Last summer I had an incredible experience participating in Teacher’s College Summer Writing Institute.  At the end of the week, I submitted my writing for the final writing celebration.  It was chosen!  That meant I had to read it to a huge crowd of participants at the final celebration.  What an experience!  At any rate, here’s that piece–part of the experience that has propelled me to write more regularly and led me toward creating this blog.

“Come in!  Come in!”  Her molasses voice beckoned me off the teeming, impersonal streets and into the shaded, scented store.  Bottles and jars with exotic labels gleamed on shiny shelves.  Snake Oil.  Karma. Demon in the Dark.

“What’s your name?” she asked…  And I told her.  She took me by the hand, her own hands warm and strong, yet gentle.  She pulled me further into the store.

“Molly,” she crooned, “We’re gonna do you right.”

Deftly wielding a smooth, thin spatula, she anointed my arm with a thick, fragrant lotion.   Her hands rubbed and massaged, working it into my skin, abrasive yet soothing.  The rich cadences of her voice mixed with the rhythm of the deep, gentle massage.  The occasional blare of a horn, the squeal of brakes, drifted in from the streets as outside the pulse of the city continued unabated.  Inside, exotic scents and phrases drifted over me as I relaxed, letting the stress of the past days–the past year–ease with her touch.  “More than 10,000 rose blossoms.” “Like conditioner for your skin.”

Next, she bathed my arm, dipping it into a burnished silver bowl filled with warm water, rinsing away the soapy residue.  My arm tingled, and as intermittent drops of water sprinkled to the floor, she patted it dry.

Such intimacy in the city.

I had anticipated yet feared this journey to New York.  I came in search of solitude and space.  I desperately needed to step out of my life and gain some perspective.  Surrounded by the needs and voices of others at home, I couldn’t find my own voice, or, perhaps I was avoiding it.  I felt lost in my comfortable, narrowly defined world.

Over the past few days, eyes wide and wondering, I had wandered through the busy streets of Manhattan, marveling at the hurly-burly bustle of people in all shapes and sizes.  My focus shifted from person to person, window to window, lighting upon the new, the unexpected, the dazzling variety.  Yet, gradually, somehow, in the midst of all this stimuli, surrounded by new sounds and voices, I finally slowed down and listened.  I embraced the solitude and allowed an inner change–a tentative emergence.  The sights, crowds and noises didn’t overwhelm–they cocooned and swaddled.  Anonymous, in the midst of the city, I was beginning to hear my own voice, to find my center.

In the recesses of the store, emerging from the caress of the towel, my skin, newly exposed, glowed.  A gentle touch, soft scents and warmth.  New York.  What a city.  In the midst of it all, she touched me gently and she called me by name.  And I began to know myself.

New York City.  You done me right.

I was struck by my siblings’ comments after reading my recent post about jumping off the high diving board.  Whereas my focus was on my fear, they remain, to this day (well over 30 years later!), a bit upset about the two milkshake bribe.  So, I decided to try to write about the diving board event from my sister, Beth’s, perspective.  (She was the most vocal about the unfair milkshake part of things—still no sympathy for my paralyzing fear!)  Here it is:

I plunk down on the reclining lawn chair, drops of water splattering at my feet, freckling the hot concrete.  This is so stupid!  I can’t believe Mom made us get out of the pool to watch.  I keep my eyes stubbornly on the ground watching the water freckles fade in the hot sun, listening as everyone else keeps playing.  “Marco!” “Polo!”

Jamie plops down on the chair next to me, similarly disgusted.  We both glance over to the high board where Molly is.  She’s at the very end but too scared to jump.  What a baby!  Mom had to bribe her with a milkshake to get her to even go up there.  Oh my God!  They even have Dan, the lifeguard, in the water below the board.  Molly is such a wimp!  This is taking soooooo long!  There’s a huge line of kids waiting to use the high dive.  Talk about embarrassing!

“Come on, Molly, you can do it!” I hear Mom and Dan call.  God!  I wish she’d just do it and be done with it.  How long will she stay up there anyway? The slats of the lawn chair stick to the backs of my thighs and I pull them away impatiently.  My hair is practically dry already from the afternoon sun.  “Marco!” “Polo!”  Everyone will probably quit playing while we’re still out here, baking in the sun, forced to watch idiot girl.

I look up again and Molly is still standing up there, bobbing up and down at the end of the board, her arms stiff by her sides.  She looks so stupid.  Mom and Dan continue to baby her, calling out encouraging comments.

“Maybe I can just climb up there and push her off,” I suggest to Jamie and we both laugh.

Mom suddenly calls out.  “Molly, you can have two milkshakes if you jump!”

“What!” Jamie and I turn to each other in disbelief.

“Two milkshakes!” Jamie protests.

“I can’t believe she’s going to get two milkshakes for being an idiot!” I complained.  “This is so unfair!  We’ve been jumping off the high dive forever and no one had to bribe us.”

Splash!

My head turns quickly and I see water arcing upward from the pool, glinting in the sun.  The high diving board quivers above but Molly isn’t there anymore.  I guess she finally jumped.  Thank God!

I leap up and race over to the pool, diving in neatly, calling out “Polo!” just before I hit the water.  Jamie is right behind me.

Last week I spent four days at school attending a Writer’s Workshop lead by Teachers College staff developers.  It was a great learning-filled week and an opportunity to work on some writing.  Here’s a small moment piece I worked on—

A Summer Memory–

I stood at the bottom of the ladder and looked up.  My hands grasped the metal poles and I began to slowly climb.  Hand, foot, hand, foot.  Up. Up. Up.  Finally, I reached the top and gingerly stepped out onto the board.  It stretched out before me, a long, thin, blue plank.  I inched my way outward, my arms stiff at my sides.  Bit by bit I walked farther away from the ladder and out toward the edge.  I felt the bumps of the coarse board under my bare feet.  As I moved, the board began to gently bob up and down with my footsteps.  I took a deep breath and continued.

Finally, my toes curled over the edge of the board–the high diving board–and I peered cautiously down, down, down to the water far, far below.  The brilliant afternoon sun glinted off the pool, making my eyes water.  The elastic band of my swimsuit twisted and cut into my shoulders, but I didn’t dare move to adjust it.  The board jiggled and bobbed as I balanced and my toes gripped it even tighter.  My heart pounded and I swallowed hard.  What was I doing up here???

“Come on!  You can do it, Molly!” my mom called encouragingly.  She stood patiently by the side of the pool.  Meanwhile, Dan, the lifeguard, was treading water, also far, far below me.  “Come on, Molly!  I’m right here if you need me,” he called.

I wanted to do this but still I hesitated.  It was a long way down!  A r-e-a-l-l-y, long way!  Behind me a line formed at the base of the ladder.  Kids watched me impatiently, waiting for their turns, eager to jump and dive, but I was stuck, wanting to jump yet fearing to do so.  Why was this so hard?  It was only a jump off the high dive!  Everyone else did it so easily.  “Come on, Molly!  You can do it!” I repeated to myself urgently.

Down below, my mom sweetened the deal.  She’d already promised me a chocolate milkshake if I jumped off the board.  Now she called out, “Molly, if you jump, you can have two chocolate milkshakes.” Two milkshakes!  I loved milkshakes, but at this point, the allure and promise of chocolate milkshakes, even two of them, seemed pretty feeble.  I was scared from the tip of my cramping toes to the top of my sun-warmed head.  On the other hand, I still wanted to do this…or at least to have done it.   What was  I going to do?  I had to make a decision–jump or retreat– and I had to decide soon.  

“Come on, Molly!  You can do this!”  Impatient with my own hesitation, I gathered myself and focused, blocking out the sounds–the impatient kids calling out from the foot of the ladder, the laughs and splashes of kids playing, loud calls of “Marco”  “Polo”,  my mom and Dan’s encouraging comments.  Come on Molly!  You can do it!

I stood alone at the end of the diving board, bobbing gently, toes gripping, heart pounding.  Again I looked down at that crystal blue water far, far below.  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes… and jumped.

I just had a great time rewriting an earlier post from this summer.  The Teachers Write challenge was to include some unusual things in your writing (names of scientists, brand name cereals, car  parts, etc.)  Here’s the new, hopefully improved version!

Sometimes early on a misting morning in July,

I stand and look out the rain-dropped window.

The garden vista blurred,

an oasis of moist green,

like Gregor Mendel’s peas,

verdant and ripe with promise.

The old Ford reclines in the back field

gastropodal silver trails crisscross its askew bumper.

Damp leaves rustle

Errant drops scatter to the ground

Birds call and I listen,

enthralled by the jungle echoes

of the pileated woodpecker

On the radio the distant buzz of voices

Irwin Gratz reports the latest scores

White Sox 8 Yankees 1

The house settles around me

The dog rustles and sighs, slipping deeper into Milk Bone dreams

The promising drip-drip-hiss of the coffee pot punctuates the silence

along with the Snap-Crackle-Pop of my Rice Krispies

I soften

lean into the moment

and breathe.

We enter on the balcony.  The room opens below us and before us–a jewel of a library.  This second-floor balcony encircles the chamber below–crowning the library with softly glowing wooden shelves filled with cloth-bound books.  A spiral staircase leads down to the floor below.  The chamber is empty.  I imagine grieving Armand Gamache with his dog at his feet, reading, wondering, remembering.

Later our guide tells us that Charles Dickens and Mark Twain both spoke here.  I pause, struck by the notion that I am breathing the same molecules of air as they did, standing on these old wooden floors, surrounded by books.  Molecules don’t die, do they?  Surely the answer to that question lies within one of these books, but instead of researching, I breathe deeply, capturing the molecules and holding them deep in my core, sharing a moment with Dickens and Twain and Inspector Gamache.

Quebec City in the summer is a sensual delight.  Blossoms spill from planters and doorways, colors blazing.  The history-steeped cobble-stoned streets are highlighted with multi-hued awnings and brightly colored shutters.  Doors are enticingly ajar and in the mid-summer heat of our visit, the air-conditioned air spills out and tempts, taunts, and tantalizes.  Musicians perform on corners, their musical notes spilling into the air while street acts spring forth in squares, spontaneous crowds laughing, gasping and applauding.  We walk, talk, and laugh, absorbing the sights and sounds.

I’d forgotten how important travelingis.

Augustine of Hippo said, “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”  This seems a particularly apt quote since this most recent travel experience was with my book club.  While it’s thrilling to turn the pages and see new places, experience new things, etc, I sometimes think the most important part of traveling isn’t the journey, but is the return.  Once home again, my “skin” doesn’t fit in quite the same way.  Seeing how others live and experiencing a different way of life opens my eyes to my own life.  It confronts me with the reality of my daily existence and life choices.  Travel shifts my focus–shakes things up a bit.  When I return to my “regular” life, I see things through a different lens, and perhaps with a bit more clarity.  The skin that fit so smoothly before now chafes in spots.

Since my return, I’ve read that the brain is a discounting mechanism.  This was in a work of fiction, but it sounds plausible to me and it underscores what I’ve been thinking.  The example given was that of a broken windshield.  At first you’re dismayed–”Oh no!  Look at that windshield!  How will I drive with that?” But perhaps you don’t have the money to fix it, so you don’t and you continue to drive your car.  Over time, you no longer see the crack in your windshield.  In fact, if someone asked you what happened to your car, you might be confused momentarily until you realized what they were talking about and saw it again.  Your brain discounts the crack over time, so that you no longer see it.  This is an adaptive mechanism as it allows your brain to pay attention to any new and potentially threatening stimuli in your environment.  The crack poses no immediate threat, so the brain discounts it and no longer “sees” it.

That’s what travel does for me.  It jars my brain’s discounting mechanism and forces me to see that metaphorical windshield crack(s) in my life.  It’s not particularly pleasant, but it’s definitely important.  The journey and the return offer the opportunity to make changes, to reassess what I’m doing, how I’m living.  After this most recent trip (my first in much too long!), I’m confronted with a multitude of cracks and flaws.   I’m overwhelmed and disappointed and my burning urge is to depart again.

So now the question is, do I just keep driving the car or make the effort to fix the windshield?

You know a picture book must be good if you catch your teenagers reading it and laughing, and then rereading their favorite parts!  By that measure alone, this one is a winner.  The premise is lighthearted and humorous.  One day Duncan reaches for his crayon box to color and instead finds a stack of letters awaiting him.  Each crayon has written to him with engaging voice and personality.  There are complaints, requests, and compliments.  Each crayon presents its case with a unique voice and with much fun for the reader.  How will Duncan keep his crayons happy and resume his “coloring career?”  At the end Duncan manages to find a creative solution that satisfies him, his crayons and his teacher! 

Out of the many picture books I’ve previewed this summer with an eye to acquiring for the classroom, this is one of the few that has made it to the “must buy” stack. It is a delight from start to finish and I can’t wait to share it with my second graders this fall.  I can foresee using this as a mentor text to teach about point of view, voice, persuasive letter writing and more.  More importantly, I know kids will immediately fall into the spirit of the story.  I can already hear them giggling at the humor and predicting what each color will write.  I suspect they’ll look at their crayons through a different lens and perhaps even be inspired to add a new color to their coloring repertoire! 

Bottom line, this book is a delightful read aloud for all and a wonderful addition to any home or classroom library.  

“There should be a controlled kill,” the man stated firmly.

“Oh, absolutely,” a nearby woman agreed, nodding vigorously.  “They eat everything!  My baptisia, the hostas, the hydrangeas.  They even ate my geraniums!” She paused and then repeated, somewhat shrilly, “My geraniums!”

The dialogue continued among these neighbors as they enjoyed a summer party and bemoaned the ravaging effects of the local deer population on their gardens.  Another man edged into the conversation. “An electric fence is the only way to go,” he stated.  Nearby neighbors bobbed their heads in agreement.  At the edge of the sun-dappled clearing, a bedraggled hosta, chewed in parts to the quick, stood as mute but vivid testament to their frustration.

“What they need to do,” someone else contributed, “is to give out more antlerless deer permits.”   The conversation continued in this vein for some time and then desultorily meandered into new territories:  summer plans, wood-chopping techniques, the weather.  Gradually daylight faded, mosquitos appeared and guests dispersed.

Later at home that evening my husband called softly, “Come quick!  There’s a deer in the driveway.”  We approached carefully, creeping into the bedroom and peering out the window.  There it was, a young deer, stepping daintily across our graveled drive.

“Shh!” we both whispered.   The deer, oblivious to our scrutiny, continued to meander up the driveway, stopping periodically to munch on some shrubbery or to gaze around.  It moved onto the lawn, it’s tail twitching softly.  Once it paused, perhaps at some distant noise, and stood still, its face framed with overlarge ears, straining to listen.  It relaxed and resumed eating, occasionally stopping to listen, or to nibble at an itch on its tawny flanks.  We watched for seemingly endless minutes as it wandered throughout the yard.

My mind drifted back to the conversation I’d overheard earlier that day.  Controlled kill…hostas and geraniums…electric fences…antlerless deer permits.  I settled against the window frame and watched this one deer.  I marveled at its grace, the length of its supple neck, and its singular beauty in the evening light.

Inspired by a quick write at Teacher’s Write, I’ve been working on the following.  It’s still a work in progress but I’m putting it out there anyway.

Sometimes early on a misting morning in July,

I stand and look out the rain-dropped window

The garden vista blurred,

an oasis of moist green,

Air verdant and ripe with promise

Damp leaves rustle

Errant drops scatter to the ground

Birds call and I listen,

enthralled by the jungle echoes of a pileated woodpecker

The house settles around me

The dog rustles and sighs, slipping deeper into canine dreams

The promising drip-drip-hiss of the coffee pot punctuates the silence

I soften

and lean into the moment

and breathe.