Defrosting

As the holidays come to a close and winter enters the room with gust after gust of chilling winds, I am thinking about the kind of attitude with which I want to ring in this new year of 2010. Twenty ten. This number sounds the way a perfectly round donut would if it were thrown against a wall. Round and fresh. That is, if any sound could be heard beyond my hysterical shouting about wasting such a perfectly delicious donut.

Mostly, I cannot stop thinking about compassion. This is not because I have a big heart. My heart is small and mostly covered with ice. A heart like this produces words that are blunt, sarcastic, and mean. Worst of all, sometimes I am proud of this, and parade myself around like some unstoppable, undefeated champion of rudeness, often confusing my snarky comments to be witty ones. Friends are too nice to tell me to shut up, and when they do I think they are teasing me.

A few weeks ago I met with a parent. She told me about how every day he comes home complaining about how much he hates school, also how much he hates me. My response: I'm not surprised. If I were him, I would hate school, too. This is no defense but my honest opinion about how this student is performing. I wonder now that it was perhaps a little too honest but at the time I thought it was a very objective. At the end of my little speech, she starts to give hers. It is a speech I feel as though I have heard before, details, defense and deductions about her child all the same, but at the end she proves me wrong. I have not heard this before and hope to never hear it again. She trembles a little bit, her voice a mixture of anger, worry, strength, and sadness, and says "Have a little compassion for him."

Have a little compassion. My heart sinks with guilt and shame. It was really sad to hear a parent request this of their child's first grade teacher, and it strikes a chord so deep in my ice, cold heart that it has played over and over again in my mind more times than there are donut crumbs. When I wake up, when I step into the classroom, when I get into bed... I am afraid that it will resonate with me for the rest of my life. I am also hopeful that it will.

So, here is the attitude. I want to be more compassionate. I know I have passion for teaching and for children, but I don't know that I exhibit compassion for them. Especially towards students who need good teachers the most... I am not going to tolerate my sinful personality anymore. 'I'm cold-hearted' and 'I'm just mean' are not acceptable. I cannot imagine facing Jesus and making those kinds of excuses, so I will not do it now.

I want to be a more compassionate person. I feel the need to say it over and over again. I don't know what this requires exactly. I feel the need to be a little bit softer, kinder, quieter even. But I am afraid that compassion will somehow diminish or crush the strength in me, strength the cross has given me, strength that has extinguished so many plaguing, stifling, toxic insecurities...

Then I remember the cross, really remember, and conclude that compassion most definitely adds strength to strength.





Remember the cross.

Watch out, 2010. I am ready to kill and destroy with compassion.
(Or something nicer.)

Donuts, courtesy of rosy outlook.
Ice Melt, courtesy of GlasgowPhotoMan.

Hot and Cold

"Sea glass is one of the very few cases of a valuable item
being created from the actions of the environment on man-made litter."

This past year has been all about hot cold, yes no, in out, up down. (Katy Perry is a bright-eyed, bright-lipped genius.) 'Roller coaster' doesn't even begin to describe all that has passed. More like uncoordinated juggling. Imagine the colorful balls of first grade and a teacher's first year thrown clumsily into the air along with love, pain and pimples-- all to be poorly juggled by an amateur who instead of asking for a hand barks at the offers to assist.

That is all that I remember lately. To do lists, poor juggling, and deterrence. Start date? Can't remember. End date? Indeterminable. When I try to think of what good has come of this year, it often produces no result. I look at my face and I see scars. I look into my heart and I see wounds. I look around me, I see nothing and no one. An optimist would have no trouble seeing the full glass of adversity. I guess that makes me a pessimist today. The sky is gray, my sweater is itchy and this tea is too cold to drink.
After all that crashing and tumbling, how hopeless the bottle must feel. Broken to bits. No consumers in sight. Not a hand to recycle it. There is an astounding persistence about its hardship. On the one hand it seems unbearable and cruel. It serves its purpose only to be thrown into the ocean, literally, where waves and storms relentlessly wear it down. On the other hand, I say it is astounding because sometimes.. I get the feeling that the waves that persistently come at me are the people I love the most.. and they come at me not to break me down but to shape me with their support and loving presence.. which is astounding considering the miserable way I have treated them through and through..
What words can be left after such things?

None. There are no words, no things, and no people.


There is only grace.
Because in the end, through everything difficult and terrible, what remains? Not a stone that used to be a beautiful shell, but smooth sea glass that used to be a piece of garbage.

The remains will always be that of a sinner, survived by grace and grace alone.

Breakfast in the train

Dan and I eat our breakfast in the train every Sunday, on our way to church. We have done this for a year now, soon after we started dating, and in the beginning I did not approve. Eating where it does not usually take place draws attention, and I feel embarrassed to bite, chew, and swallow so visibly in front of others. “Who cares what they think? We gotta eat so let’s eat,” he would say. I tried to convince Dan to meet earlier so we can sit down and eat instead of eating on the train. But seeing as he barely made it on time as it was, after one month of failed attempts it became clear that meeting early was asking too much of him. I had no choice but to swallow my pride, and my breakfast, in the train.
This morning I ate breakfast on the train. Alone. Today is Monday, not Sunday, and it is my bagel, my drink, and me. You can do this, I think as I walk down the stairs. People will stare, they will not offer to help, and they may even judge you. But you can do this. My hand squeezes the paper bag holding my bagel, the ground rumbles a little under my feet, and the train screeches make bubbles in my stomach. The doors open and the car is empty. Yes! I think. The loveseat is free! That’s the best seat on the train. This is a great start. I plop down in the seat pretending to be exhausted and in need of refreshment. I toss my bag to the empty seat beside me, put my tea between my legs, and reach into my bag to unwrap my bagel. I concentrate hard on my bagel. I do not look up, I do not look around, and while I suspect the pair of shoes across from me belongs to a man I do not check to verify.

My bagel smells delicious. It is toasted, golden, and cream cheese has filled the center. I take my first bite. CRUNCH. It is the kind of delicious that requires me to close my eyes and smile as I chew. My muscles loosen up and I remember Dan for a moment. He would be smiling, too. He would be proud of me for putting my cares aside and eating my breakfast. “Good start to your day,” he would say. I wipe the crumbs and cream cheese from my mouth. 72nd street already? CRUNCH. A few more stops, a few more bites and this breakfast ride is done. With a stomach full of bagel, tea, and confidence, just a few steps are left to reaching the summit of my insecurities. No doubt a plaque awaits me, one that honors my bravery, applauds my strength, and immortalizes my accomplishments. SHE SAT, SHE ATE, SHE CONQUERED. I start composing my acceptance speech and chew with a smile… until I see a pair of feet next to mine, in front of the seat next to me, daring me to juggle. I quickly remove my bag from the seat, juggle the bagel, napkins and tea with one hand, and flatten my bag across my lap with the other. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Pat, pat, pat. My shoulder touches the shoulder of the lady next to me, my hands starts to sweat, and I cannot decide if I should keep on eating or stop.

I weigh the importance of my pride against the importance of satisfying my hunger, and decide to keep on eating. “Who cares what they think,” I hear Dan say. I look up to face the judges before me, prepared to declare that food is NOT prohibited on this train, ready to defend my right to a breakfast before a long day… and find that no one is even glancing my way. There are a few people reading books, one man playing a video game, and the rest asleep or in deep meditation. I look back down at my bagel, smile, and take another bite more bashfully than my first all those minutes ago. Thoughts float around as the last CRUNCH disappears in my mouth. Tomorrow, I think I’ll have an apple, too.

At Teacher Camp, we worked on personal narratives. We were encouraged to find inspiration in our hearts by thinking of people we love, important memories or lessons we've learned, and meaningful hobbies we may have. With each draft of this assignment came a new love and appreciation for those few minutes Dan and I continue to share every Sunday. A restaurant or diner would not have been the same, and I have only Dan and his inclination to snooze to thank. To his credit, Dan has been very punctual in the past few months and has given me a look or two about being late.

Superheroes

girl: When I grow up I'm going to marry you.
boy: But I'm a superhero.

I try to remember what perceptions I had of myself when I was little. Not quite superhero, but definitely indestructible. Climbing up the very tree that threw me out of its arms the day before; racing around the bend of the street that tripped my bike just an hour ago; fighting back with my sister. What possesses children to be so brave? Their fleeting memory, perhaps? Or their natural resilience to injury and pain? Whatever it be, it is something to admire.

In this case, I admire the courage it takes the boy to not only see himself as a superhero, but to say it out loud to his peers with assurance and conviction. It is a bold statement indeed to call yourself a hero, deem yourself super, and willingly sacrifice friendship and love. I suppose superheroes bear a burden of responsibility that we cannot fully understand, forcing them to sacrifice the pleasures of love for their calling. And to realize this at such a young age. Boy, you are remarkable, and quickly becoming my favorite superhero.

I cannot forget the girl, though, who deserves applause for her bravery as well. She is honest with her feelings, and courageously declares them to the world. If only I could relate. There have been so many times when I wished for half of this girl's courage, to say exactly what I was feeling. However, to my own shame, if I had to compare the times when I desperately wished for courage to be mean or vengeful as opposed to the times when I wanted to be encouraging or loving... the latter does not even begin to tip the scale. So I admire you too, girl, for being loving, honest, and brave. Go find that boy and tell him that you are a superhero, too, and be happily married.





'boy' had this conversation when he was in preschool, according to mom.
He is currently finishing up 1st grade with flying colors.
He has the heart of his teacher, Ms. Park, in the palm of his hands
and his affections for her are the same.
He always tells her to have a good lunch and he cries when she is absent.

'girl' was 'boy's preschool classmate.
Though Ms. Park does not know her, she has no doubt this girl is still
as brave and honest today as she was in preschool.

This I Believe: Rainbow Sprinkles

I believe in sprinkles, sprinkles, sprinkles on everything! Adding color and crunch to a good-old anything always brightens up my day.

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

" Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

How I wonder what you're at!"

Up above the world you fly,

Like a tea-tray in the sky."

- - -

When you love something, do you see everything only through the lens of that love?

I have a friend who loves wrestling and instead of spandex, steroids and choreography, he sees glory, honor and valor beyond comparison. People who love babies do not see tears and diapers. They see curious eyes, tiny fingernails and tiny, tiny toes. And who could forget the dormouse in Wonderland, who loved tea. Instead of a star, he saw a bat. Instead of a diamond, he saw a tea-tray.

At dinner I shared this children's book website with my cousins. This website is the coolest and most fantastic site in every way, practically perfect like Mary Poppins. My cousins, who have no emotional connection to children's books (excuse: they did not grow up here) said So what's the age limit for this website? ... I don't understand the question. What's the maximum age of the viewers of this website?

...... Wait, who doesn't appreciate children's books?? I am completely baffled at this thought and for the rest of the night dwelled on the absurdity of a maximum age limit for children's books.

Tea-trays in the sky. We see what we want to see. And when challenged to look away, we are baffled.

(The teacher is, anyway.)

practically perfect: www.onepotato.net