A moment

Teacher walks a student out of the class and has him stand outside the door.

Teacher: "Now, you are going to stand here for two minutes. Tell your feet to behave so you can come back into the class."

Student (2nd grade) nods and watches teacher go back into classroom. Student is facing the wall. Student moves his attention to his feet.

Student (faithfully) pointing and commanding repeatedly: "Feet, behave. Feet behave, Feet behave feet behave."

Repeat for two minutes.

The aftermath

   This week promises to be a week of recovery from last week's constant chaos. First, the drama: the King (aka Father Michael) tied his daughter, the Princess (Me) to a tree as a sacrifice to the dragon (Alexander). But St. George (Zak) arrived just in time to free the Princess and befriend (note: not slay: this play is kid-friendly) the dragon.

The rest of the week consisted of massive amounts of homework and lesson planning and teacher meetings. Saturday, Zak and I escaped to Sausalito for a late breakfast and a walk through the quiet waterfront town. 

Yesterday, we made lunch for Holy Trinity (BLTs and potato salad--huge hit), then spent the evening at a reception for CEUSA (translation: all you can eat of elaborate appetizers and treats) with some new friends from USF who are connected to old friends from Westmont. 

This world is small and cozy and I like to snuggle into it.

A moment today

Having been kicked out of his class, a 2nd grade student walks across the eating hall and waits patiently outside the office.

Fr Irenei opens the door. 

"And what can I do for you?"

The child sighs and shakes his head.

"I was misbehaving in class."

Leyla

Yesterday, a student proudly showed me his notebook--full of little boy code and secrets--and declared, "Girls can't see this!"

I laughed and said, "But I am a girl!"
He rolled his eyes. "No you're not. You're a teacher."


The apartment was clean for a total of 24 hours and I consider this an accomplishment.

A fog descended over the bay today and I forgot my jacket at home. Wet drops stick to my skin and I have been trying not to shiver as I move from St. John's, to Raphael House, to Mills.

I forgot my frozen dinner at home. I could use a shower.

I have to decide what to read next for my 5th grade literature class. More Sherlock Holmes? A Little Princess? Jungle Book? Johnny Tremain?

New Post

Yes; well, Heather's blogging and I thought I might as well, too. I feel as if there may be a thousand items on my "to-blog" list. Maybe I will take this one day at a time.

Tomorrow we are putting on a Michaelmas play for the Raphael House families. Zak will play the role of St. George. Alexander shall be our dragon. Erin dramatically narrates while Ralitza and Magdalena scream and get eaten. Father Michael is our internally tortured king and I his passive daughter sent to slaughter.

In other news, I was forced to make my 2nd and 3rd graders write lines (standards) instead of decorating crosses today. The reasons included dancing on backpacks, sucker punches to classmates' jawbones, and an earth-shaped pencil sharpener that kept making its rounds through the air.

Their lines read "I am sorry" ten times, and were decorated with complementary color-schemed hearts.

A long time coming

I am not sleeping because I have no need for dreaming.

In one month I'll be (one times two is one) and that's a good thing.

I have grown to appreciate the absurdities: one hundred and ten tiny flowers sprouting from bubble wands; the purposeful folding of a table napkin (is it white or eggshell?); should the hem be one or two inches shorter?; grand entrance and get-away; nail polish color; the height of a centerpiece ...

I don't even remember how write because all I do is build this fast-approaching wedding, piece by glue-gunned piece.

In the fall I might remember I am a writer. I might pick up a notebook and recognize the blankness of the space between the lines. Right now I'm a fiance. And in a month I'll be a wife.


Don't say those words out loud. I might wake up :)

It is my Nail in your Hand

Red eggs in my palm and I squint at them, remembering:
who is this child?

What Man is this that slays
down his life

for his strangers--
who lay sleeping in the brush when we are dancing around His head.

Shalome. Are you yet the Messiah?




Condemn me, red egg. Do not die for me.
Do not descend into that dark place for me. I cannot lift your Cross.

What Justice? What Mercy?
What God? What God?

Who Are You, that carries thorns without promise of roses,
that Redeems without reasurrance of repentance?