussion was lively with each successive group from sixth, then seventh, then eighth graders.

Sixth graders were unanimous: Unsafe. We investigated the acceptable age for Snapchat involvement and discovered it as 12+, so not a lot of surprise there for these mostly 11-year-olds. The seventh graders painted a different picture. One young man bristled at the study that lumped 14-24 year olds together. “Not all these teens are the same,” he argued. In writing his claim, he decided to modify his, “Yes, Snapchat is safe for teens, but should be restricted to 17+.” He followed his claim with, “They can vote, ya know?!” Impressive, don’t you think. Nuance among the young. Hope springs eternal when I see this engagement…and the organic discussion that followed.

In the eighth grade group at the end of the day, one teen said,”Hey, isn’t that ‘breech’ in the article supposed to be ‘breach’?” as we reviewed the underlined vocabulary. Not one person had asked before then; neither had I. We looked it up to discover that “breech” refers to the butt of a gun—and a person, so…breech birth, for example. The other “breach” should have been used, and this student took his win with aplomb.

Satisfied by our discovery, we devoted the last few minutes to our pets. “Can I show you my cats?” an eager voice asked.

“I love cats, so…of course.” On his phone two cats, one nighttime black and silky, the other Oregon Coast gray and long-hair fluffy, lay curled together atop the sofa.

“They’re brothers,” he declared.

“They look so different, ” and they did.

He responded, “Ya know, mama cats can get pregnant by more than one male cat. That’s what my dad said.”

Google to the rescue. And guess what? Not only can female cats be impregnated by two different cats, but it’s possible for each offspring—even if there were four— to be the issue of different males. We went to a reliable source, and this is no misinformation. (Way to go, dad!) I refrained from making a quip about the “queen” as the mother is called. I could have called her something else.

So to my dad, this one is for you. I continue to learn a lot at school.

Delight-full

It had been a tough day with the eighth graders, in part because of post-vacation doldrums, for all of us, but also because it was me who greeted them rather than their “official” teacher. In this case, the word, “guest” did nothing to soften the blow even if I don’t think I do such a bad job with them generally.

By the end of the day, I was beat. The last bunch had softened the frustration a bit. Such a good group of students they are and not too many of them at once which makes a difference! I left with a feeling that tomorrow I’d do a better job, and let the day go.

Except I had an online meeting scheduled for 6:30 that night. My professional organization will be offering an in-person conference in October, and while our last effort in November, 2023 was a stellar success, my worries about this one were keeping me up in the middle of the night.

As I began to review the agenda and complete the necessary preparation–I run the Zoom and as president, bear the overall responsibility–that low ebb that I’d staved off returned with a vengeance. I wanted to push it away, like a lion tamer with stool and prod, but that beast was undaunted.

The meeting began. Despite my mood, and to my delight, items we had been unable to decide, suddenly crystallized. (I think about the word “suddenly,” realizing that, of course, there was nothing sudden or surprising about this lucky result, not even lucky, if I’m honest.) Everyone had been doing the work they needed to do, and like bread baking, that resting period was necessary to create the satisfying outcome. (Why does it take so long to learn that lesson?)

My colleagues provided the heat to get me cooking again, and for their energy, I am grateful. As I closed our session, I told them that, how delighted I was to sign off and proceed with next steps after all they’d helped us get done. Those lines from Robert Frost’s “Dust of Snow” have been running in my brain all morning:

“…Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.”

He was talking about a small moment of passing delight. So am I.

(Thanks to Tammy’s Coffee Share and her prompt about delight. And to Two Writing Teachers for welcoming this community of writers every Tuesday. It’s National Poetry Month, and there’s a poem in everything!)

A Slice of Reflection

“Learn. Learn. Learn.” (Benjamin Eder, 1980-2001)

At some professional development session offered by BER, a dynamic presenter emphasized the “magic three” as a writer’s tool for cadence, for rhythm, for attention. I had to begin with Ben’s quote today and add that there is no more powerful three-in-a-row, that profound anaphora, for keeping life interesting.

Of course this ultimate post of the Slice of Life Challenge, 2024, extends gratitude for all who participated, and as I firmly avow to anyone who stops by to read what I’ve written, “Attention is love in action.” I am humbled.

What I learned today is that, if I want to do justice to the folks who join in this annual event, I have to go back to go forward. Timing is everything. In this writing community, people come from many time zones. People’s lives are crowded with obligations and a panoply of personal timetables. Many of us write on a schedule. I’m a morning person on the West Coast. I usually write and comment in the early hours of the day. (Too infrequently do I return to see what’s happened after I’ve left. I apologize.)

For others, their days have already begun, and what’s early to me, is midday to them. Maybe they’re in the middle of a class or performing a lunch duty at school. Some are ferrying children to after-school activities when I’m walking on the beach, or putting children to bed when I’m putting dinner on the table.

This morning I went to yesterday’s writing invitation, March 30th, because I seldom read anything from the posting-late-in-the-day crew. What I learned is that if I do revisit the day before, I will meet many writers I’ve missed. Going back sends me forward to discovery.

There were 110 blog posters in our community yesterday,(111 if you include someone who posted today), and I could easily spend today catching up on yesterday. It’s a conundrum, but I will add some go-back-to-go-forward to my routine next year; I have learned!

I look forward to another year of Tuesday slices and to my eighth year when March, 2025 arrives.

To Buy or Not to Buy

“We throw ourselves into work, consumed by finishing this or that project, convinced that each professional task is truly important. And yet if what these oldsters say is true, it’s likely that at some point we’re going to leave it all behind and not look back.

What lesson should the rest of us glean from these folks? If you’re 35 or 49 or 57 and see people living their deepest lives after they’ve shed the curse of workism, should you drop out of the rat race and take this whole career thing less seriously?” (from The Atlantic shared on Facebook/Meta)

My journey today, and the genesis of this post, began when I read the email from Melanie Meehan at Two Writing Teachers about the upcoming student writing challenge this April with a link to the information. I realized that I wanted to promote this event on Meta through the Oregon Council of Teachers of English (OCTE) web page.

After doing so, I quickly changed to my personal page—I haven’t visited in a while—and saw a shared post by a valued friend (oh, that tricky algorithm) “The New Old Age” with the quote I’ve included above. I wanted to read this article, again that bot, so I clicked only to discover, as usually happens with The Atlantic, that I could not complete it without subscribing.

How many times have I almost subscribed to this periodical? So many! My interest has been piqued more than a dozen times, and I receive their overview newsletter each week. Today, though, I follow the steps to the part where payment is required. Several times before, I’ve stopped at establishing an account, but even as I type this, I am looking at the payment/subscription page and pondering…yes or no?

We already receive The New Yorker, and while I read it online as a perk of our full subscription, unless my husband specifically recommends an article in the print edition, weeks go by where I never even open it. He, however, reads it cover-to-cover. My mom subscribed to it throughout her lifetime, it was a perennial coffee table guest, so partially it’s that connection for me. When I do take the time to read something, I remain firm on its value. Admittedly, I have many covers saved in a folder and two framed on our walls.

I search “compare The Atlantic with The New Yorker” and find a wealth of information at the enlightening Eye & Pen, a travel blog site with no real credentials except that I’ve second-sourced a few of the facts the blogger declares, and they check out. (I won’t bore you with the fact-checking.) I read a that, “The Atlantic was initially created [in 1857] as a platform for discussing and promoting the abolition of slavery. Its founders aimed to provide a space for progressive thinkers to exchange ideas and engage in intellectual discourse.” That encourages me.

Now I move to a different consideration. If I purchase the “digital and paper” for $89.99, instead of digital only for ten dollars less, am I harming the environment? This leads me to ask,”Are printed magazines sustainable?” “Yes,” according to this marketing-focused website…surprise! Once again, the fact-checking does support the provided information. Physical copies are more easily shared, that’s for sure.

Last night we went out for dinner, a rare occurrence, and spent about $100 with tip for three good meals. One good dinner versus a year of The Atlantic—for less. Hmmm.

I’m exhausted now, and wondering why I ever started this, having almost, but not quite, lost interest in reading about “The New Old Age” altogether. I am hearing my good friend’s comment on turning 70, the stark reality of it, “Seventy isn’t the ‘new’ anything!” In truth, I have yet to leave my dedication and interest in education behind, still including it as a part of living, “my deepest life.”

I press, “Start my subscription—digital and print.”

Inspired by “Sick”

I don’t remember what year it was when I heard Shel Silverstein speak at the University of Miami in Coral Gables. What I recall from the event is something he said—or maybe in the revisionist view of my past—something I think he said about teaching poetry to students. Encourage your students not to be slaves to rhyme. It’s a hard sell when he is such a master and was popular beyond all others in my first and second grade classrooms. We do love rhyme.

Today a poem of his is running through my head, a parody of a poem, to be exact. I have had middle school students, on the heels of successfully playing with the copy-change methods from Dunning and Stafford’s Getting the Knack,

embrace the opportunity to play with the poems we’d share in class. Frost’s “Stopping by Woods…“, inspired such classics as, “Whose cheeseburger is this? I think I know…” or lines from William Carlos Williams’ “This Is Just to Say” morphed into “I’m sorry I stole your bike from the garage…”

I have Shel’s “Sick” on my mind this morning. My sister-in-law gave me my copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends where “Sick” lives happily surrounded by other Silverstein gems. On the inside front cover her son, now a 50-year-old, had written a note in pencil letting me know that he was giving me this book because it’s the BEST BOOK EVER MADE, including page number of his favorite poem, “Sick.” He had struggled to unlock reading, but Shel helped him find the key.

Sick

I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

From Shel Silverstein: Poems and Drawings; originally appeared in Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein. Copyright © 2003

In my head I am hearing, “I cannot write a post today/all my ideas have gone away./my pen lacks ink/my thoughts, they stink/I can’t imagine what to say./ What if I never find my words/ is that a thought beyond absurd?/ Around me people buzz and prate/ they seem to think their words are great./They do say much I wish I could/but my stories really aren’t that good!/I know I have no writer’s skill/to face the page takes more than will./ I’ve told some tales that make me smile/but not today, I’ve lost my style./Wait, you urge, just give it time/those challenging days are not a crime./Who knows if later on today/you’ll not be grabbed by what to say?/ You’ve started now, you’re on a roll/ You’ll end this now; you’ve reached your goal!

Post 29 of 31! (Thanks, Shel🙏)

My Kryptonite

Here’s a great idea if you’re struggling with topic selection on this, the 28th of 31, day of consecutive blog posts. Vivian Chen has written a mouth-watering post in response to her question: “What is your kryptonite?” She invites us to do the same. Of course I have to go off in a tangent because that’s the way my mind works.

Donuts are not my kryptonite, but as soon as Vivian mentioned them, I was led back to the novel I am almost finished reading, Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano. I awakened at 1:49 a.m. this morning to the sound of rain pummeling the roof and wind wailing around corners, and read until almost 4:30; it’s that compelling. Right now, I’m getting chills thinking about it and the pages, (345-383), that remain. Just before I went dark to give sleep another try, I was in tears, had gone to get a tissue, and then said to my (also insomniac) husband, “This book makes me want to be a kinder person. I’m calling my sister tomorrow.”

Back to donuts, and I promise no spoilers unless inferences are your kryptonite! At one point in the novel, Sylvie, one of the central characters, begins buying an ice cream cone every day for lunch and a donut every morning before she heads to her work as a head librarian.

“Before, she’d believed pretty firmly that ice cream and donuts were only for children, but when she removed all rules and guilt from food, she realized, to her surprise, that those were two of her favorite things to eat. Now she went into the expensive, delicious-smelling bakery every morning for a donut and bought an ice cream cone for lunch” (Napolitano 316).

This nothing-special excerpt divulges little about the power of Napolitano’s novel (unless you are an inference-junkie and ponder the,”Before,”). It does, however, segue into a cocoon of community carefully created by the author. It hardly does justice to the wonder that is this world made of words and of our shared humanity.

Maybe you’ll read it. Maybe books are your kryptonite, too!

Below the Surface

I awaken as soon as the massive ship hits the cliff. The ship upends and heads down into the deep ocean; the cliff watches unmoved. It is noisy, isn’t it? It seems noisy, and I think it’s the noise that brought me from sleep. Then I realize, I am standing in the back of a classroom. All eyes are trained on the video playing in front of the students. The ship is sinking, its stern pointed straight at the sky.

Where do dreams come from? There are theories and continuous research to explore that question. A simple overview from the Cleveland Clinic posits that dreams may arise from challenges one experiences during the daytime, providing a “rehearsal space.” They may be the brain’s way of analyzing memories.

Fresh from the dream, its impact remains, so I think about its connection to my yesterday and share an armchair analysis. Can you see the connections?

• Yesterday afternoon I grabbed the window of sunshine and hiked my route on Yaquina Head State Recreation Area. At the very end of the paved road, stands the lighthouse that just celebrated its 150th anniversary, its sesquicentennial. From there I headed up the Salal Hill Trail to get views from the cliff top to the north and south. On my way back to the entrance, I veered off to climb the Communication Hill. The summit after a gentle upward journey affords panoramic views to the south.
• Before I left the house, I made a salad. While I worked, my husband shared details about the ship that had slammed into the Francis Scott Bridge and caused an immediate collapse. He asked if I’d watched the video, and I said I had no desire to see it after I’d already pictured it from the articles I’d read. Oh, the power of imagination—for both good and ill.
• The Yaquina Head parking lot was crowded. People dotted the sidewalks. Families stopped to read the informational posters. One eager youth asked me if this was where they’d see whales; a mother and her daughter were interested in the best place to find sea glass. Spring Break in full swing! However, school would begin again next week for all of us. I had committed to working every day.

The elements of my dream played out my yesterday, the electrical brain impulses right on target.

A Taxing Morning

Do you procrastinate when it comes to taxes? I am the opposite. I rush to complete them. I don’t know why, but I want them e-filed before the middle of February. I don’t pay them until the last possible minute, but I want to know what I owe. I could analyze that a bit more closely, but in this moment, I am beating myself up because of my hasty decision; this year it cost me—not in dollars and cents, but in good sense? Absolutely.

Because I rushed, and even though I had an inkling that I was missing a W-2, I submitted my returns, federal and state, through H & R Block’s online product. I had begun using them once I moved to Oregon and filing taxes with a fairly predictable retirement income became the norm. At first I actually went to the local office and worked with an agent. The first year, I met a wonderful woman, retired like myself, and like me not 100% retired because tax season would come, and she couldn’t resist.

The next year, hoping I’d get to work with her again, I’d set up an appointment, only to learn that she had left the office. After that less-than-satisfying experience with a different agent, I committed to doing the work online. After all, the process seemed straightforward. I could do this.

Then came this year’s delinquent W-2 on February 8th, the one I knew I was missing, the one from my substitute teaching in the fall months when the district had changed to a new payroll system. And I had already filed. The amount to many might count as pocket change, but I wanted to be 100% honest, so I began to file an amended return form 1040X.

In short, it didn’t go as planned, and I don’t know how to fix it. This morning I tried to amend my amendment, all for naught. I’ve decided to stick with my original return, send the voucher payments in sooner than usual, and keep my fingers crossed.

According to the amended version, everybody owes me. I know that’s incorrect. Rather than eliciting satisfaction, it makes me nervous. I also know where I made my mistake. All to no avail. I hope our checks don’t cross in the mail. What will I do then? There is a “Where’s My Amended Return” website the IRS offers, but I’ll need to wait to access it. To be totally honest, I’m not sure if I actually submitted the amendment. H & R Block is not particularly transparent.

I wonder if I am alone; I feel alone (though the website suggests I have some company). I assuage my inner critic with this: “small potatoes, small potatoes, chicken feed.” I have learned something though. Haste makes waste; Ben Franklin knew what he was saying. Next year, no taxes before March. (Or maybe I’ll just wait until after I receive word of the March Blogging Challenge?!)