March 2020 SOLC–Day 31
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I saw it first on Facebook.

Ohio Man Uses His Company’s Bucket Truck to Visit Mom Quarantined on 3rd Floor of Nursing Home

You can read the article here, but the title really says it all. I didn’t read the article closely, but was touched by the lengths this man went to to connect with his mother during this time. I remember thinking how heart warming it was, and how it was a great example of how we’ve all been pushed to think creatively, to connect in new ways.

Then I got an e-mail from my cousin with the subject heading, “Julie and Charley– fabulous article in news.” It contained an article from a different newspaper with the same picture. It turns out that it was my cousin, Charley, who had gone to such lengths to visit his quarantined mom, my cousin, Julie.

This story doesn’t stand alone. Our days are filled with compelling stories right now. Even if some of them are ones we don’t want to dwell on, many are inspirational. I’ve been touched over and over again by the lengths so many individuals, groups, schools, and companies have gone to during this pandemic. People are thinking outside the box, pushing themselves to do more, to think more creatively, and above all, to connect with each other.

All of this reminded me of the slice challenge–this challenge that always pushes me to do more than I think I can, to reach deeply and write. To find a new idea. To capture the heart of a small moment. To show up and “do the job.”

Obviously, I’m not saying the SOLC  is as difficult as facing a pandemic, but there are some parallels. It’s all about taking it day by day, making it through and doing so in the best fashion we can manage. It’s also about building a supportive community, leaning on each other, celebrating with each other, and commiserating as well.

We’re facing unprecedented challenges (Ugh…I’m sick of that phrase!) and it’s unsettling not to have a concrete time line or even a clear picture of where this is leading. But overall, I’m learning, as I do every year through the challenge, that we are capable of more than we think we are. It might not be pretty, and it might be dotted with moments of despair, but there are also moments that lift your heart and shine a light on what is the best in all of us. Those are the moments to focus on. Like Fred Rogers’ mother told him, “Look for the helpers.”  And if those words aren’t enough, consider the ever-wise Winnie the Pooh’s.

Thank you to all Slicers for a month filled with sharing, grieving, celebrating, supporting, encouraging, and more. This year the challenge, more clearly than ever, transcended its boundaries. We may not have a bucket truck at hand, but going forward, we do have Tuesdays and this community. Let’s continue to connect.

Keep writing, my friends. Be well.

March 2020 SOLC–Day 30
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

The well is running dry for daily slices as the month draws to a close and remote learning takes on a life of its own. Most years, at some point during the challenge, I resort to draft diving. I have quite a pile of saved drafts on my blog (127!), ranging from a line or two or a photo to a nearly complete post. Today, I dove in,  revisiting posts from long ago when life seemed so much simpler. (Oh! If only I’d appreciated it then!) Eventually, I pulled up a piece I’d started last summer about mowing the lawn, and finished it off to share it today.

Last summer, I read Amanda Pott’s slice, “Driving Greens“. She talked about following Rob Walker’s strategy of observation–essentially observing 10 things about the world without using metaphors. She then demonstrated how to beautifully do that on her road trip. I thought I’d try it while mowing the lawn. It didn’t work as well.

1. I hold my breath when I yank the cord to start the lawnmower. When it starts on the first pull, I let out my breath.
2. Lawn mowers are loud. I wonder how well electric lawn mowers work. I should look into that.
3. Freshly mown grass smells amazing. But, wait a minute! I just finished reading Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl and she talks about the signals that trees send each other when they’re stressed. VCOs or VOCs. Is all that wonderful smell really grass screaming?
4.  The sun is bright and it’s hot out here. It’s very hard to think without metaphors. For example, I keep thinking, When I finish mowing, I’ll be a human salt lick.
5. Mowing words into the lawn takes a lot of extra time and isn’t nearly as much fun as I’d hoped.
6.  Nature has its way. It’s constantly edging in. The limits of the lawn move closer to the house unless I relentlessly press those boundaries out every time I mow. The vegetation is poised to take over.
7. Blackberry bushes are especially invasive.
8. While I don’t think I’m particularly bloodthirsty, killing horseflies is immensely satisfying. Whack! YES!
9. I’m back to thinking about how loud the lawn mower is. If it’s that loud to me, is it that loud to insects? Am I deafening moths and crickets?
10. Even when you try hard to feel positive about mowing the lawn, it’s still a lot of hot, sticky work. In other words, you still have to mow the lawn.

March 2020 SOLC–Day 29
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I have a really poor memory. It’s so bad that when I can’t remember a person or event, my sister asks me, half kidding, “Are you sure you didn’t do drugs?” There are certain rare moments though, that shine intact through the blur of past events. It’s as if they’ve been coated in varnish and are impervious to the ravages of time.

I’ve been thinking about one of those moments a lot lately. I don’t know how old I was, but I distinctly remember taking a five minute “treading water” test in a pool. This was one of the prerequisites for heading into the hallowed deep end, something I longed to do.

On the day of the test, the lifeguard squatted by the side of the pool with the timer and I jumped in, then moved back to the wall.

“Ready?” she asked.

I nodded and turned around, poised to move away.

“Set!”

I pushed off the wall and into the water.

“Go!”

Immediately, I began to tread. I started out confidently, briskly treading away. I was a decent swimmer and very comfortable in the water. I wasn’t too worried about the test.

At first.

After a while, maybe a minute or two, it dawned on me that five minutes might be a lot longer than it initially sounded like.

I waited as long as I could, longer than I wanted to, longer than I thought I could, and then, I gasped out, “How much longer?”

Surely it must have been at least four minutes already.

“Less than three minutes left,” she answered.

Three? Almost three minutes left? It’s only been a little more than two minutes?!!! 

I kept going, automatically moving my arms and legs, but along with my energy,  my confidence was ebbing.

I might not be able to do this.

Time slowed down to a molasses trickle. My arms and legs moved slower and slower.

“You’re doing great, Molly! Keep going!”

When you tread water, you’re constantly moving, yet staying in one place. My focus narrowed to that small circle of water around me. My arms. My legs. My breath. My arms. My legs. My breath.

I don’t remember the moment I decided I couldn’t do it any longer. I’m not sure it was even a conscious decision. I just found myself heading to the edge of the pool.

“There’s only a minute and a half left,” the lifeguard called.

I kept moving forward, desperate to stop. To hold onto something solid.  To have the test over, even if I had failed.

Finally, I came within reach, and she stretched out one hand. I reached my hand toward hers, and as soon as our hands met, she pushed me back into the water.

What!?!

“You can do it, Molly!” she called. “You’re almost done.”

I was shocked. Utterly shocked! I kept treading, because what else could I do? She wouldn’t let me quit!

Would she let me drown?

My arms and legs were heavier and heavier in the water, and I was just barely keeping my head above the surface. I didn’t have the energy to argue. But I was done. Finished. I truly felt I had nothing left to give. I remember feeling scared, feeling I couldn’t possibly go on.

Yet ultimately, I did.

“Time!” she finally called. “You did it!”

I ducked under the water, and wearily kicked to the side. I came up, hair streaming and clung to the gritty pool edge with wrinkled fingers, exhausted. I remember having such mixed feelings. I’d passed the test, but I also felt betrayed. She’d pushed me away! I wonder if the shock of that is what etched this moment in my memory. Still, I’d passed the test. I’d made it for the full five minutes even though I didn’t think I could. I didn’t feel triumphant though. Mostly I felt dazed.

I think of that moment now as I deal with the fallout from recent events. I already felt overwhelmed with teaching before all of this happened–so often struggling to keep my head above water. Now I’ve really been thrown in the deep end. I’m trying to figure out how to do my job in an entirely different way while adjusting to a whole new way of life, and a whole new raft of worries.  I’m so thankful that I still have a job and that I can connect with my students and their families. Yet, I feel uncertain, vulnerable and exposed (Video lessons? Ack!), and at times, overwhelmingly inadequate.

I keep telling myself this is an opportunity to grow. To learn more about myself. To recognize that I can do more than I thought was possible. I’ve learned a lot already and I know I’ll learn more, but there are moments when I want to give up. When it all just seems like too, too much. When every atom of my being screams for me to head to the side of the pool.

Instead, I have to keep treading water madly as the edge of the pool moves farther away. No one’s pushing me back in (Thank God!), and it isn’t a physical endurance test (again, Thank God!), but I’m having to push myself further than I thought I could and in so many different ways. It feels like I’m being tested on teaching myself new strokes while simultaneously trying to keep my head above water with the ultimate goal of moving myself and my students forward through the now turbulent waters to reach some far-off yet-to-be-defined edge.

I wish I felt as confident in my abilities as that long-ago lifeguard did.

We’ve only been doing this for 8 days?

How much longer?