Christmas Found Poetry

Communication Business

The night was a starry dome,

quiet and mostly unintelligible.

"Yes, the homeowner is here."

I'm really not supposed to be here.

"She can't talk."

Communication business.

"No, she literally can't talk."

Timing is critical

in body surfing

(kind of like raising

my middle finger at you).

Look at this lesson

in survival:

Spill from eyes

to computer

and out to the world.

If voices around

keep shouting

their bad advice

quiet the circuit.

Never complain

about getting old.

This is not what you wanted,

but it's what you got:

changes you could make

time with a friend

who God must think

is a real powerhouse.

No real purpose or reason

made it just what I needed.

Christmas 2018

Words Sources: Kay Metzger Groll, Erik Silkensen, Joni Mitchell, Marcia Silkensen, Mary Oliver, and Larry Stocker

Stories of Hope

Just keep repeating until you believe it:

experience pure joy.

experience pure joy.

EXPERIENCE PURE JOY!

Those moments will change who you are,

desperately searching for stories of hope.

Terminal diagnosis.

Completely paralyzed.

Hanging around getting in the way.

...it's not as bad as it sounds.

My attempt at a thumbs up has reached the tipping point.

Autocorrect thinks I say "ass" a lot,

confirmed what I already knew.

My voice is me, my personality, and

it sounds somewhat like me, rather than a robot.

It sounds kind of like a boring me

(we have a love/hate relationship).

There are many legitimate medical reasons to use marijuana:

A different type of peace and happiness,

something strikes you inappropriately as funny.

Accommodating the realities we wish were other,

and doing it with grace.

With one shot at this crazy ride, I wonder:

"Am I loved?" and "Did I love well?"

Today I celebrate being alive,

and that's pretty great. 

Knocked from my Strong Place was

a cleansing and yet exhausting feeling of 

surrender.

Somehow these stories lose something

when they're covered with a band-aid.

But I'm not done yet!

There's still so much to learn...

What is the best treat to order at Dairy Queen

(the dip cone, crunch cone, or Buster Bar)?

Eating is so last year.

Instead of giving up, we adapt,

finding humor in even the most dire circumstances

(and not just because of all that wine).

Becoming more or less an observer,

my Faith screaming out to scratch

itches we cannot scratch and

just existing inside this wildly imperfect body.

I could write one of those stories of hope,

I think, because of these shared experiences.

I'm not sure what today will bring,

but it won't be boring.

The mountains look different every morning 

and it never gets old.

Christmas 2017
Words Source: Kay Metzger Groll

We Wrote To Each Other

Maybe we are living like a commune

     wolf pack

Profoundly

Permanently

Family.

I was supposed to have the phone interview

It was all choppy

and starting and

     stopping.

wait wait wait, hope I didn't miss the love train

A nice time at the pool,

     It's great to hear from you.

Right in my own backyard,

the Santa Catalina Mountains.

surrounded by

     water

the honey badger I do

admire that tough little guy

fighting the same battle

     I felt safe and loved.

At 4:30am, a good time for

a good memory.

     Expecto Patronum.

love the sound of wind

no time to

     sit

around feeling down

It was fun, we felt like adults

I think you wore my shoes

     What a year.

laughing through the tears

the most amazing mother

Beautiful sunrises, sunsets

I'm not sure how to add anything,

falling in love,

holding on to each other and our dogs, of course.

I'm not sure how

the absolute

     worst

year

of my life

has also been the absolute best.

Can't stop the tears from flowing. . .

They are happy

     tears. . .

About to leave for airport

We will call from sunny Tucson.

Christmas 2014
Words Sources: Kay Metzger Groll, Karen Hazelton, Karl Groll, Erik Silkensen, and Marcia Silkensen

Redundancy In The Self-Help Section

My therapist moved back to Canada.
I've been looking into other ways
to receive feedback on the conversations
going on inside my head.
The trouble is, too many people
seem to have a market on this business.
One book told me to ignore the voice
because why would you want to listen to someone
who never ceases to have something to say?
Another book told me staying positive is an empty value
because negative thoughts give us the most valuable input
and it's ok to feel like shit.
In the famous book I'm reading with my students,
the hero of the story becomes that way entirely
by accident.
If I am to follow the advice of the first book,
I first have to decide the incessant commentator bothers me
and mute the damn thing.
The second book feels more targeted
towards people like me
(people who don't want to be monks),
but I can't shake the feeling that it might be somehow
making the same point as the first book.
The famous book came long before:
Tests, Allies, and Enemies confront the Hero of the Story
before he can return Home,
a Changed Man.

Counting Blessings

I’ve been looking around, noticing other people and their bodies and how they move. Legs crossed, uncrossed, flip-flop toes shifting up and down. Easy. Paperback novel, page turned, simple. Getting stuffy on the plane, arm up, little twist, some air flow. Relief.

Think about how you can swallow right now. Maybe you have a sore throat, and it hurts, but you can do it. Most likely there’s no pain involved at all for you to swallow right now. Most likely it’s not a difficult thing for you to do, and reading this is making you think about how you can swallow for the first time in a very long time. I noticed for the first time in Tucson this week that my aunt can’t swallow. Saliva builds up below her lip and she can’t wipe it away. Every moment she is in painful discomfort that requires the working hands of another for any amount of relief.

I don’t like that my aunt having ALS has been the biggest thing inspiring me to maturely take perspective in life and appreciate all that is wonderful and joyful and even downright convenient about having a body that physically works. But have you ever wondered if you’d take swallowing saliva for granted? I did, I took it very much for granted. Until this past week. Now every time I swallow I can’t stop thinking about how easy it is. Actually, on the airplane back home right now, I’m noticing all of the muscles that are working to make it feel easy. How I’m blinking and craning my neck around looking for the drink cart and trying to decide if I should spend $6 on a beer that I’ll be able to pour in a cup and lift up to my lips. How some people are dozing with their necks supported by pillows similar to the type my aunt uses but how easy it is for them to re-adjust their position for comfort when needed. By themselves. Whenever they want.

ALS is a bitch. It’s a ruthless, incomprehensible, horrible disease. But here is what I noticed remains: The people that we love bring us purpose and joy. Nothing else can compete with that. Nothing else matters so much. My mom spends 2-3 weeks in Tucson with her sister and then 2-3 weeks back home in Colorado, and it’s hard for me to fathom what stress she endures...other than the fact that her love for her sister is resolute, unshakable. Has anyone ever told you during a hard time, “I’m here for you!” or something similar? My mom for her sister is “here for you” to the maximum degree. It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching, the most genuine act of love I’ve ever observed. There is nothing more important than being there for our loved ones. I say this; my mom embodies it.

When I was younger my Aunt Kay would intimidate me with her intensity. My mom brings up qualities I now share similarly. There’s a compulsive urge to exercise (and a grouchiness and irrationality that’s horrible to be around if a workout is skipped): “You better get out on your bike ride, Beth, or you’re not going to be pleasant.” There’s a voracity to get to the end of books and tasks and move on to the next as soon as humanly possible: “Beth can’t talk to anyone until she finishes that book. She’s her Aunt Kay’s niece.”

We watched a home video of a California beach vacation from 1988 while I was there this week. I watched most of it by myself last night with a glass of red wine, while my mom and Uncle Rob and Kay’s best friend and neighbor put her in bed. Uncle Larry was commentating. My mom was seven months pregnant with Erik. My grandpa had the most astounding above-the-ankle golfer tan lines I’ve ever seen. Kay and Rob were goofy and in love young parents of a two-year-old Karen and a 1-year-old Karl. There were ridiculous competitions between “Team Orange” and “Team Blue” on Silver Strand beach in Oxnard. Kay’s strong, athletic golf swing launching balls into the ocean. Aunt Lee’s plucking of all the shells off the beach in the early morning hours, beating the kids to it, and Uncle Bill’s response: store bought shells wrapped in tissue paper, delicately placed next to Lee’s starfish, claiming, “She walked right by this one,” of an immaculate white-pink-and-brown conch shell.

I was struck by a few things: 1) Everyone looked so skinny and tan. Was there sunscreen in 1988? 2) I am about exactly the same age now as my mom was then. 3) Kay, walking on the beach with Karl on her back and Karen running back and forth, squealing at the waves, had no idea what joys and sorrows the next 30 years would bring. None of them did. It would be pointless to know then; everyone was simply and joyfully living in the present. 4) Our family is full of love and laughter, and I want to have a life as rich and bursting with frivolity as they did, right there, on Silver Strand beach in 1988. I want that with Adam, my patient and ever mellow husband, and Erik, Karen and Shaun, Karl and Ashley, Kim and Adam. But I know in my heart of hearts it will never be the same. It will be our own story, guided by the people before us who taught us how to be independent, have fun, enjoy each other, and above all else - how to love.

It’s hard to imagine what my aunt is going through right now, or Rob or Karen and Karl and my mom. It feels silly that a home video had such a hugely emotional impact on me last night (maybe it was the wine?). It’s impossible to know what the next 30 years will bring for me and Adam, our families, where we’ll go together and what we’ll experience.

The flight attendant is coming round and I need to suck down the last of this Dos Equis before the inevitable Rocky Mountain turbulence commences (now that sounds oddly like a toilet emergency and I didn’t mean for it to - just meant it’s always windy flying in to DIA on summer evenings).

I don’t feel like I communicated enough to my Aunt Kay and Mom and Mimi while I was there, how much I love them and admire them. One afternoon I was resting next to Kay and she was listening to music, making selections with her eyes. She played the one by that famous artist whose name is slipping my mind right now, but the chorus,“ ...every time I tried to tell you, the words just came out wrong, so I’ll have to say I love you in a song.” I love you, Aunt Kay. It is not ALS that has taught me how to live and appreciate the best in life. It’s everything about our family that taught me. I’ve landed now, and it appears the perky flight attendant forgot to charge me for my beer... Counting my blessings begins, now.

https://www.facebook.com/kaysshiningstars/

A Teacher: Something I Never Thought I'd Be

The first time someone asked me to teach at their school I felt nauseated. It was for an 8th grade English teaching position in Keenesburg, Colorado. I remember liking the principal - a short, stocky and butch woman who appreciated my honesty when I responded to a question about the Colorado educators' evaluation rubric. I said, "I'm not familiar with the rubric." She advised that I familiarize myself with it (I guess it is sort of important?). She offered me the job the next day and I told her I needed to think about it. I was working as a paraprofessional at a school for students with emotional disabilities making $12.80 an hour. I was also studying to pass a simple exam to add a special education teaching endorsement to my secondary English language arts license.

I turned the Keenesburg job down the next day and told her I thought I wanted to stay at the school with the emotionally disabled students. I told her I wanted the experience because I wanted to be a special educator as my long-term goal.

This was not the actual truth. I didn't think I could be a teacher, ever - English, special education, anything. I was too fragile, too incapable, and too self-conscious. Telling her I had a long-term goal to teach special education was a cop out. I stayed working as a paraprofessional because no one was really counting on me for much, and I couldn't really count on myself for much either. This was a phase of life where to me, job offers were more anxiety producing than the thought of not having a job. The Keenesburg principal told me, "You know you will have those students with disabilities in your classroom anyway, right?" This was almost four years ago exactly, early summer of 2014. I will never forget that principal. She wanted me to work at her school. I have no idea what her other options were, because Keenesburg is not a popular place in Colorado. But there at least must have been something of a teacher in me, something passionate or knowledgable in the way I spoke when I drove out there and admitted I didn't even know the first thing about how teachers are evaluated. I am a teacher now, but I still rarely think about the Colorado educators' evaluation rubric.

I was pretty ticked at my tennis team today. I can't stop talking about it. This is what it is to be a teacher and a coach: I never stop thinking or talking about it. I felt like the mom in Lady Bird today, the scene where Lady Bird is trying on prom dresses and her mom, the psychiatric nurse, doesn't like any of them. The mom says, "I just want you to be the best version of yourself that you can be." Lady Bird asks, "What if this is the best version?" I am sure my group of slightly less than ambitious teenage girls would say, yes, they are the best versions of themselves that they can be. But I think this is also what it is to be a teacher and a coach: I know that they are not their best versions of themselves - not yet.

I was very hesitant to become a teacher, but not because of the things educators are so riled up about currently. I am not making much money, but this is not why I felt like puking the first time someone offered me a job. I was terrified of my perfectionism and how it would destroy me, my weekends, and my sanity. Because teaching is a job that everyone says you have to take home with you. For me, it has not been grading. It has not been lesson planning. As a special education teacher, I rarely even take the paperwork home. Maybe I shouldn't be admitting this? I am working extra hours as a head tennis coach, but the time at practices and matches isn't bothering as much as what I never fail to take home with me: my own perseverating, circular, relentless thoughts. They consume me and I drown Adam and my mom with rants about the turbulence of my days (sorry, Adam and Mom!).

But I'm doing it. Most days, I go home exhausted. I was this close to typing, "inspired." My barrage of thoughts spin around in my head for hours after I get home; I have to suffer through them before I realize the tiny (but numerous) inspirations make it all at least worthwhile (and at most exceptionally rewarding). I have to take into account that this year, I have been extremely spoiled with a group of the most ernest and kind 12-year-olds I've ever met. I have a student who likes to think of quotes for our class every month. Sometimes she finds them from someone else, but the best ones are the ones she creates herself. In March, she made a multi-colored display of block letters with highlighters on loose leaf paper and presented it to me jubilantly: "There is no time to whin, only time to try." I couldn't bring myself to correct her spelling on whine. I can't think of a better quote to live by, or at least to hang up on my bulletin board and glance at several times a day as I plug through another ten emails, crank out another "Present Levels of Performance" on an IEP, or re-create another set of sub plans to accommodate changes in the weather for the regional tennis tournament pulling me out of class this week.

Teaching is hard. The trouble (or the blessing?) is, I can't think of another thing that I'd rather be doing for work. This, I guess, is surprising coming from someone who rejected her first job offer and suffered a nervous breakdown upon her second, tearing down a meticulously arranged classroom the day before students were set to arrive for creative writing and American Literature. This was in Greeley at an alternative high school, a few months after I dodged Keenesburg and covered my disappointment in myself with the band-aid of a low expectations workplace. I ripped that off a couple of years ago and confirmed what I was so afraid of: the pressure placed on teachers is very high. This sent me running from my first two opportunities. There is pressure from parents and administrators, but I don't think I am alone when I say the biggest pressure comes from within. If I'm not helping the students that walk into my classroom make academic growth, then what is the point of them coming in at all? Spoiler alert: many of them are not performing well on end-of-year assessments, and I suppose this is where that educators' evaluation rubric comes up. If I ever receive the label "ineffective," I know I won't be able to stomach it.

Here's the however: I do think other jobs sound harder. I have three months off a year. I have three or four day weekends almost every month of the school year. Yes, kids are annoying and rude and high-maintenance; but they are also funny and honest and interesting. I'd rather attempt to help them become better human beings than sit at a desk all day and...what? What do other people do at their jobs? I don't really feel smart enough to do anything else. I guess I am pretty organized so could conceivably be a secretary, but I hate talking on the phone and doing favors for people. There is a simplicity in the purpose of teaching and coaching. I don't know if I will do it for many more years to come or if I'll burn out (because I hear that happens), but I do know that right now, it is exactly what I am meant to be doing.

#RedForEd #ProbationaryTeacher #WhyITeach

Workplace Poetry

Change of Routine 

I follow basically the same procedure every day:
Avoid waking up.
Perceive my environment.
Take care of the to-do list.
Count my blessings.
Interruptions inhibit my ability to perform well on the latter.
A pebble chipped my windshield and it was a full-blown collision course:
an unwanted conversation with a greasy nailed stranger,
an inconvenient hour forced spare on a Saturday,
sitting in a waiting room with an emaciated new mom.
She was counting down the minutes until the greasy nailed stranger could take them home
after fixing my windshield - my interruption all part of their weekend routine.


We All Want the Same Things

The elephant in the room trash talks during official meetings,
raising the question of what truly is and what truly isn't talked about.
Even though I like to believe that everyone has purely good intentions,
Phoebe said that there's no such thing as a selfless good deed and you see,
I think she's right, because Joey tried his darndest to prove her wrong,
but she had already realized we are all just looking out for ourselves.
I'm always watching others to see how they perceive me.
The elephants are in a tough spot because no one is ever honest with them,
avoiding eye contact in order to keep up appearances of work-place harmony,
finding one of the hundreds of ways to get through the day without offending anyone.

"You're gonna be happy," said life, "but first I'll make you strong."

2018 is here. Thank you to my cousin Karen for another line to keep me in my strong place this year:

New year's resolutions inspire some funny reactions. Some people make them and stick with them, like my cousin Karl or my brother Erik. Karl took a picture every single day one year, and Erik has been reading 50-odd books a year since I think 2014. This type of resolve is admirable, but it almost has the tendency to annoy other people who lack the strength to stick with a ballsy new habit announced amidst the joyful jubilee of New Year's Eve or the weeks leading up to it. I don't judge these people, these resolution-making-wannabes who stop going to the gym come February. I more judge the resolution they made, because it must not have been very important.

This year I'm flirting with the possibility of a "running streak." I want to run at least 1 mile every day of 2018, with 3-4 days per week being lengthier runs. I'm two days in and of course it's going fine, because I can do anything for two days. I've only had one day of work, though, and today's short jaunt felt hard and it was uncomfortably chilly outside. I'll just have to see if this resolution is important or not. I am the kind of person who drops something without an afterthought if I determine it's not enhancing my life (I suppose that is a euphemism for, "I am the kind of person who lacks resolve," but I am trying to have more self-respect this year, too).

Now it's time for some 2017 honest truths:

• I drank way too many beers and am developing a tastes for sauvignon blanc, which is certainly not surprising but definitely not a good thing. 
• I did moderately well with healthy eating, but this hasn't really been a problem for me. Well, unless you count my candy-hoarding years between the ages of 7 and 9. I also have always exercised regularly, even when I was a rotund candy-hoarder. I just like to exercise. 
• I did an excellent job "leaving work at work" and managing my stress levels in a relatively high-stress job. 
• I completed an Olympic-distance triathlon in around the same time as I would when I was in college, which was frustrating because I actually tried to ride my bike a bit this summer but comforting because I am only getting older, after all.
• My Aunt Kay wrote periodically over the year and her musings have completely changed my perspective, on pretty much everything, for the better. She has battled ALS with strength and grace for over 4 years now. If she can handle that and still hold on to her humor, personality, and zest for life, how could I possibly complain about anything? This is not to say I haven't complained, because complaining - relentlessly and with extraneous verbosity - is one of my greatest talents. I complained last night after eating too much Tasty Asia and letting the reality of going back to work settle in for real. But it's more of a comic complaining now: "Oh, woe is me, my dad bought me dinner and I have a job!" 
• The biggest thing I have now - after reading Aunt Kay's writing and being with my family and friends and really seeing the big picture for the first time in my life - is the ability to enjoy. I honestly don't think I've been very good at enjoying until this past year. But I've worked on it, my ability to experience pure joy (thanks for that phrase, Aunt Kay). I love falling asleep on the couch to crappy television at night with Adam. I love watching Ryder get excited about anything. I love getting to work early enough to feel organized and prepared, and I love leaving at 3:15 to get a good workout in in the daylight when I feel like it. I love seeing my mom when she gets back from Tucson, but I also love hearing her laughing over Facetime while she's in Tucson with her sister and the people who need her so much. I love walking up Indian Trail in Tucson with my dad, Erik, and Adam, and hearing my husband and my brother talk all the way up the hill. I don't mind being quiet on these walks, listening, or sometimes my dad and I will start playing and brazenly singing 70s music (much to Erik's chagrin). I love being in the mountains, preferably Arizona or Colorado, because both of those feel like home. I love being in the car singing, with my mom or Adam, driving to and from New Mexico. 

I'd like to close with a picture from Santa Fe and an applicable Iron & Wine lyric, all the while wishing everyone a new year full of strength to stick with your resolutions (but only if they're worth it). The lyric comes from the end of the song, and it reminds me of myself when I was younger for some reason. I don't feel like I'm blowing away anymore.

from "New Mexico's No Breeze" by Iron & Wine

God gave you bobwhites

and the good kind of black night

when you left Santa Fe.

New Mexico's no breeze,

and you were so 19

you were blowing away . . .