Vacation Commencement

It's that time again. A few days after Christmas, when the sight of your droopy tree sends you into a panic about falling needles rather than insight warm, fuzzy winter memories and your mind begins to wander about whether or not your life is just as droopy- and if so, what are you going to do about it?

I hate the new year. Whether we want to or not, it always seems to involve reflection of some sort. Reflection on the past year, reflection on the things we've yet to accomplish, mistakes we've made, resolutions we've never carried out.

I'm a list maker. In the past few years I've made lists (during my week off) miles long of all of the things I wanted to do differently in the up and coming year. All of the things I was actually going to pursue, get to, pray for, go after, create, bake, etc. After a brief contemplation on my (new!) couch, I've decided that I'm over all of that.

This past year, I got the home I always wanted, I learned that family (no matter how nutty) are willing to help when you need it, that I love teaching kids how to read music and play the guitar, that I can drive all by myself for 16 hours straight in a car that doesn't belong to me, and fly back all by myself to accomplish something I always knew I was meant to do, that I have the most beautiful women as friends that I could have ever asked for, that my sisters are a few of the smartest people I know, that if you work to live you're a much better person, that worry's a false prophet, and that I am loved as a Daughter of the most high.

So, my resolution this year? It has nothing to do with losing 10 lbs, being more motivated, settling into a career, going back to school, being a better teacher, wife, daughter, friend.

I'm going to laugh more and worry less.

I'm going to continue praying for crazy, outrageous things knowing that I serve a God of miracles.

I'm going to dwell in the love my God has for me- remember that I am Chosen and keep in mind that compared to that, all other things fall away.

2010's going to be a great year.

Now, what to do with the notebook I was going to use for this year's list?

I Hate teaching all the time-but not on the days that I love it.

Silence

But not for long

Silence as long as a song

a brief melody

moon-lit reverie

Before temporary insanity ensues

One more sip of cold coffee renews old thoughts

Of when my life wasn’t run by the ring of a bell-

Hell-

They’re coming- 8:05

Like an army- barely alive- Dawn of the Dead

Baggy pants, wet heads

Dark circles from late night texting

What was I expecting?

Neglecting to put the right date on the board-

Let the transformation begin-

Training my ear for new roles to fit in-

“Mrs. Shannon” takes the reigns while “Jenny” takes a seat-

Six more hours until we meet again.

Lights. Camera. Action.

“Mrs. Shannon, do we need our books?”

Deep breath, muster-

Flustered, unprepared, met with 27 stares-

As always, everyday, answer, “Yes”.

10 minutes go by, still no one’s listening-

Texting to friends, painting nails and- “Who’s whistling?”

Pens tapping, students in hallways clapping, snapping up books and paper

Then from the corner, a snore- Napping.

Crap!

Close your mouths. Eyes up here. For the fifteenth time.

Directions.

Directions given once.

Directions given twice- they think I’m being nice and repeating-

I’m just competing with their thoughts and mouths and trying to avoid more questions

Think I can put them all in detentions?

How about in-school suspensions?

I’m losing their attention-

Focus-

finally, all is quiet, pens moving gracefully through

Then out from the right comes, “Uh, Mrs. Shannon, what do we do???”

Don’t blow it. Don’t blow it. You’re angry. They know it.

Point to the board. Give the stare. Smooth your hair and sit back down.

Then, again, “Mrs. Shannon, Mrs. Shannon….”

Can I go to the bathroom, can I go to my locker-

Someone’s face in my window- a stalker?

Was I this much of a talker when I was their age?

“Guess what happened to me last night…”

Interrupts again.

Ah. I might die. Or throw something. Or maybe my head will explode in a thousand pieces and land gently on their desks.

I digress.

Maybe I should just give a test.

“Mrs. Shannon, Mrs. Shannon-“

Ah, what a shame. I waited years to have that name and now I think I’m going to hate it-

I give the one minute sign with my finger.

If I linger here at my desk long enough they will have figured it out on their own-

“Mrs. Shannon…..” or not.

Hot. It’s so hot in here- then cold. I have a bi-polar classroom.

A tomb.

Boom.

Outside of the room.

Giggles.

Great.

Never underestimate kids ability to create a distraction.

Lights. Camera. Action.

If only I were a marine biologist.

A librarian.

A vegetarian.

A cake- baker.

Candle-stick maker.

World- traveler.

Musician.

A writer.

Prize-fighter.

A party all night-er.

“Mrs. Shannon????” Alas. I’m not.

I’m in class.

Ass.

Then- the bell- scuffling feet retreat- stampede! Heads down and running- but- one student remains.

Thanks me for helping her- then disappears. Fears of the morning forgotten

lost beneath waves of understanding-

I found a way to reach her.

I know why I’m a teacher.

I am a Rock, I am an Island

IMG_1710, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I'm stuck. Like watching all of the pedestrians fly seamlessly in and out of sidewalk traffic in Time Square while your peacoat is snagged in the elevator door simply because you had been walking forever and just needed a good hotel to pee in.

As if everyone in the world has a destination and is moving swiftly toward it.

Everyone but me.

It's felt this way for a little while now, which generally signifies something. A need for a change. A reflection. A pause. A discovery. Instead, it feels like I'm just waiting. One of the stones in the middle of the river, blinking my eyes as the water rushes forward with zeal and fervor- leaving me stationary. In the mud. Just waiting. Whoa it sucks to be a rock.

The Fake

I am a fake

A mistake in a suit bearing fruit unlike that from which it came

Just the same

I stand unsmiling

Defiling those who stand in picket lines

Pay fines

Cry and whine

For one, small chance

To stand where I am standing now.

How

Did it go this far

To where I lost sight of the things with my name on them

To where I lay claim to other’s belongings because they were practical

And didn’t carry a stigma

An enigma in one room

With 64 eyes

All seeking answers

Speaking words they have yet to know how to pronounce

Denounce them.

Announce with a flourish, that though they are special

You were never really meant for this

For them

What are we really meant for, after all?

I am a fake

A mistake in a crumpled suit

Throwing accusations like boulders

Hurling expectations over shoulders of backs bowed and bent from anticipating my heels

I don’t know how it feels to fit tight

To fight

To reach for what is good- not just what is right

To light the torch and run deep into the night simply because someone else might see it

And know

That someone other than them is running

Running toward something

Not to run away

Or to find anything

Simply, to run

Because it is what I choose to do

Not what other’s expect

Or request

Or ingest

Or ascertain

Or place blame

Or diagnose- insane

In the sun or in the rain

Because I forgot my name

I’ll run until I find it

And shed the suit along the way

I was a fake.

I’m not today.

Confession

I worked hard today. I taught kids that innocuous has two n's and one c. And then, had to tell them what the word actually meant. Then, I spent an hour and a half on a yellow school bus both ways into Times Square with 67 of the little boogers to chaperone their sorry selves at Shrek the Musical and dinner at Planet Hollywood. After a day like this, reposing by the fire with a novel as thick as a phonebook doesn't do it for me.

I know, that was a shocker. Voracious reader though I am, this kind of day calls for something a bit different. I don't want to chuckle at Wilde's wit. I don't want to brood over Bronte's tragic love affairs. I want my p.j.'s that don't reach my ankles, my sweatshirt with the ugly wooden buttons up the front and to spend the evening with Oprah, with Samantha Brown, Anthony Bourdain, Giada DeLaurentis and the entire cast of Glee.

I am steadfast and unmovable in my stance against cable television. I believe it rots brains, provides our children with valid excuses as to why they should never have to lift a page in a book when everything can be uploaded directly into their front lobes by means of visual stimuli, promotes obesity and ultimately, removes any semblance of intellectual awareness. That being said, allow me to contradict myself.

I. Miss. Cable.

It happens only on nights like these when my synapses are sick of running into each other. When my mouth can only form the words, " No, you can't right now. You'll have to hold it until we get there" after hours and hours of repeating that phrase like a chanting, Byzantine monk. I want someone else to do the entertaining for once. Preferably, someone who can't see me in my dirty p.j.'s, blowing my nose, eating ice cream out of the carton. Oh, Travel Channel- where are you when I need you?

Lost in Transition

I have grown to hate this word. Transition. It's the word that people use when they can't put their finger on what the hell's going on. "Oh, we're just in transition right now." It seems to harken something temporal, something that is not meant to last long- that there is an end in sight in which, eventually, we will all know exactly where we need to be, what will transpire, etc. Pardon me, but I have come to find, this thought process is just a human comfort mechanism and holds no merit or credence.

Mine and my husband's living situation has been transitional the last few months. We have had 3 addresses in less than 7 months. I have not used my own towels. I have forgotten which sweater was the one that I loved to wear on the first snow. I have not held my own coffee mug, not read my own book, not polished my own silverware. We've been in transition.

We have just celebrated our fourth anniversary. Gone are the days when people giggle at our newlywed status. The term "just starting out" has waltzed right past us, leaving us stranded on the dance floor, susceptible to unscrupulous questions more personal than whether or not we are taking time to "enjoy each other". "When are you having children?" flies out like darts, from others, from ourselves. We are in transition.

We are attempting to purchase a home, settling in the least likely of places- a place we had sworn to never return. We are trying to reconcile what it means to purchase a home, to stake claim in something more permanent, to invest. Does this mean that our fly-by-the-seat- of- our pants days are over? By choosing to stay here, are we closing doors to bigger adventures that could possibly lead us outside of the home we never thought we'd return to? Are we no longer the whimsical, free-spirited ones evading ties and obligations in order to learn what it actually means to enjoy life abundantly? Transition.

We have both been in the same occupations for several years now. Occupations we would not have chosen, but are grateful for, for the income and opportunities they have afforded us. We are left asking ourselves, "Is this enough for us?" Is this what we want to teach our children? What else can we do now to change it, if we'd like? Transition.

I hate this word. Not because of what it is, but because of how it's used and the connotation it portrays. Is not our life, here, on this earth, Transitional? Won't we always be transitioning from one stage to the other? from one place to another? From one mind set to another? What if there is no end in sight, but transition is, in fact, the result? Will we ever, truly, know what is going to happen in the future? And once we attain what we're after, how will we ever know if we'll transition again?

It's not the destination, it's the journey, so they say. Let's embrace transition for what it truly is, and not what we'd like it to be.

Callings

I've been thinking a lot about the word "Calling" lately, and this was a fairly decent article I thought I'd share with you, here.

Sick

Have you ever been sick? No, like, really sick? So sick you've soaked through two tee-shirts in one hour even though you're freezing? So sick you're afraid to cough because your breathing stops? So sick that even when your husband rubs your back lightly it feels like he's raking nails down your spine? Welcome to my weekend.

It has been a long time-years-since I have had a sickness like this so I had all but forgotten how completely wretched it actually is. Surprisingly, it's not just the symptoms that make it so unbearable for me, however. It's the helplessness.

I am a stereo-typical eldest child raised by an independent single mother, which basically translates into meaning that I don't EVER need help. That's false, of course, but that's seemingly how I operate. That is, until I'm ill.

Suddenly, I can't get out of bed to get a glass of water. I can't cram my achy fingers into the advil bottle. I can't shower without a quick hand "at the ready" considering I'm infamous for the in-the-shower pass outs. I can't even walk to the bathroom on my own, my spine all crooked from lying in one prostrate position too long. I am utterly depend on my husband for all of my basic needs and it would be a lie to say I didn't inwardly hate it. Because on top of feeling awful and helpless, being sick makes me an emotional wreck. I get weepy. I get sad. I get scared that it will never go away, that I won't be able to unload the dishwasher in time for company this weekend, that I cannot go to work or worship practice or the other 800 things I've committed myself to throughout the week.

It seems, I identify myself by the things that I do, and when illness renders me helpless, the sadness comes from feeling worthless. So, I suppose I could consider it a good thing that I'm laid up here on the couch unable to independently move my legs. It is here, when I am floating in between naps, where God whispers softly of where my worth really comes from.

Oh, and that after all he's done for me, I should really consider giving Rich a kegerator for Christmas.

Maybe it was Rich whispering.

In Defense of Baths

I have been cold for two, count them, two days. Not just the "this is a nice, brisk autumn day" cold but the kind of cold that has you refusing to reach your hand out of the covers to hit the snooze button no matter how many octaves your alarm clock is bound and determined to climb. That kind of cold. In the car on the way back home from worship practice, I fantasized about Bahama beaches,endless mugs of cocoa- with a strategically displayed cinnamon stick, of course- and down comforters stretched out like canvas across the parking lot. My hot and steamy dreams led to only one conclusion; one answer to this bone chill I cannot shake: it was time to take a bath.

Baths are totally and completely underrated. Not only are they the only things that can thaw my hypothermic appendages, but it is in the bath where you can find complete and utter solitude. No one bothers you in the bath; not even your spouse. There is something sacred about water immersion. I've often envisioned a bathroom and tub placed right smack in the middle of my classroom so, whenever the need rises (like when I'm being called a F%$# face or accused of losing an irresponsible child's paper) I can politely put my finger in the air and excuse myself. It's time for my bath. Where I go, you cannot follow. Ha. Ha. Insert sinister teacher laugh here.

You cannot possibly be distracted with work. Paperwork doesn't fair well surrounded by water, don't you know? You can't answer the phone or e-mails- mmm, electric shock, anyone? Besides, how awkward would it be to have to ask your boss to repeat himself on that conference call- you simply couldn't hear him over the running water.

It's a one stop shopping excursion. Relax and get clean while you wait for the stillness to put your mind at rest. Makes you wonder what all of these spas are about, huh? Baths are great for the economically challenged. And the tired. And the annoyed. And the physically achy. Damn. I think I just talked myself into taking another one.

Farmer's Market Bounty

Wedding Days

This month, nearly four years ago now, I was sitting in my childhood room, in front of the mirror, surrounded with 85 hair and make-up products begrudgingly purchased from the oh-so-alluring cosmetics isle in CVS in sullen preparation for the big day. Every favor was purchased and wrapped in a matching ribbon, scattered all over my Mom's dining room table. Every hand-folded, three layered invitation had long been sent out to family members I hadn't seen since I thought stretch jeans were cool. All the T's were crossed, all the I's were dotted. My dress was winking seductively from the corner, it's slippery satin folds screaming to be noticed, touched as I threw my flannel p.j.s over the shoulder to dampen it's spirits. And there I was, about to marry the man I had dreamt of marrying since I was 15 years old, with my 9 dollar mascara in hot pursuit of winning the swimming segment of the triathlon down my face.

Aside from outside factors unique to me and my family situation that made the time surrounding my wedding more stressful than the Short Hills Mall during the Juicy Couture sale at Bloomingdales( it's a bold-faced lie, by the way. Juicy Couture on sale is like fat-free half and half. Dirty tricks, the both of them) I about cracked under the pressure I believe most American brides either place on themselves or allow others to impose upon them. So, in light of my anniversary, I thought I would offer some unorthodox bridal advice to those taking the plunge in the near future.

1. Elope. No. Really. I mean it.

If number one is not an option, then please read as follows:

2. Listen to your mother. Yes, yes, it's true. It's your day. Blah, blah. They just tell you that to soften the blow. In reality, it's Mom's one opportunity to prove to the world how beautiful you are and why she somehow needs to be credited for that. So, when she tells you you absolutely must have the florist make the center pieces more festive and definitive of the season, DO IT or you'll end up with stuffed mice dressed as pilgrims surreptitiously displayed around each and every floral arrangement. Trust me.

3. No one will ever remember. Repeat this over and over to yourself. The tear at the farthest right-hand corner of the tulle carpet? The mashed potatoes served at table nine sans the parsley sprinkle? The delightful little toiletry baskets you made for the restrooms that the caterers divided and conquered in the walk in freezer? The D.J. mispronouncing your new, 2 hour old last name? DO NOT CRY. No one will remember but you. And if your guests experience at the day of your celebration was contingent upon your diverse display of tampax, perhaps you should have invited me instead.

4. EAT. The food's good. You should know, you picked it out. Sit for at least 10 minutes, take a look at the room full of all of the people you have every known and loved, and make sure you get in at least 5 bites before you're whisked off for the Electric Slide.

5. Nod and smile. Everyone's got advice. Even those who never planned their own wedding day yet. Just nod and smile. Then, thank them sincerely for their input and promptly forget everything they said.

As a side note, this is certainly not said to extract the joy some women seem to get from planning "the biggest event of their life". ( Is it possible they exist?) It's just intended to clarify that if you don't or didn't, you're normal, too. If you are anything like me ( I tried on exactly 2 wedding gowns before throwing in the towel and ordering it straight out of a catalog) keep this in mind. Yes, the day you get to wear a nice dress and every body comes to celebrate your union with flowers and cake and lazer lights is pretty special. But it's not your wedding day. You get more than one, you know. Every morning you wake up and remember who you get to have coffee with, buy a house with, have a kid with as long as you both shall live.

That's when the wedding begins.

Enjoy your special day and all of your wedding days there after, as I will mine!

If Anthony Bourdain taught my Class

I've spent the last fifteen minutes wondering how long I would have in my school district if I spoke to my students like Anthony Bourdain speaks to his audience. A quick toss of the hair, a monochromatic outfit, a cigarette hanging from the side of my mouth and an F-you every 3.4 seconds. If Anthony Bourdain were teaching my class today, he would have put his dirty, travel-weary boots on top of my gradebook, sighed a loud, exasperated sigh, told my kids to damn societal expectations and lead them like the pied piper across the quad, trampling on flowers and teacher's open-mouthed stares, spinning tales of humid, spicy places, waving his glinting sunglasses in opposite directions.

Not for Lack of Trying

DSC_0044, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I have known this week was coming for quite some time. Here I am, though it's a holiday, my eyes springing open at 6:07- the time my alarm clock is yet to be set to. I've been trying this morning to wrap my brain about all things inconceivable in the fleeting quiet this house often has on weekends in the early part of the day. Some are without much meaning(Why on earth do we celebrate all of those who worked so hard by getting a day off? Shouldn't it mean that we should be inspired to work harder?). Some, have meaning only to me, (I wonder if I should invest in moleskin stock for the up and coming high-heeled season?) and some, I'm sure, have been pondered by those who've gone before me( Why won't God speak to me?)

I am well-versed in the act of aversion and pride. I am quick to say that I am fine, God is faithful, I will be strong and it will all work out. I will not show signs of weakness, I apologize when I cry and I "pick myself up and dust myself off" before I would allow anyone to give me a hand. Well, pardon my language, but, screw that.

In the early morning with the light just breaking through, before anyone else has woken up yet and I can enjoy the first cup of coffee in self-pitying silence, I'm laying down my hands. I'm not going to do it anymore. I don't feel fine in this moment- and it's quite amazing how, in that simple admonition, something else begins to unfold. How can He possibly be my strength in weakness, if I will never admit how weak I am?

This article was useful this morning.  Read more about strength through weakness here.

The Back-to-School Blues meet The Green Mountain High

Ahhhhhhh!!!! I'm not ready! I haven't even spent a combined hour on preparation!  I can't remember what a dangling modifier is! I haven't rehearsed my, " I hope your summer was fantastic because this will be the most important academic year of your high school career," speech! I am a complete and utter failure.  In case you were wondering what it is I actually have been doing the last few weeks, I'll tell you.  

Rich and I spent the last 5 days in Stowe, Vermont and it took all of my strength and the promise of purchasing as many growlers of Vermont brewed beer that we could fit in our Scion for the trip home to get him to come back to the tri-state area.  Truth be told, I needed a little convincing myself.  We stayed right smack-dab in the middle of the majestic Green Mountains at the prestigious Stowehof Inn, waking literally every day to a misty, morning view from our balcony.  We visited as many breweries as I could physically stand, rubbed dirty elbows with the locals, saw a little local music and felt utterly at home in our birkenstocks and appreciation of the sweet, mountain air.  I lost count approximately how many times my husband mentioned how much we belonged there and if it weren't for the six month winter season, I would be inclined to agree.   Regretfully, yesterday we made the long trip home, our little car filled to the brim with beer bottles, Vermont cheese wedges from the creamery and maple syrup.  It just might have been the best vacation we've taken yet.  Really. Pictures to come as soon as I dig out my camera from underneath all of the pine needles.

Currently, I'm preparing to meet our realtor for our, oh, I don't know, fourth time we'll bid on a house this summer.  On our vacation we were reminded of how much we relish the opportunity to take off for a bit, see something new.  Our desires for things and what we'd love to see happen in the near future.  Copenhagen, Bel Horizonte, Brazil and Paris were all on the tip of our tongues.  Putting a good deal of work into this album that is slowly but surely taking shape- ahhh exciting!- reaching out to our community, helping out with the cool kids in our church's youth group and the possibility lingering still of either one or both of us returning to school for the spring semester.  All of these things together(including the hovering thought of a little Shannon in the possible near future) lead us to deciding upon the purchase of a house that would both fall well below our budget and afford us the space needed to open up to our friends and family.  We believe we finally found it and are taking the leap (once again) and placing a bid.  From previous experience, we know that God'll squash it if it's not a good idea and we're cool with that.  But, for now, we're so excited that we were saved from buying the house on Montclair so that we were able to evaluate what we needed and wanted for the next few years to come.

See? I have been entirely too busy to even consider constructing parts of speech worksheets.  I believe, in my heart of hearts, my students will thank me for that.

Sleep

It's one of the few things absolutely necessary for survival.  Workers dream about it all day as they tap pencils, quiet children, answer phones, push papers.  Commuters try and catch it on the train.  Babies don't mess around and just do it all day long.  There are no tutorials.  No instruction manuals.  No group sessions for sleeping, you're just expected to know how to do it.  Which, often makes me feel like the one tourist that's always 30 feet behind everyone else on the group tour of the same section of the same city for the 5th day in a row.  I should know my way around by now- and also to wear more adequate walking shoes- but I just, sigh, don't.

I've found that this life-long tango with insomnia is like a hot poker for advice-givers.  I've listened politely to instructions on warm milk, hot baths, lavender scented oils, exercise in the morning, exercise in the afternoon, and the list goes on.  I assure you, I have tried them all- sometimes all at once-to no avail.  I am still awake typing a blog post at 5:45 in the morning, when most people should be waking up from a full night's sleep.

I am not nervous, restless, pre-occupied, caffeinated, or consumed.  Just, sleepless  and left wondering if there is even a remote chance of this condition rectifying itself.  Have you ever tried to run after applying lavender oils, warm milk in hand? There must be a better way.

Rootless

IMG_0641, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I dream of what Venice looks like in springtime. I imagine what real greek yogurt would taste like. I wonder if I have a big enough handle on portuguese to get by in Lisbon. My heart stirs at the thought of Paris at nighttime. I had thought all of these things would magically disappear as soon I got married to be replaced by more acceptable dreams of owning a home and starting a family. And, I suppose, they did. It was just, then I began dreaming of homes in far-away places and traveling with our children. Rich and I began traveling together and found ourselves planning our next adventure before we finished the one we were in. We pour over pictures (this one in particular from Scotland), relive experiences, laugh about the people we've met and the places we stayed. A modified-version of the original.

At first, I had thought that this was indicative of rootless behavior exhibited by the two of us. What is wrong with us? Why can't our hearts just be settled where we are? Is it unhealthy to make plans to put down roots when parts of us are pulling up from the ground?

I don't think this is an uncommon occurrence. Particularly with the steps we've made in order to purchase a home recently, I think it's only natural to reassess the place we've found ourselves in and what we're called to do.

We were called to be here, in New Jersey, for now. We know this because, this is where we are. Our hearts are connected to the community and to our families that live here. So, we will put our roots down here for now. We will invest where we are, with everything we have, for now. We are learning what it means to be present, to fulfill mandates and to trust. This doesn't mean to neglect the parts of us that long for something new. For all that we've learned about roots, we also know that they can cover more ground than meets the eye. It's so very simple, we just over-looked it.

Summertime

Yes. It's here again. The calendar mocks me, I start getting mail addressed to Mrs. Shannon, I wake at 3 a.m. with the pressure of coming up with an innovative grammar lesson racing through my restless mind. Every year when this time comes around again, I swear to myself that it will be different. That I won't lose any more sleep fraught with anxiety about hearing an alarm that has three more weeks before signifying my march to the classroom.

It has been the craziest summer in the history of summers. For us, anyway. We moved into my mom's house at the beginning of the summer, thinking we would be scraping wallpaper and arguing about master bedroom colors with culinary names- butterscotch or maple sugar?- by now. We thought we would perhaps have ironed out a plan for both or at least one of us, to either continue our educations or jump ship and change careers. I thought we would have come to an agreement about when to start a family. If , up until this summer, my life hasn't been a testament to the fact that nothing goes according to your plan, there's no mistaking it now.

As it stands right now, I am squinting at the keyboard as I'm typing, considering it is perpetually dark in this dungeon of a basement without a prospect of a new living situation in sight. I am ordering new posters to adorn the classroom walls I half-heartedly wish to return to. I never took the GRE's as I was supposed to, in order to be prepared to apply to grad schools by their deadlines in November for the spring semester and am currently childless- which, I have to say from my humorous living quarters, perhaps isn't the worst thing for now. Or it is. I sincerely, officially, have no idea.

Through all the uncertainly, I was blessed with glimmers of hope in the last few months that I am going to hold onto- both literally and figuratively. I just returned from a trip to Nashville that seemed to stoke a dying ember. I went longing to discover if music was something I could put on my hobby list and get on with my real, normal life. Seems I never did like normalcy. Or reality. Going so close to returning to work was a toss-up- it had two effects:it made me want to walk away forever and throw myself into this project that has consumed me- and give it one last go, to make sure my kids know how important it is to follow who God created them to be. I took some sweet Portuguese lessons from a lovely friend, I am close to finishing my goal of 30 pages in one of the two manuscripts I've been working on, I learned how to make a three-tiered birthday cake, a raspberry tart and that strawberries freshly picked at the farmer's market don't need any help. I learned that I actually like fire-works, and enjoy the beach- not just fake it because Rich loves it. I learned that my sister and I lived through more than I give ourselves credit for, or take into consideration and that in and of itself is a reason to praise our God every day.

Summertime is supposed to be a restful time full of peace. Parts of it were, parts of it weren't. I think I'm thankful for both.

The Sound of Silence

I thought long and hard before polishing off the second half of the foot-long sub a few hours ago for lunch.  Really, I did.  I also contemplated going for a walk before the heavens opened up to mock me in my fleeting, momentary wave of false self-discipline.  I have viewed more "watch instantly" movies on netflix than an entire college dorm building full of pre-menstrual, weepy girls and I have sat for so long in one spot on the couch I thought I might have developed appendicitis before realizing the corner of my laptop has been digging carelessly into my side for at least two hours now. I've also noticed, on the rare occasion that one of my eyeballs were not glued to the computer screen, that the chipped nail polish on my index finger slightly resembles a killer bunny rabbit. Or Africa.  I am bored, cranky and uninspired.  I mustn't "go out" anywhere, considering our spending needs to be at a stand-still until (if) we ever close on this albatross of a house- but if I subject myself to another evening home alone in my parents house I just might resort to drinking myself into a bored,cranky, uninspired stupor.  What's a girl to do?

I blame this all, graciously, on my husband, of course.  Not only because he is not here to rescue me from self-proclaimed boredom with his embellished, narcissistic banter, poor-taste movie choices, little- kid giggle and sneak attack hugs and headlocks BUT because I would never be experiencing said boredom at all if it weren't for his social influence.  

I was never one that needed human contact in order for whatever activity I was engaging in to constitute as a good time. In the BR(before Rich) period, I would read for hours on end without so much as a glance toward the phone.  I would run to the mall by myself (it takes longer with more people, and who would want to waste their afternoon away in a Jersey mall?)and even eat alone, in a restaurant without the slightest pang of loneliness.  All of that quickly changed upon discovering that my husband doesn't merely like to be in others company, he relishes it. Swallows the entire experience whole, as a matter of fact like a hungry, 20-foot python given only one, dancing white mouse for dinner.  Where's the rest? People I find tear-my-hair-out annoying, Rich finds riveting.  So much so that he'll invite them to dinner.  Or away for the weekend down to shore.  Or to Europe- for several weeks on a back-packing tour through the Swiss Alps.   I always slightly mocked my husband's need to be with other human beings- they're so imperfect, you know-until I found myself adopting aspects of this inconvenient quality.

So, now I'm stuck. An anti-social book-worm I am no more, which means I land right in the bored, cranky and uninspired category if I happen to find myself home alone two nights in a row.  I'm not sure which cross I'd rather bear.

Summer Learning Curve

Even though my summers off consist of a lot of coffee, staying in my pajamas all day, watching tons of movies, reading as many books as humanly possible, eating at strange hours of the day and dreaming of a life in which I could do this all the time, I do actually do productive things as well.  But aside from all of the projects I create for myself, I feel like I've learned a little more than just basic Portuguese and how to make a Brown Butter Raspberry Tart.  This summer was a a "bigger picture" summer, and with 5 weeks left and counting, I thought I'd share  the things I've learned in the last six weeks (more so for me than you, but hey, if it's inspiring then it served double-duty).

1.  God can be trusted.

I was hesitant to list this first, considering after being a believer for a solid 10 years now, I should already have had this down.  Alas, the truth is out.  I never really believed it to be true.  Not until this summer.  

2. Fear is a False Prophet

I think it would be safe to say that the last few years of my life have been dominated by fear.  Fear of people's opinions of me, fear of the unknown, fear of the familiar, fear of success- yes, I was one of those who expected failure because I believed I deserved it and feared success. Crazy-fear of illness, fear of financial disaster, and the list goes on and on.  I was taught this summer that Fear is a liar and a false prophet, predicting things that may never actually come to fruition.  

(if that sounds like you, buy and read the book that saved my life- http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_gw_3_14?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=running+scared+welch&sprefix=running+scared)

3.  Work to Live.

I still have a little over 5 weeks left of summer and I've already begun ordering posters and organizing lesson plans for my classroom come September. I meander through the back-to-school isle and morn the loss of summer before it's over. Not because I want to, but because I'm a neurotic mess sometimes.  I needed to be reminded this summer that I work as a teacher so I can live as Jenny.  And there's no way in hell that Jenny would waste a little over a month on classroom stuff when she could be doing things she really wants to do.

4.  God is a God of Resurrection

A word was spoken over both Rich and I this summer that reminded us of God's power.  The person who prophesied over us let us know that the visions that we have allowed to die for the sake of pursuing what we believed to be God's will, can and will be resurrected.  That destiny was written on our faces.  That we were created for great things.  Who doesn't like to hear that?

5.  There's Power in Hope

Alright, I'm a nay-sayer.  It's true.  I say no to everything before even considering it as a viable option.  But I've learned this summer that after you get numbers 1-4 down, hope is a powerful gift from God.  

I have hope for this up and coming year.  Hope that we'll have a house in which to open up to our family and friends.  Hope that this school year will be better than last school year.  Hope that when opportunities come knocking on our door, I won't say no out of fear and follow my husband's lead of being a faithful Jesus-follower.  Hope that I now believe that God can be trusted.  Hope that I'll remember that fear is a false prophet.  Hope that I know that I work at this job in order to live- and that, perhaps, this will be my finale as a teacher of English in a public school.  Hope that Rich and I will see the resurrection of some of our visions- and have the faith to step out on them.

It's going to be a great year.

Performance Anxiety

It was unplanned.  Rich and I went to a local cafe to watch a friend perform at an open mic night to show our support.  I hadn't anticipated the feeling that would over take me as I watched a 15 year old boy scream his way through Motley Crew.  There were quite a few people there.  More than I expected, anyway.  And the usual open-mic characters, at that.  There are the regulars, who flirt with the cute barista girls as they deliver their espressos to their table ( without having to ask, of course).  Then, the washed-up hippies with toothless grins, harmonicas and vests with fringe playing the Eagles after the Beatles after The Band.  Next, the wanna-be's.  Often awkward looking, always nervous, voices cracking wearing outdated tee-shirts of artists they long to emulate but could never come close (though no one, not even the uninterested, rockstar in the corner, has the heart to tell them).  

I had planned only to go, not to perform.  But when our friend walked off stage (who's incredible, by the way and does not fit in any aforementioned category) laid his guitar next to Rich it was clear that it should not remain unused.  

It's been a while since I've been up in front of anyone for sole performance sake.  I sing worship at church, which is using my gift but certainly not performance related.  I teach, which is basically performing all the time, though not music related.  As I walked up to the stage, I tried to recall what it felt like to perform in front of people who are there for no other reason but to listen to you.

I am not the best performer who has ever graced the stage.  I'm not the best singer.  I'm not the best song writer.  I'm not the most composed, witty, refined or capable.  But in a little, small town cafe on a motley crew of an open-mic night,  I remembered who I was created to be.  With each pregnant pause, each coy remark, each audience member I made eye contact with, each high note, each run- this is what I love and what I do the best.  I can't say that about anything else- nor do I want to.  And that, well, that's really something.

Best Job on Earth

It happens every, single summer.  It is almost to the point where I cannot go out between the hours of 9 and 5 for fear that the little old lady behind me in line will bring it up.  I'm patronized.  Ridiculed.  Made to feel as if I were a perpetual college student whose mommy and daddy foot the bill for elaborate vacations in the Hamptons, which is obviously why I can't work during the summer.  For readers who have been following me for some time, this is old hat.  I'm a teacher.  There are things that, I've only this year allowed myself to admit, that I love about the job.  I love watching kids realize that you actually give a crap about their lives.  I love hearing kids talk about my class in the hallway.  I love their dirty jokes.  I love teaching Shakespeare, moving my desks in a circle and watching them perform a language they never knew they were able to understand.  I love all of the letters I got at the end of the year telling me that I was "the shit". I love the kids who fought me tooth and nail to hand in a stickin' piece of homework.  I love the prom pictures.  I love the break-ups.  I love the get-back-togethers the next day.  I love making loud, obnoxious "EWWWWWWWW" noises when I find them making out in the stairwell.  I love hearing their stories, their complaints, their victories, their defeats.  That being said, (and this is most certainly not directed at those of you who read this since you are an articulate, well-educated bunch) there are things about this job that irk me to high heavens, and really, it's mostly the people who, for some reason, don't believe it's a real one.

Yup.  Ok.  We get two months off.  I'm not writing it off, nor am I complaining.  I think it's fantastic.  However, just a few things to bear in mind for those who scoff at teachers across the board.

1.  Technically speaking, we work 12 months just like everyone else.  10 months are spent working like a dog in the classroom, 2 months are spent working to forget everything that happened in those 12 months so we can actually return.

2.  I would gladly trade my "10 month" job for a position in which I could get up and pee whenever necessary.  Urinary infections get old and expensive.  Don't be fooled- our healthcare is not what it used to be.

3.  At no time during 7 am and 4 pm can I close my door, make a phone call, give a hug, say a curse word, listen to music, check my e-mail, smile without consequence, drink some coffee or SIT DOWN. That leather office chair must be nice.

4.  I would welcome a 45 minute meeting with 5, obstinate adults who make rational decisions over 5, 45 minute classes with 25-plus irrational teenagers.  At least adults'll bring you donuts and pretend that they are listening to what you have to say.

5.  I am more concerned about the state of my classroom and am more behind if I take a sick day than I ever was before I ever needed a sick day.

6.  Lastly, for those from the "teacher's teach because they weren't smart or ambitious enough to pursue what they really wanted"camp- we are present in school for 10 months, but still get paid a full year's salary.  Please tell me, who's smarter again?

So, don't ask teachers if they're working during summer.  Don't joke about all the time off they have.  How lucky they are to have such an easy job.  How it's the Best Job on Earth.  If it was, then you'd be doing it too.

Stay-cations R Us

In light of purchasing a home, Rich and I decided that whisking ourselves off to Barcelona may not be the very best financial decision. So, during Rich's week off we meandered around the tri-state for some local fun.

Monday, it was off to Ocean Grove with a bunch of friends, which, generally speaking, doesn't usually float my boat. I'm a self-admitted anti-jersey shore-goer, but I couldn't have asked for a more perfect day. No sand in my suit, warm water, lunch at the SeaGrass (trust me on this one and leave the soggy cooler sandwiches at home) and home before your arms start sticking to your beach chair.

Tuesday, we kicked it true vacation style with a slow morning start. Rich went with the boys for some soccer practice for the big game on Sunday, and I headed over to Konrad and Gabi's to give an English lesson in return for all the awesome Portuguese lessons Gabi's been giving me.

Monday, the beach, Wednesday, the mountains. We headed to New Paltz, NY for some hiking around Mohonk Lake, perusing the shops and stopping for lunch at the Gilded Otter. (If there, invest in the Summer Porch Lager if only for the lovely purple hue the wild blueberries inspire as they float around in your mug).

Thursday was a brief trip back to reality as we had to take care of some Mortgage issues (vacations for adults are never the same). But, it was right back to vacation mode on Friday....

Friday, to the city! We spent the entire day at the Bronx Zoo, running around Jungle World, racing who could locate the tree frogs-Rich always wins-, snacking on homemade tuna sanwiches, granola and fresh summer peaches. After an hour on the Manhattan bound 2, we were obviously thirsty making a stop at the Gingerman imperative. (I'm finally sated to have gone, since the gentlemen have made numerous visits without their female companions. Come on, guys, we like beer, too.)

Saturday wrapped up our awesome stay-cation week with a birthday party for our friend, Sarah at Mompou Tapas and Wine Bar on Ferry St., in Newark. Fabulous decor, creative tapas and good wine is a guaranteed winning combination.

So, we didn't make it to Europe. We didn't even make it outside of an 100 mile radius. Even so, we discovered how stay-cations can be just as fun as vacations. They're both just great excuses to hang out together.

FYI

Seemingly, one is never enough. I have always been overly ambitious in all of my undertakings so why should blogging be any different? My sister Em and I have often discussed how fun it would be to contribute to a blog together, reviewing local restaurants, sharing recipes, successes and disasters in the kitchen, etc. I love to cook, we both love to eat, and have chatted at great length of how we wished there was one place as dedicated to eating out as they were to staying in. We have since figured that if something doesn't exist, you had best create it yourself. So, just a brief announcement in saying, that coming soon The Mastication Station will grace the web with such information and here will be the place to announce the launch. Try to control the urge of impulsive-restaurant-picking until then.

An Aspiring Puddleglum

IMG_0957, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

As some are aware, I have certain reading rituals and traditions that are unique only to me. Every year around Christmas time, I read Frances Hodges Burnett's "A Little Princess". The holiday warm-fuzzies will cease to occur unless I've been absorbed into the sparsity of Sarah's attic bedroom where her dreams become tangible realities her active imagine couldn't even conjure. And every summer without fail and in correct chronological order according to when they were written ( which means The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe should be read before The Magicians Nephew, though they are placed in opposite order in the series) I get lost in Narnia.

My favorite Narnian adventure is found in the seventh book, The Silver Chair. The Silver Chair, considered by most critics and readers alike, is one of the darker if not darkest books of the series. This turns many readers off- The Chronicles are a fantasy series, after all, meant to take readers far from elements too close to reality. It's not just the construction of the novel that I love, however, but one of the characters in particular.

I am a trademark Puddleglum. I assume the worst and try to put my best face on. I am beyond a pessimist, really, which makes Puddleglum and I kindred spirits, soulmates if you will. Except...there's one chapter in The Silver Chair in which Puddleglum rises as a hero and gives me hope that, perhaps experience in darkness makes identifying the light easier.

The story's hero, Prince Rilian had been put under a terrible spell by the Queen of the Underworld in which kept him bound in a Silver Chair every night, preventing him from returning to his home and becoming the King he was meant to be. Eustace, Jill and Puddleglum had released him from the spell and all were getting ready to flee the underworld when the Queen showed up to stand in their way. Releasing a certain drug into the air that clouds their thinking, the Queen tries to convince the group that Narnia, Aslan and everything they believed to be true was all a fabrication and the only thing that was real was the underworld in which they belong. It is here, in the darkest of hours, that Puddleglum is able to see through the lies of the Queen and hold to what is true, stating that even if everything they stood for turned out to be a lie, he would rather spend the rest of his days searching for a fake Narnia than serve a woman like her.

Puddleglum was able to rise above physical discomfort, logic, reason and disbelief to stand on the foundation he knew was the only vessel of hope. He stood right in the face of the devil and told her that he didn't care if she was right or wrong. That it mattered not at all what she thought, said or did. He was standing firm no matter how foolish it made him. Not only would he stand, but he would seek Narnia, strive to please Aslan and live as a Narnian- even if Narnia never existed. Not even the devil can argue with that.

I cheer Puddleglum on every July when I get to his shining chapter. He's certainly not as interesting as Badger, as entertaining as
Reepicheep or as endearing as Mr. Tumnus but in my opinion, he's the bravest of them all.

Goal Update

News Flash:  I have worked (almost to completion) on three songs this week, have taken my first Portuguese lesson (which I will post about later), and am preparing myself to spend the morning to early afternoon at either Panera or Whole Foods in an attempt to finish three (!) chapters of at least one novel right after I take a trip to the bank to grab the one bank statement I'm missing for the mortgage application.  I have, however, gained a pound this week.  Oh, well.  Four out of five ain't bad.

Rainy Day Reflections

DSC_0051, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I am sick of the rain. Generally speaking, I'm not a sunshiny kind of girl. I hate the heat. I hate-gasp-the jersey shore with the sticky sand, creepy mullets and all kinds of inedible confections, that, combined with too much sun and insecure beachwear turns my tummy into a squirmy mess. However, this rainy streak may be too much for even this rainy day girl, so, I've decided that on my second day of summer vacation I would curtail the stormy feelings by dreaming and planning how I'll be spending the next two and a half months I have free of teenage angst and quick thinking in the classroom. I've made a list of all of the things that I am thrilled to be doing to inspire me to think sunny thoughts.

1. Lose 10 lbs. ( Warning: teachers, in celebratory enthusiasm during the entire last month of school, place fresh donuts in the teacher's room. Stay away.)

2. Finish 30 pages each in the two manuscripts I've been working on for what feels like forever, never getting past the first two chapters.

3. Finish the composition of and iron out the kinks of the 12 songs that I've written...and run them by a great friend during my visit to Nashville!

4. Take some sweet Portuguese lessons from my favorite Brazilian.

5. Close on my house (!) and spend all of August elbow deep in paint, my vernacular limited to words like "crown molding" and "wainscoating".

I've kept my list to 5 things- I've learned a few things about being overly ambitious during the period of time given to teachers to perhaps learn to breath again and stop waiting anxiously to hear the first period bell in their sleep. I have to say, however, even for those who aren't teachers, the summer seems to be a great time to re-evaluate, learn something new, try something fun and reconnect. So, embrace this damp day, light a few candles, say a quick prayer of thanks for an opportunity to reflect and get started on your list. Then, tell me all about it! ( I need some reading material if I'm going to be stuck on the treadmill:)

There's no Place like Home....

My mother has been insanely gracious in extending her home to Rich and I for the last few weeks while our bid has been pending on a house in Montclair. Though, it certainly has not been easy adjusting to being back in her house, it's been a blessing in more ways than one. Now, after 7 long weeks of waiting (anyone bidding on short sales, please mark my words and be prepared to grow old and wrinkly before you hear back from anyone) we were finally notified on the day that we were going to pull our bid off the table, that it was accepted. This news is more than exciting. In fact, it's more than we ever anticipated it to be.

Wanderers that we are, Rich and I were fairly concerned that upon notification of acceptance we would flip out under the weight of responsibility and the idea of "roots"; particularly in the Northern Jersey area. Finances were also a concern, as well as the foreboding thought that this huge step in life might mean we will have to hang around in the jobs we've been less than satisfied with for the last few years. All valid concerns, some may say, but thanks to God and this book my mother-in-law gently, but firmly suggested I read (Running Scared, by Ed Welch. go ahead and read it- I dare you) none of those concerns seemed to be hovering over our new house.

We are aware of exactly what this house means and exactly what it doesn't. It represents a place where we can explore, create, grow and love. It provides ample space to fill with people and their stories. There is space for our children-when or if ever we decide to have them. It signifies a new part of life Rich and I are about to embark upon together.

We've been all over the world by plane and by car, we've survived beneath the poverty level and above, we've supported each other through sicknesses and death, we've served and loved others passionately and without withholding and we're so grateful our adventures are only beginning.

We're buying a house, true. But the people we love and have yet to know, places we've been, things we've seen and done and the God we serve will make anywhere we are a home.

Wisdom in a Jar

I am the annoying woman in the Dunkin Donuts line making everyone late for work just so she can scrap the gum off of a lone dime she found at the bottom of her bag to avoid breaking a dollar. I will only purchase non-name brand items at supermarkets even if it means buying things I will never eat or use(but I saved 35 cents!). I re-use plastic sandwich bags. I call myself resourceful. Thrifty. Frugal. All very decent rhetoric to avoid the clanging gong of truth- I'm just, downright cheap.

It's a sickness, really, passed down through generations of budget-conscious Vanderbergs and the weight of it drags disparagingly through every mall encounter, every Shoprite aisle. A damp sweat breaks out on my upper lip as my fingers gingerly brush the price-tag in a desperate attempt at nonchalant perusal. I have stress dreams about buying more than two tee-shirts at a time.

I am a firm believer that consuming never leads to fulfillment. Not only are my purse-strings padlocked, but I have been known to scoff at others who spend more than what I deem necessary for any certain product that could be made from the contents of your pantry or refrigerator.

Here is where I hang my head in shame and publicly declare my deepest apologies for my hypocritical behavior. I have tasted the riches of a well-made body scrub and I am not turning back. Not matter-gulp-how much it costs.

The Body Shop's line of Spa Wisdom's African Sea Salt Scrub has, with one peaches and cream tub, changed the course of my skin's history. At 30 bucks a pop, this little African beauty scrubs these unfortunately rainy June doldrums into distant, scale-y memories. Who can resist Community Trade, organic beeswax and shea butter? I mean, it's the very essence of shrewd spending. I'm basically donating money to perpetuate the fair trade cycle- and happen to have skin as smooth as petals and smell lightly of the earth after it rains in the process.

There, see? Nothing hypocritical at all. I take back my aforementioned apology. Not only am I frugal but globally aware and empowering as well. And as soon as my penny jar fills up, I'll trot to the Body Shop counter and spring for another. (I usually go between 4 and 5 in case you'd like to avoid the line).

New Doors

IMG_0872, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

My classroom floor is sticky with gatorade and lemonade remnants. Every shorts-clad student in the hallway is rubbing allergy ridden eyes and teachers are showing up for the first bell later, and later, and later still brandishing Dunkin Donuts and a new pair of shades. It's here. Four more weeks to go.

This time of year my kids are talking about who they're going to prom with and what they'll be doing for graduation. It's a fresh smelling season full of new opportunities, growth and adventure. For everyone, it seems, but me.

Rich and I, over the last 3 months, have bid on 3 houses- each one falling through. We have held steadfastly to our jobs, only to grow increasingly more unsatisfied. We have tittered and cried and giggled and thrown things all the while wondering, What is the hold up? Where is our new door to walk through?

But -the birds are singing. I had tea with a great friend yesterday. Rich took a half day to watch the Championship League Finals- really a fabulous excuse to get together with a bunch of guys and drink beer. And my day ends at 2:45. Regardless of where we live and where we go to work everyday, we will continue to walk right through some doors. Even if it's only the creaky, wooden one to my classroom.

DSC_0768

DSC_0768, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

So proud of my little sister all grown up....

Coming Back Home

Well, I just stopped here this morning and realized that it's been some time since my last visit. Much has happened, much is still being waited upon. But, due to my church's new awesome schedule (yeah for service at 4 p.m.!) and my husband's new fixation on playing soccer on Sunday mornings, I think it may be time to regroup. There are a few posts already in the works and much more to come....so grab a cup of coffee, your favorite teddy bear (I won't tell) and settle in. I've missed you and it feels good to come back home.

I am not an Orphan

So, I'm going to be 26 on Tuesday.  I know.  For some, that may sound terribly young.  To my students, it sounds like I should be driving a mini van and tucking my Hanes tee-shirt into my Mom jeans (which are, hysterically enough, wide-leg dark denim as I was informed by a young girl wearing jeans that could only have been painted on to her chop-stick legs.)  Regardless of what it sounds like to people, I know what this specific birthday sounds like to me.  Awesome.

Generally speaking, 26 is a fairly anti-climactic age.   No one makes black tee shirts with headstones for the big 2-6.  I think it is safe to say that I will not be surprised with a party, wheeled in by a wheelchair, or  pelted with any "over-the-hill" paraphernalia.   I have, however, hit a huge milestone.  I finally, deep down in my soul, am comfortable with myself.  I would even go so far as to say, I really even like myself.  Like, a lot.  In a not Uncle-Jesse kinda way, of course.  Now, a lot of credit is due to my husband who constantly reminds me how awesome I am (and after 3 and half years, I've slowly begun to believe him).  He has been the most encouraging, supportive, inspiring force in my life.  But I think it's even deeper than that.

I was on the phone with a good friend of mine not too long ago and was explaining this phenomenon to him.  I kept saying, "It's like, I finally figured out that I can just do what I love because I love it! Not for any monetary or social gain.  Simply because I love it.  And God's totally cool with that! I think he's even proud of me for it!"  For the first time in my life I have openly and willingly accepted that I am not alone.  I don't have to feel any guilt about not pushing my gift hard enough for it to make money.  I don't have to beat myself up for being too afraid, too lazy, not good enough, etc.  God will ensure that I'm taken care of no matter what I do! It gave me the biggest rush of freedom I've experienced in a long time.  (Almost akin to the "Wild Abandon" blog.) 

As I gushed on the phone in the car in traffic, my gracious friend inserting a few " uh huh's" and "Ah's" and celebratory, "Yes!' 's I finally paused for a breath long enough for him to say something that I'm sure I will remember forever.  He said something to the effect of  (forgive the paraphrasing- talking on the phone while driving is seriously illegal in New Jersey and I was trying to listen and watch out for blue lights at the same time),

"Wow, Jen.  You finally stopped living like an Orphan and started living like a Daughter." 

Again, paraphrase.  Those may not have been his exact words.  But those were the words I heard in my heart.   I'm not an orphan.  I'm not an orphan.  

I think living like an orphan for 25 years is more than enough.  I am so ready to start this next chapter in my life exactly as who I am.  Sans Mom jeans, thank you very much.

Wild Abandon

I was eleven years old. It was the first week of August. The old, blue station wagon had already been packed the night before with juice boxes and cheez-its. The "turtle"- remember those things?-was strapped onto the top of the car straining to retain our luggage. I always had trouble sleeping the night before we left for our annual trip to New Hampshire and that year was no different. I was already sitting straight up in my bed when my mother walked into my room at 4:30 a.m. to gently prod me into the car. Little did she know, my backpack was packed, I was dressed, and I even had my shoes on by 3:00. That year more than any year, I dreamed often of the cool, lake water lapping on the shore, up and over my knees. There was something healing about the water. Something magical. For whatever reason, I knew I had to feel that water, be immersed in it, drink it in, splash wildly in it as soon as possible. I began to tick off the calendar days until vacation.

That morning, at 3 a.m., I knew that I had to be ready. As soon as Bessie's tires hit the sunlit dirt road at Lane's End, I had to be prepared to meet the water's edge. All obstacles needed to be removed. That was when I had the most brilliant idea. I would wear my bathing suit under my clothes. In the car. For the 6 hour drive. Just so I wouldn't have to waste a fraction of a second getting to the one place I knew I belonged.

I don't have to tell you how uncomfortable it can get, wearing a bathing suit underneath your clothing in a car with no air conditioning in August. I sweat profusely. The sweatier I got, the itchier my bathing suit became, the more I scratched, the more I irritated my skin, the more I sweat, and on and on in an endless 6 hour cycle. But as soon as we made that sharp, right hand turn next to the old, wooden sign with a duck painted smack in the middle I knew I had made the right decision. I told my mom to stop the car. I could barely make out the water's edge, but it didn't matter. I would run the rest of the way.

For the first time in my little kid life, and perhaps ever since, I knew what I needed and didn't care how absolutely ridiculous I must have looked, running down the path, tearing off my clothes like Tarzan, grinning like an idiot. I had to get in the water. I kicked off my shoes on the way. My tank top and jean shorts scattered the sand. I ignored all the friendly greetings from friends. And dove. Head first. Into the cold, clear, beautiful water. With wild abandon.

It was entirely out of character for me, which makes it amusing that it is one of my most defining memories. I gave myself over to something without worrying- no, without caring about the consequences. I surrendered. I let go. I didn't care how crazy everyone thought I was. How I must have looked picking up pieces of my clothing that had scattered along the pine trees from the wind. I never even had one, solitary wave of embarrassment, inadequacy or guilt. As I floated on my back, staring up into the sky, I knew that I had done something significant.

We're going again, most likely at the same time, this year. Except, I'm older, with a husband, a full-time job, worries of mortgages and bills and borders and boundaries. I have the beginnings of crows feet. And I wouldn't be caught dead in jean shorts. But, for all of it's awkwardness, I just might wear my bathing suit underneath my sun dress. Searching for that one moment of liberation. The wild abandon.

Moving on...

We've lived in Montclair for 3 years. I know that to be true, but to see it in writing is quite something else. I can't really imagine living three years anywhere, let alone living for three years with my HUSBAND- and yes, even after three and a half years that word still sounds funny when I say it out loud. I'm not quite used to Mrs. Shannon yet, either, even though that's what my students call me everyday. Anyway, the time has come for us to pack up our things and move on. Trouble is, we don't know where we're going:)

Our landlady sold our house and we figured it would as good a time as any to explore some options. To think things through. Our goals. Ambitions. Desires. Should we buy a house or move to Europe? Should we really invest in the community we live in or seek God's face about going elsewhere? Should we pursue dreams or higher education or both? Are we ready to have children?

This is probably the first time in my life that I've allowed for possibilities. I'm not counting anything out. We're looking for houses. Have even visited a few we liked. We're looking at schools- Rich and I have different tastes and callings, but our desire to learn is quite the same-and not really worrying about where those schools happen to be. We're looking into the Peace Corps and traversing up and down the Spanish countryside- and perfectly open to settling down in West Orange and having a clan only to be rivaled by our friends, the DeMarcos. All possibilites, and for once, it doesn't scare me one bit. I know we'll go where God calls us. I'm going to stop helping God across the Street like a little, old lady and start believing that He is the God he says He is. Which means, I'm in terribly good hands even when I know nothing at all.

Tight Tights

I've neglected to partake in many fashion trends over the years deeming myself too old, too "un-cool", too mature.  Though, there has been one lately in which I secretly have held a desire to experiment with.  I'll admit it.  It's the tights.

I've witnessed this phenomenon steadily climb up the trendy meter with awe and wonder at those who prance around in a rainbow array of legs- pink, green, purple, brown, black.  Paired with long sweaters and boots, ballet flats and scarves it's a fashion movement meant to be unrivaled.  So, I pushed all of my insecurities aside and took the leap.  I was advised by my younger and more fashion-conscious sister to begin slowly; perhaps just a nice pair of black ones to usher me into the world I've so longed to explore.  On a windy Saturday morning I marched right over to Target, credit card wielded high like a sword, and placed a pair of simple, elegant, black tights on the belt. (well, you could hardly see them since I had hidden them underneath a sweater, but they were there).  I left feeling mollified, almost proud, swinging that white and red bag into the trunk of my car and had laid out the outfit I would present myself to the world in later on that evening.

Nothing could prepare me for the shock.  I did everything right.  I triple-checked with my sister to make sure I had not overlooked anything vital.  After an hour of staring at myself in the mirror, I succumbed to the horror.  I was naked. With very dark, midnight black legs. Flash-backs ensued of a young girl (who will remain nameless considering I have so many readers) in my second grade class who's father had carelessly dressed her in Barbie stockings and had neglectfully forgotten to pair them with a skirt before he sent her off to school.  I could not go out into public in this manner.  You could see the outline of my butt. No one wants to see the outline of my butt.

After another wardrobe change to a top that more than came to my knees, the tights and I made peace with each other, when they were well hidden( where they belonged. ) 

Perhaps we were never meant to be.  Alas, I'll resume my wary fashion eye and stick to the jeans that my sister lovingly exclaims gives me saggy butt.  At least, you can't see anything when I wear them. 

School

Splinters

Before I was a high school teacher, I worked as a behavior therapist for the Early Intervention program. One of my clients was a 4 year boy who was on the lowest rung of development on the autism spectrum. He had limited (if any) spontaneous language skills. His motor planning and fine motor skills had never even begun to develop. I was told before I began that if I could teach him to use a spoon in the 6 months I was supposed to be with him, it would be as if I gotten him into Harvard. Every day with Shmuel was a challenge. He would bite. He would kick. He would wail. He would take off all of his clothes and run straight out of the door, down the block. He would play in the toilet. He would put anything and everything in his mouth (including things I cannot mention out of respect for those of you who are eating). But out of the two years I was with Shmuel (yes, two years- I fought to keep him and the agency finally agreed to fund my work with him due to his progress) I am quite certain he taught me more than anything I ever taught him. One of those lessons I recieved from him came back to me today during church and I thought I'd share it with you.

Shmuel never wore shoes. He hated shoes, in fact. On rare occasions when I would take him to a store to try to teach him about proper social behavior, he would sit down in the middle of the large, glass doors, point to his sneakers and defiantly pout, "OFF". If I did not concede, something far worse was sure to follow. He would knock over racks of clothing. Break bottles of lotion. Run up and down the lines of people trying to find someone eye level to hit. Needless to say, Shmuel was often barefoot due to the weariness of his mother and his insane ability to out-run us all.

Being barefoot, however, has it's disadvantanges. For several days in a row I had noticed that Shmuel had been favoring his left foot. This was rather interesting to me, considering that I had just (Victory!) taught him how to use a spoon and he always used his right hand. Feet usually followed suit. I watched for a few more days until one day I arrived to watch him limp around his bedroom. I asked his mother about it and she said that she hadn't noticed. I convinced her to hold him in her lap while I took a look at the bottom of his foot. There, poor little boy, were five splinters so imbeded and festering that they left sore, red spots in his soles. No wonder he was limping. His mother called the doctor immediately, who, avoided all contact with Shmuel whenever necessary and told her that splinters were not something to bring a child to the doctor for and that she should just take them out herself.

And the dilemma ensued. Shmuel was uncommonly strong and very difficult to detain. He was stubborn and never concerned with whether or not he hurt others. But deeper than that, my heart ached that there was no way to communicate to him that something that was going to hurt him needed to be done in order to prevent something worse from happening. I couldn't even explain to him why his foot hurt so badly. I couldn't express how much better he would feel once it was all over. He didn't speak my language.

I held him while his mother took over the task of removing each splinter. My legs were crossed over his to prevent him from kicking her and my arms were tight across his to avoid flailing. His fingers pinched into my arms so hard I had little purple bruises. I rocked him and sang as he wept like only a desolate child can cry. As if something awful is happening to them and they are powerless to stop it. He would clutch my arm tightly in a hug, then bite it, then clutch it again as if he wasn't sure if he should hold onto me for comfort or punish me for allowing this to happen to him. I kept whispering in his ear, "I know you don't understand this, but I'm allowing this to happen to you because I love you so much I want you to have the best life you can. That will only happen after this is done." I cried with him as he called my name, one of the first times he ever used it properly. It nearly broke me in half to have to be the one to hold him down.

This morning this memory came back to me as I was praying. I am so much like Shmuel. Kicking and screaming. Feeling alone and lost in some dark place where I am powerless. Confused as to why this is happening and longing to hear a clear, audible explanation. It humbles me to think that God must feel an awful lot like I did. That God's heart is breaking as he's holding me down as I'm flailing. I almost heard him whispering,
"I know you don't understand what's happening to you right now but you have to trust me that I'm allowing it because I love you and it's all going to turn out so much better than you've ever imagined."

I have some serious splinters, but I'm so glad I know and trust the one who's holding me down.

Mental Health Days

It's a term that people throw around in jest at the bar or coffee house. I took a "Mental Health Day" basically means that you played hookie- skipped out on something you were responsible for whether that meant you stayed home from work, school or dropped the kids off at your Mom's for a while. They're seldom taken seriously , generally laughed about like you used to laugh about cutting your Math class in high school- something forbidden but not detrimental. However, I seem to be from an entirely different camp when I utilize the term Mental Health Day. Not only are they crucial to my sanity, identity and over-all well being but they are essential and must be taken regularly in order for me to be an effective, productive human being.

So, this week I waded through a pile of 107 midterms all with 3 essays each to grade, I survived a new driver drilling into the back of my car without injuring him and all the while wondering why my head has not ceased pounding, my heart not back to a normal rhythm and I can't think clearly. Then, it occurred to me. I have yet to take a Mental Health Day. I have not had a day to recuperate. To gather my thoughts. To spend hours in prayer. To bake something sweet smelling all day. To read a book. To not have to think about jerky kids and pse&g bills and oil changes.

I've denied myself too long. The time has come. I won't say when, but it's coming up soon. In order for me to do what I need to do best, a Mental Health Day is in order. I encourage you to embrace your need for a mental health day. It's not a cop out, nor is it being lazy. It is totally and completely necessary.