Teaching is really hard work.

And if I was a Sculptor

Today I initiated two beautiful plants into my classroom: one Zebra plant and one hanging Ivy. Zebra is not very happy to be transported through so many climates. His leaves are saggy and one of the veins has a crease--which is not good for the whole photosynthesis party. Ivy is quite happy to be in a classroom and she's twining her arms around my bookshelves.

I talk to my plants. Because they won't let me have animals.

My mom said I'm living backwards: I'm doing the old-cat-woman-who-lives-alone-and-talks-to-plants in my twenties. Maybe when I'm eighty I'll wear halters and bikinis and dance around on tables with my fists in the air.

Wait. I did that at nineteen.

Hm.

I live in a spiral and not in a line.
But my students like me--just. Fine.

So far I've gotten everyone to laugh through the Missouri Compromise and the Compromise of 1850 and the general period leading up to the Civil War. Which I count as a great accomplishment.

I have not, however, been able to infuse the older students with the same passion I feel for the WWII era. Maybe because nothing's blowing up yet. Tomorrow I'll stage a debate and make them all pretend they're either Truman, Stalin, or Churchill. Or was it Truman Lenin and Churchill?

John Lennon?

:)


I may have found the solution to the problem: figure out who the heck I'm supposed to be teaching about. And drink more coffee.

Last night I sat around in bed with my toes poking out from under the covers and listening to Anna Karenina on tape. It was bliss.

It's raining still and the snow melts
into my shoes in the morning,
and God keeps splattering his Tears across
the window-panes.
I like it when He laughs so hard,
He Cries.

Like Blood, like Honey (song title: Holly Brook).

Welcome back, to myself I say: as I glance around
the shadowed Cave, and build a new
shelf, shrugged against the wall. The rain cries,
down the melting snow outside
and I knew: I know,
.......I know I'm back again.

Seldom seem to understand me when I mumble
incoherently;
Seldom seem to want to see the
thoughts
..........that
.............spill
.............so list-less-ly
from the open palms that grasp at: nothing--Cling--

..............(to what's Right. In. Front.
..............of your eyes.)

'Welcome back,' the walls coo, 'My Friend,' while I slink
about the frozen Stone.
I know the temporary rain
will slow--but for now
it's a Memory (begging) to stay.

(c) M.K.P.
"Miss Kellie Parkinson"


"Just before she hangs her head to cry, I sing to her--a lullaby. Everything's gonna be alright. Rock-a-bye."

Literature is a beautiful word.

Sometimes magic comes in sunshine and sometimes it comes in ice crystals.

Today it came in a Stick-Shift-Samauri. That's a Jeep, my friends, and that means I CAN stick shift it sweetly through the snow.

I feel like I am unintentionally hissing.

I also made spaghetti, made my bed, made 10th graders smile and made 12th graders groan.

A full day I say. I'm going to my parents' home tomorrow and for the weekend and my heart feels warm with anticipation.

It's nothing abnormal ... but particularly now ... 

in the still of the twilight that

curls round my chest;

with the lift of the lash

and heart's hum in my breast,

My sigh's the conclusion

that wears the sky thin

and the snowflakes (like starlight),

Breathe--Zak: 

and Miss--him.

Blanketed.

A very, very long: exhale.

Two days into running my own classroom. I've traversed across the Holocaust, abolitionism, defined "precipice" and held a full conversation with a four year old. My throat is dry and my lids are heavy but my heart is full.

I wish the schoolday didn't end at noon.

When the students rise and chuck their chairs atop their wobbly desks, their pounding feet march their snow boots and their earmuffs out into the snow and I'm left, staring at my gradebook and wondering why I have to give grades when their intelligence is so apparent. 

And then a late paper comes in and I remember: Be Strong! Zero, my dear, but good effort. I enter the angry circle into the computer and frown. Why can't they all just get a hundred? :)

Morning comes again and my alarm is screaming--SIX SIX, SIIIIIIXXXXXXXX, SIX AM, SLEEPY and I groan, I moan myself out of bed and onto the cold--the frozen--floor and into my dress pants, my curled hair, my mascara, my collar. Be teacher, I command the dark circles under my eyes.

Another night of restless sleep: because I care, I CARE, if they listen or if they stare or if they twiddle their pencils or if they flip through eager pages, drinking or rejecting my words. My lessons.

Suddenly it doesn't matter if I can write it well, if the cursive looks pretty on the board, or if the sentence is eloquently stated: "Dot thine eyes and cross thy tees, my students."

Nah.

I want to know I can be heard. To be heard, to be understood: do you know what it is to care for young minds?

How could I ever be a mother if as a simple teacher the condition, if the education, if the future of these near-STRANGERS not only means so much but drives me so much into a passionate fury. You are too young not to enjoy learning, that you may love and BREATHE it every day,

the rest of your days,

my students. My friends, compatriots, Watchers, Listeners, hearts, smiles:

my children for the hour. 

And at the conclusion of a too-short-too-long-day, I sigh my way up the hill, textbooks and laptop and heart in tow: to an empty house shrouded in snow and I tilt my chin to the sky--"WHY, clouds? Why pour your white on me each night that I must dig my way out in the dawn?"

So lonely, these walls, especially when the days are filled with such sound. I come home, not to a home, but to a Cave and not to a Heart but to a phone. 

I am torn between pure joy and lonely sorrow. I long to be embraced. I shook a hand today and silently willed that she might hold on a little longer. But the Strange fingers were released in customary tone and the imprint left shadows in my skin.

I miss, I miss: Belonging in the arms, in the heart, in the Soul of--a Home.

In the Beginning

I wake with a force in my chest—breath—and my name echoing in the wake of an ethereal Being. I have no memory preceding this moment. An element holds soft pressure against my back—grass. There is no other presence but everything is presence. I am aware of potential outside my core—limbs. My heat breathes with the grass. These limbs—my hands—push my body above the earth but I do not leave the earth. Dust swirls from between the blades to embrace my toes. I have no knowledge but knowledge of presence. And there is no other presence… but everything is presence. I am fully being of greater Being: I am reminded by the breath in my chest. Learning invades my vision without warning and Being whispers the same echo of my name—Adam. And in learning I know—I am Adam: being of Being. My skin sheds the dust.

Being possesses a quality of … weight. A pressure that does not touch my skin but dwells in my presence. I do not have a name for this quality but it inspires an image of sky—the color of sky in the deep of the sea when it rocks. I present to Being my quality of question and Being is Silent. I am to wait; the knowledge waits and will come to pass in the fullness of time. These words I obtain from Being and keep them to recollect at a later moment.

Sometimes the Hardest thing and the Right thing are the same.

When I came back to school last semester, it was in the wake of the decision to live contrary to the year previous. I was greeted with the pessimistic responses of a lot of dear friends, of acquaintances, of strangers I'd never known but who'd watched me tear apart my world.

According to them, I wasn't "fun anymore." Or brushed aside because "it wouldn't last."

And then I was supported by the love of my closest friends, of a circle of women who supported me, of best friends who picked me back up when I slipped and helped me keep moving forward, who kept me pressing on, and who encouraged me by simply pointing to the sky.

It is because of them I am here today. Because a few hands held mine, a few arms encircled my tired frame, and a few hearts reached out to me in love and lifted me in prayer. And the doubters were proved wrong.

And I continue to grow. Continue to put one foot in front of the other, trudging on with my chin to the sky, watching and Waiting in hope for the Promise of His Name.


It gets harder every day.

I have a splinter in my thumb this evening, from shifting firewood, and I want to do everything but pull it out, cause I know it'll hurt, when the skin slides against the wood and slips against the exposed veins, causing blood to trickle its tear down my finger in protest.

Part of me thinks that if I just leave it in there, my body will naturally push it out. And it probably will. Once my mom leaned on a cactus and years later, her body pushed the spikes out of her back. I could leave it and hope.

Or I could grab the tweezers, use the tools I've been given, and pull it out. And stop fidgeting with cleaning the kitchen counter, with making my bed, with sorting the laundry.

Tonight, I still lonely. But I am white
snow, glittering across the frozen ground as I shift
beneath the gaze of the Moon and Wait--wait
for morning, wondering whether I will melt
in the Sun or grow with another fall
of flakes from the velvet sky.

I Wish my Life was this Song, cause Songs--they never die.

From the drive up here, a few days ago:

I love cloud pictures. I collect them. I used to have a wall in my room at home, dedicated to photographs of the cloudy skies.



Morale is low.

Haha. I feel like I'm playing Oregon Trail:
"Morale is low. A. Play chess. B. Buy booze. C. Rest one day. D. Quit Game"

B is illegal at Hume; D is ... not applicable. I have no one with whom I can play chess. I pick C. Rest one day.


I ran out of cream cheese this morning and it served a severe blow to my joy. I have two bagels left. What am I going to put on them??? I also had to dig myself out of the house, due to a heavy fall of snow that blanketed the front yard and made it impossible to walk out of the front door.

Which was actually kind of fun and empowering. I could have used the electric snowblower. But I couldn't figure it out. So I grabbed a shovel and dug my way to freedom.

I'm lonely. Tomorrow I go pick up my VERY OWN MACBOOK--one of the many perks of being a teacher here haha--and then all I have left to do is wait around till Tuesday: my first day of real teaching.

These thoughts are exciting. The loneliness is not. I'll be spending Valentines' Day alone. Emo. Alone in a basement that reminds me of a cave, in the middle of the snow, with little-to-no-food beyond frozen vegetables.

I made an omelette last night with frozen spinach and frozen onions. Gross. But it felt strangely wild. Like I'm on some survival television show with heated floors and a jacuzzi.

Which, by the way, is officially buried beyond resurrection.

I teach Guud.

Not yet, actually, but I will. I just completed my 8th grade history lesson plans for next week--my first week of teaching! Woo. Civil War. It's gonna be a fun one.

And I should probably figure out how to teach everything else. But it feels nice to have SOMETHING done.

It snowed this morning while I was walking to work: tiny little crystals stuck on my shoes and in my hair and on my nose, chilling wherever they touched bare skin. Rosy and red, I spilled my way into the classroom and through the day--a day filled with exciting new ideas and dreams of what's to come when I sit up there and project my ideas, my joy, my knowledge, and my ignorance (haha) upon the classroom of students.

Anyone have interesting ideas for "Journal Topics"? I'm going to have them write journals everyday. And a vocab test every week. Muhaha. Ahem.


By the way, these students are brilliant. They engage with the subject, they soak up information, they read a ton, and their verbal vocab is better than some college graduates I know (namely--me). :)

"This is where the kingdom of God originated—in an underground revolution"

I bet you can't go a month without spending money.

In Jeff Peak's latest "Round Robin," he mentioned a challenge the Amate House has begun: a competition between the members of the household to see who can spend the least amount of money within the month of February. It involves public tracking and a dinner prize.

This particular adventure strikes a sweet chord in my heart; I've been reading Jesus for President, a book by Shane Claiborne about ... well, society, politics, and the ways the Christian community has diverted from God's original intentions for the lifestyle of His kingdom. As I progress through the text, I become increasingly frustrated with feelings of inadequacy and helplessness. No, I'm not helplessly stuck in the consumerist society, "slave to the system." But I am, by my own vices, stuck.

"Folks didn't go to the desert simply to escape the world; they went to the desert to save the world." (Claiborne, Jesus for President 79).

Christ didn't come to reform society. He came to create a New Society: a New Kingdom in His name and modeled after His lifestyle--separate from the corrupt world. A City on a Hill. A Light in the Dark, removed and completely alternate from the norm.


My life is far from Christ's conservative, humble example.
And I bet you feel somewhat the same.


What if we spent just a month, free of the tyranny of our credit cards, of the cash in our pocket, of the ATM's angry face? Christ retreated to the desert for a little over a month, and returned to begin his "underground revolution" among the poor, the quiet, the meek, the heavy-hearted. We know where His revolution led, what it accomplished, and continues to accomplish even in the whispers of the Saints.

And it all started in a desert. We're supposed to be set apart. Are we? Or are we just surviving, searching for a balance, struggling along between Temptation and God's calling?

My goal: exercise the spirit of Jeff's "Frugal February."


I think you can do it, too.
I know I'm tired of feeling like a slave.

"I cannot go in these." 1 Sam 7:39

I've read the "David-And-Goliath" story many times.

It made me cry today. A strange emotion, considering I was flipping through the old testament looking for "inspirational quotes" to paste on my Cave-Wall.

And I found this story, where a child faces a giant with a sling, having stripped himself of all the armor and protection his earthly king offered. The act: Simple. Like a kiss on a child's forehead. Like a coin in a beggar's cup.

Like Christ's call to--"Follow."

Simple. One stone.
Simple, One Cross.

Simple: One life, laid at the feet of Redemption without any clue to what it will mean. Only trusting that once we stop dreaming, worrying, hoping, climbing for ourselves, we will be free to be Dreamed for, to be Hoped for, to be Loved through and to fulfill His Vision.

Simple. Costly.

He is the Pearl of great Price. Beauty in a grain of sand.

Walked in Ankle deep snow without Snowshoes.

Cold toes.

As you can tell, I neither tumbled off the side of the mountain, nor got lost in the snow storm. I also did not help my dad put the chains on the tires. But I did help him dig the car out of the driveway when the tires spun in maniac circles, digging an unbelievably deep ditch out of which there would be no driving.

Exciting.

Tomorrow morning begins my next adventure. It's snowing (pretty) and it is cold (.. you know how I feel about that). Through the pretty white devils (snowflakes) I will traipse, making my way down the mountain in the wee-hours of the morning (8am. Wee to me) and beginning my initiation into the role of "Teacher."

Educator.

Responsible for the brains of children.

Heaven help us all.




What will I wear???



P.S. Who lives in West Hollywood?

Though I'm holding my breath, my heartbeat is calm

The day after tomorrow, I throw my life in the back of a car and make the trek once again into solitude. I approach this realization with mixed feelings.

- I'm about to teach my favorite subject--ENGLISH!!!-- and my favorite period of history--World War II--to a classroom of students I've never met. Memoirs of the holocaust (both perspectives) are stacked on my desk and my notes from Night have been resurrected from the underbelly of my closet, eagerly awaiting re-use.

- Faced with shelves of my cherished novels, I have to pick which ones should make the journey up the mountain, and join "Ms Parkinson's Library": an 'extra-credit' book collection that will be used in conjunction with "Book Bingo" to encourage free-reading outside the classroom.

- Though I have a closet full of clothing, I am carefully selecting my most "Teacheresque" garments. You wouldn't believe the stuff I've come up with.

- Memories of the lonely basement and the dark, silent nights are beginning to creep their way back along the corners of my mind. Whereas the whole point of my last adventure was the loneliness, I thought I could handle it because 1. It was on purpose 2. It was the point and 3. It was temporary. But my isolation is now a casualty of a brilliant opportunity ... and I'm already longing for a companion. Moments like these make me realize that no matter how poetic I might think it sounds, I would never want to live the rest of my life alone. I learn life in companionship.

- My room at home is no longer "my room." After I move out at the conclusion of my trip to Ireland this summer, it will be converted to an office for my dad. I've already re-painted the walls, covering over every childhood memory, every tack-hole in the wall, every place where poster tape had peeled off the chaotic paint. Soon, even the decoration scheme will be altered, from the noisy floral to a soothing "Beach."

- Even if I don't have home in a place, I have home in a heart. In many hearts, in fact. Beyond the current Blessing of my (pardon the phrase) "love life" (warm smile), I am surrounded in spirit by family and friends and friends who are family--all of these, relationships that have nestled in my chest and blossom daily through prayer, thoughts, laughter, embraces, and sweet telephone conversations. I will always belong with these people. That's why, even when I go away for months and return, I know I can still text Beth and say, "What the heck you doin?" And we're out ransacking the town two hours later. That's why, when I text message Bre, it's always a message of love, missing, and the memory of incessant, joyous laughter. That's why, when I pick up the phone to call Alyssa, she always will answer no matter if she's on a date with Matthew, or getting her hair done at some obscure salon in the middle of a Beauty College ( :) ). That's why, when I arrive on the streets of San Francisco in the middle of an early Sunday morning and Zak lifts his head in surprise, my stride across the street is a sprint into his heart and an embrace that sends a smile through his eyes and into the deepest part of his soul.

That's why, when I get a letter from a professor it's like a whisper from a friend.
And when I curl myself up on my parent's bed, my mom instantly runs her fingers through my hair and listens to me rattle on about my hopes and dreams for the future, about my fears for tomorrow, about my joys of today.

And when I open Scripture, Paul's admonition of relationships and of love and of Charity all seep themselves into my life and I see Heather in Corinthians; I see Westmont in David's Psalms; I see today in the Lord's Prayer; and I see Tomorrow: in the Hands of God.

Palmdale

I took the CBEST today (that's the teacher-test) and ... couldn't remember how to add fractions.

Ridiculous.
A. When am I ever going to do math without a calculator?
B. When am I ever going to use math?


Sigh.

And I wrote an essay about drugs.










But it was part of the prompt.

And I'm not getting a cat. Hume won't let me.

Still Furry-Friend-less

I found the cat I wanted but I didn't bring it home because I don't want to die at the hands of my parents. Although Beth was very persuasive. Note to self: don't take her to a pound cause she'll make you want to bring them all home.


Twenty one years old and still can't own anything cause I am borrowing every living space.

Please don't tell my mother

After a long month of isolation up at that dang Hume cabin, I'm afraid to return to the lonely, companion-less environment.

So I'm going to the pound and intend to return with a cat. A gray one. Now taking name suggestions. And I declare that sissy things like Misty, Shadow, Fuzzball, Puff, and Spot are immediately ruled out.

Give me something exotic.

And please,
don't tell my mother. Yet.

heh heh

A little Fall of Rain

Though the rain pours in torrents I cannot help but hear its touch on the window as a caress, rather than a series of violent abrasions.

I long for lightening to streak across the sky and instead the clouds form their murky embrace across the heavens and the occasional star peers through to watch the world glisten as the light of the moon slips across drenched streets and dripping windshields.

My heart is soft, as I lean over this screen and peer again out at the world, sleeping beneath the patter of rain. I am alone, but not lonely. My family dreams in the rooms surrounding and my smile hums an echo of remembrances over the quietest moments of this past weekend: a certain gaze returned over the flicker of candlelight, his laugh as answer to my joy, quiet arms enfolding a moment of silence stolen in a crowded room or a noisy bus or a moonlit street. Conversations that transcend all levels of understanding we'd previously striven for, pushed at, run towards, and fallen from--until we finally became nothing, and surrendered everything to He who drags the stars down from the sky to rest their glow in our cheeks. The deepest parts of my heart memorize every word until I can replay phrase after phrase and recall the precise moments when our souls Communed: when the lightbulb flickered on in the attics of our minds: when our breath finally released in the triumphant sigh.

How do I describe the Intercession of the Creator?

It begins with a question: his hand offered, palm up. And the answer: my own palm against his--slides,

like the dew from the leaf in the gold glow
of the dawn.

No more ice cream before bed.

I woke up this morning, stared at the ceiling, and thought, "What the hell was that?"

I dreamed I was the wife of a dictator, sold into the marriage by my unfortunate parents who wanted money to buy a yacht. The dictator (who looked vaguely familiar but I can't pin his face) in turn used me for "diplomatic relations" between countries: selling me out as the "peace treaty." Many children resulted from these "peace offerings" and they became mini-assassins, stalking through the night, killing rebels and the infidels of the nation.

They all looked like little china dolls, with porcelain smooth faces and plastered black hair that hung straight from their scalps. But beady little blue eyes that glowed in the dark.

After a few foggy events and a lot of killing, I ended up pegged on the "most wanted" list for no reason other than that I was getting old and my face was wrinkled. So, in the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of my own child breathing in my ear and turned to meet her crystal eyes, knowing:

I was about to die.


And then I woke up.

The stars in your eyes light up the Skies

Well I have returned to the comfort of four familiar walls and now place myself before a blank computer screen, beginning to attempt to sum up the past six days in something that gives you at least an inkling of my grand adventure. For now, I'll stick to a summary of events. The emotions, I will save for another journal entry.

It all began with Thursday's trip through the airport: my lonely gaze out the window as we swept over unrecognizable terrain, heading north along the California coast. After an interesting adventure involving a confusing bus line and a homeless man asking me if I needed directions (while he eyed my conspicuous luggage), I arrived at my ugly, 70's-style hotel with its gold decorations and cigarette water.

The bathroom: pink tile~ and the Carpet: green&gold.

After settling into the room, I took my own adventure down to Fort Mason, said a surprise hello to Zak Landrum, and then traipsed about the city in search of USF and a good cup of coffee.


I ate dinner alone in a crowded restaurant and the waiter gave me a series of pitying looks and flirtatious remarks, including, "Hey. You're keeping me company, too."

I thought, This is very, very sad. But strangely liberating. I ate dinner alone, surrounded by lovey-dovey couples, and instead of staring at my plate, I made conversation and got a free drink and left a cute tip. I should do it again.


Thursday night, I sat in a round room on a squishy sofa in the heart of the University of San Francisco and discussed the MFA program with a representative and about five other prospective graduate students. The night concluded with a glass of wine at a wine bar, by the light of a candle and the warmth of conversation with Zak.


Oh, and a round of gross battle wounds erupted across my heels so I was forced to take action, involving the purchase of tacky socks and a lot of bandaids.

Friday, I made my way through the deepest part of Oakland's ghetto and arrived at Mills College: the all-girl's oasis nestled in the middle of a large forest surrounded by barbed wire in order to maintain a safe separation between the students and the gang-infested surroundings.

On the bus ride to the college, a black woman leaned over the bus chair behind me and said loudly, "Whatchou-Doin here, White girl?"

On the other hand, the college was gorgeous. And the interview was fun. I went on a tour of the school and spread myself out on the grass, reading and burning my skin.

Saturday morning, after a breakfast of crepes with Zak, I met up with my cousin (well, actually, I am her mother's cousin... my family's weird) Erin and had delicious tea and GREAT conversation. Like I've said before, I love family. I hadn't seen her since I was a kid, but she's as lovely as I remember her, with sparkling eyes and a heart full of wisdom.

The rest of the weekend is a blur, bookended and caressed by moments of self-realization and a continual outpouring of myself into the nurturing of a beautiful friendship. Zak and I visited the Opera House on Saturday and the San Francisco ballet gave us a performance of a classical piece that was familiar to my aching limbs, an interpretation of Ibsen that moved my heart to tears, and a more modern piece that dragged me to the end of my seat and left me begging for more. I also saw Zak's play Saturday night--the Magic put on a performance that displayed raw, beautiful human relationships--at both their best and at their worst--driven by the conflict surrounding a cancerous diagnosis, one woman's desire for survival, and the ultimate acceptance of Surrender. I am so proud to know that Zak was involved in its development.

Sunday we basked all day in the light of the sun and in the warmth of a deepening friendship, then took an adventure to Cory's, where we witnessed (and, unfortunately, sampled) a bacon concoction just begging for a heart attack, played a few rounds of Mexican Train, and tried to remember who played in the Superbowl and half-heartedly wondered who won.

(Zak's domino creation before he let me destroy it)

As far as the Super Bowl goes, I still have no idea. But I did win one round of Mexican Train.




After wandering through a few bookstores, after a few more long conversations, after a dinner adventure at Cora's and after a rather normal viewing of the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I bade my farewell to the city and all its beautiful occupants, and returned to the airport, where I got felt-up by a security guard, got my bag opened and inspected, and wondered, "Do I really look this threatening?"


When I spotted a little girl being returned a violated-looking teddy bear, I felt a little better. But not much. I mean, seriously. Do I look like I have a gun hidden in my cleavage? Or a bomb under my belt? I don't think so. America.


Needless to say, my graduate interviews are complete. I came home to a telephone call offering a raise for my pending job (which I start next Tuesday, by the way). I will have about four more students, twenty more dollars a day, and not much more work. So now, not only am I responsible for the 8th-10th grade English and History, but I'm also proctoring the English independent study course for the 11th and 12th graders.

Life's ridiculous. But grand.


I've missed you all. Thanks for putting up with the overflow of information. Now: to clean my room and pack for my next move.


I'm reminded again of how temporary every resting place has come to be for me: I visit a city, I sleep in two beds and a couch, I come back here and spend a few more nights beneath my parents' roof, then I make my way back to the snow and to a basement without the warmth of another human to press their comforting hug around my shoulders at the end of a taxing day, or to join me in prayer at the beginning of another. I long even more for permanence. But I am excited for my next grand adventure.