Get Out of Your Living Room

Just over a month ago now, my husband Jacob delighted me yet again with an out-of-the-box type of birthday gift.  In fact, it would have been downright risky unless he had known, as he did, that since the age of 18, before I had even heard of a bucket list, I had a secret and--in my mind--almost impossible desire: to learn to ride the unicycle.

Unfortunately, a unicycle isn't exactly the type of present you unwrap, mount, and ride off down the knife edge of Mt. Katahdin on, playing your harmonica with one hand and waving behind you at your benefactor with the other. That being said, I began learning in the safest place I could think of--my narrow, garishly green, carpeted, log cabin hallway, and after an hour or two of collective practice, amounting in little more than raw inner thighs and aching calves, I moved on to the living room.

The living room venture was a bit scarier at first.  This required a bit more skill than the hallway where, at all times, I had help a finger's touch away.  In order to experience the smooth sailing of the living room, I had to be able to balance not only to the front and back, which I had partially mastered, but from side to side.  It meant leaving the safety of my "crutches" and pedaling headlong into a room riddled with piano stools, log support beams, and sturdy reading tables.  Sometimes I shook so badly that I could not leave the "starting gate" of the hallway.  Sometimes I could force myself to brave it and went careening dangerously close to the piano, ending in a crumpled, knock-kneed heap.

Over time, however, the living room became "my place"--much more of my place than the hallway ever was. I would proudly tell all who would listen that I could ride my unicycle across it.  It was a tremendous milestone.  And so I stayed there, successful, content with my six feet of progress, safe within the walls of my home. In fact, I did not move for a month. I expected to learn it all right there--the turning, the stopping, the idling, the hopping, and for right now, the plain act of riding.  My tire was clean and brand-new, and I didn't want that to change.

Yesterday was one of my first days of discontent.  I began to feel stifled--as if I might do better elsewhere.  After practicing for a few minutes in my happy place, I took a deep breath and ventured with my shiny unicycle out the door to the driveway.  It was intimidating.  It was new.  I balanced myself against our Toyota Tacoma and took my first try--yep, about six feet of progress. Then two.  Then three. Then six. Then four.  This was normal. But then ten! Then seven. Then six. Then twelve! I shrieked and ran inside, babbling to Jacob about what had happened.  I put my unicycle away, not wanting to ruin the magic.

But then it happened again today.  In fact, it more than happened.  By the end of twenty minutes, I had ridden nearly fifty feet once and about half that a number of times. And of course that got me thinking.

We are content with so little. What if I had stayed in my living room? True, there wouldn't have been any mosquito bites. No bumpy rocks to roll over.  No ant hills or grassy humps.  But no 22 pedalings either.  No 48 feet of distance traveled.  No multiplication of blessings and balance and patience and perseverance.

And so I wonder. Does God have more in store for me?  Are there other areas in my life in which I am stuck in a happy place that is no longer challenging me to grow?  God forbid. Let me not be like a wee turtle only growing to fit the size of its glass-encased dwelling.  God has set me free!  May I move ahead where He leads into the vast expanse of His great universe.

Teacher Appreciation

Some teachers get:

Free Chipotle burritos (because Chipotle chooses their burgeoning town)
Roses smothered in baby's breath and stuffed into high-collared crystal vases
Glittering gift cards to the local Barnes & Noble bookstore
Fancy felt-tipped markers.

I get:

One long Lindt truffle
Daffodils picked by 8th grade hands and popped into a cobalt bottle
Narcissus blossoms launching out of a root-packed pint jar
A flowery metal garden spike, cheerfully painted
A heart made of out-of-the-past melted plastic beads
A Pink Lady, a Fuji, or a Gala, taut-skinned and crisp
Cookies, still warm and breathing heavily from their adventure
A rotund owl who looks at me all day, unblinking, till I turn him to face my students
And an aquaponically-nourished, fish-poop-fed, glowing orange orb of perfection
Which I can't quit staring at.

They may get nice things,
But I get love.

Seek the Sunny Places

I saw my first spring snake today.

Thorne and I were out for a 3:00 Friday afternoon run--he, dashing in front of me with puppyish glee,  bouncing from scent to scent with flopping ears, I slogging on behind with pounding feet and flapping hair.

For some reason or other, the snake did not catch Thorne's attention.  I suppose the hound in him was much more interested in the deer tracks imprinted deeply in the trail ahead, or the pointer half more entranced by the turkey droppings deposited along the edges of the two-track. In any case, by the time I reached the snake, a little Garter, Thorne had already hopped over him, oblivious to the little life below.

The snake was a slender fellow, about 15 inches long, a thin ribbon stretched out full length in a patch of sunlight.  His head was reared up, his tongue flickering about his lips, his eyes unblinking.  He did not move as my feet thumped closer to him, or even when I, too, had sprung over him.  He was enjoying a patch of warmth and happiness and apparently he was not going to move for much.

I couldn't resist.  Stopping and retracing my steps, I gently touched him with my shoe.  He didn't budge.  I nudged him a little harder.  And then it was as if he was suddenly awakened out of his reverie--beginning a rapid slither out of his sunshine and into the shadows of the swamp several feet away.


During these unpredictable spring days when we might yet have a few flurries in the air or when, a few minutes later, the sun is strong enough to cause the temperature in my greenhouse to rise into the 80s, I often find Thorne, as well, in the sunshine.  He doesn't mope around in the cold dark corners of our log cabin, whining and shivering.  He seeks for the bright places, the cozy places, the golden places.  He basks there, soaking them in, relishing them, contentedly snoozing, his whiskers and toes twitching as he dreams of wild squirrel hunts and tantalizing bunny chases.

And so with the snake.  It is a little early for him to be out, weather-wise.  It frosted every night this week except for one.  Sunday and Monday were days of cold rain.  Thursday was warmish but whipped about by a cool breeze.  But he certainly hasn't gone around grumping about it.  He follows his nose to the happy spots and stays there, peacefully enjoying the moments and moving only out of mere necessity. He finds the haunts that delight him and rests there, not startled in the least by distractions, disruptions, or disagreements.

Oh, that I might learn from these little creatures!  May my instinct be to search for sunlight, not shadows, for joy, not sorrow, for contentment, not resentment.  May I too seek the sunny places--and may I determine steadfastly to stay there.

A Seed for Living Twice

This will not be the normal "oh-no-I-haven't-written-in-two-years" kind of blog post.  Not because I can't manage to catch up on all the happenings and intricate inter-weavings of the past twenty-four months. Not because of a sense of burdensome guilt about my lack of communication with the world at large.  After 8.5 hours of pondering on the matter, I'm now beyond all those emotions. What's left is the very core of it all--the very center where the seeds are and from which new life can sprout.

It all began this morning when one of my students mentioned something about stickers.  Now you should know that just a week or so ago, this particular student had found some stickers in the trash, pulled them out, and proceeded to stick them about the classroom--on the clock, on the turtle tank, on a classmate or two, and then, of course, on her own desk.  Why?  That is a question that still begs for answering.  But in the meantime, it has all become a fabulous joke.  So when she mentioned something about stickers, I couldn't help giggling with her.

And then I remembered this post from my past and couldn't resist the temptation of sharing it with her or her word-loving brother.  We all laughed.  But when they went back to their desks to eat their lunches, I remained riveted--perusing one year after another of memories, of words, of musings. A thought began to come, one which, at first, I could not pin down and talk some sense into.  When I tried to explain my ruminations to my coworker over recess, I still had not figured it out.  It was on my twenty-three minute drive home from work--after the goodbyes, after the grading, after the mental wind-down--that the thought finally emerged from the rainy fog figuratively and literally surrounding my car.

In those years and months and days of being a faithful blogger, and more importantly, being a writer, I was living each moment twice--the first, as the protagonist, and the second as the analytical bystander, sometimes cheering myself on, sometimes calling out criticisms, sometimes laughing at the ridiculous character I saw before me.  My life was a reflective one--chewed on constantly by my imaginings, mulled over obsessively in my quiet moments, and digested through the act of wordsmithing.  My life was, in those years, an examined life, "one," to turn Socrate's famous quote around, "worth living."  Not because it was seen by everyone.  Not because it was plastered all over Facebook (which I didn't even have).  But because every moment was lived until it couldn't be lived anymore.

That, indeed, is a life worth living, a seed worth sowing.  And April is as good a time as any to begin anew.

Shaking off the Snow, Melting the Frost

Each day now I get a millimeter of tire-tread closer to disaster as I turn onto the mud-spattered expanse of our driveway and attempt to navigate Becky, my tiny Toyota Echo, through the 1000-foot gauntlet of trees and mud puddles to our humble cabin.  Two days ago my car faltered in the fudgey ruts. Yesterday, I spun out for several seconds and began imagining the bother it would be to dislodge myself. Today I was almost too chicken to chance it, but ended up safely coming to a stop in our wet-floored garage, after all. 

The ground squished beneath my shoes as I walked to our door.  Purrchee was immediately at my heels, meowing and purring almost at once, looking up at me with her great blue-green eyes, eager for me to sit.  Even now she is in my lap, upside down, her paws kneading the air, her wet nose pushing against my hand with such force that it pulls her cheeks back from her teeth and releases an extra-loud puff from her purr-engine. Her muddy paw prints are already drying on my school pants.

Spring has finally come to the U.P.

Just the other evening I startled a woodcock while returning from an evening run and could hear its wings whirring as it rose above me and then headed a little further south to find a new place to settle.  Snatches of poetry flitted through my mind.

This afternoon I took some of our students outside for recess and had to step around the shrinking scabs of ice which still rest on the low places of our field. I found myself thinking in word pictures, trying out syllables on my tongue, wanting to glory in the beauty around me in the way I know best.

And so it is time for spring to come to my blog as well.

It's time to shake off the snow of busyness, to melt away the frost of burdens.  Spring is in the air.  Words are once more on the wing.

Sap Picking and other Yooper Delicacies

I've been hearing about Yooper Bars for some time now, and I have to admit that every time they've been mentioned, I've had this image float through my mind of some granola-berry combination of weighty magnitude, hearty, rustic, as flavorful as the U.P. itself.

Today was the day. Yesterday evening one of my students triumphantly pounced in front of me, waving a mysterious looking flat package before my eyes. "Has anyone hit you yet?" She questioned, the prize still dangling in front of me from her fingertips. No, no one had and so on the condition that I would pay soon, she left it on my desk.

Sometime before lunch today my other students spotted it, and one sly fifth grader slunk over and made as if to pilfer it. But he was the same one who told the class later that they ought to watch me as I ate it, to see what transformation I would undergo. They couldn't all agree on what that transformation might entail. Yooper expressions? Yooper loyalties? But it was my eight grade wordsmith who put it in just the right manner. "Miss Knott," she said, allowing one giggle to escape, "This Yooper Bar will give you the ineffable desire to say 'yous guys.'"

I suppose the night is yet young and we shall see what the morrow brings. But at the moment, even after peeling and demolishing the melt in your mouth chocolate Yooper Bar, "yous guys" still sends shivers down my spine, shivers that not even the Yooper delight of "picking sap" would alleviate. I guess I'm just too used to collecting it--instead, I can imagine each transparent droplet, tremulously waiting at the end of the spout to be chosen and placed lovingly in a bucket, like a blueberry nestled amongst its fellows.

When Winter Comes in March

The excitement in my classroom Tuesday afternoon was apparent. My students had long ago informed me that a snowstorm was coming through our starkly barren region beginning that evening. And then there was the sly little comment from one of my seventh graders, slipping out after an instruction I had given about an assignment being due the next day. "If we have school tomorrow," she added, making me feel like the Grinch with a heart three sizes too small as I muttered to myself, "Pshaw. Fat chance that the wimpiest winter I've ever seen will begin now."

But that was Tuesday. Wednesday morning at 5:00 a.m. had me racing obsessively to the window every 10 minutes, gazing out at the wads of wet snow already packing up on my front step railings. My phone came with me everywhere. White cat bowie was allowed to use his litterbox instead of the customary morning trip out into the cold. And finally the call. My coworker housemate and I waltzed about the house, with difficulty finally settling down to take advantage of the much-needed snow day while gazing out our windows at the hill across the road, completely obliterated by blowing white.

So here's what else happens when winter surprises the U.P. in March:

Yoopers apparently don't like shovel marks. I get "yelled" at for hefting the ten inches of wet snow out of my driveway--and within minutes have a luxurious parking pad made by the school board chair's Cat.

I go poking around with my cross-country skis and find that the best trail is the one made by snowmobiles on the river--as long as one avoids the places where the trail disappears under water. . .

Sabbath morning, as I awaken to more snow, I hear the Cat next door removing it from the church parking lot. . . my house is next.

I bottom my truck out in my own driveway. I'm certain that I can hear the truck settle its wheels back on the ground as I chip away at the white mass beneath it.

Friday morning, as students begin to arrive, I'm sure I smell snowmobile exhaust, and the sheepish looks of three students tell me the rest of the story

I am so caught up and ahead after two snow days that I have time to blog!

Sammy Goes Off-Roading

You've met Sammy before--a little, white rear-wheel drive Toyota pickup with a paint-chipped hood, nearly 200,000 miles, and the faithfulness of having been in the family for about 9 years. Sammy's a good egg, albeit a little bit of a speckled one these days what with all the road muck sprinkled on his white shell from the winter roads.

This afternoon, however, Sammy wasn't so sure about listening to directions, even with the four big buckets of sand behind his wheelwells. He thought it was more fun to get a running start on the road and then to slide, his hands out in the air for balance, truck cap tape fluttering behind him, trailer hookups dangling.

He got to showing off a good deal, much to the chagrin of some folks, triumphantly calling out at one point, "Look, mom, no front wheels!" as he slid up a hill on the ice-glimmering road. With that, his front wheels indeed went all squirrelly and he himself did a curly-que that ended in an ungraceful faceplant into the juniper and snow filled ditch.

There just so happened to be passing by a couple fellows who were willing to haul him out and dust him off, none the worse for the wear, and who even kindly offered to follow him home lest he get into any more shenanigans on the way. So Sammy tried hard. He pointed his nose straight ahead. He hunched forward to tried to keep his wheels straight. But the shellacked road was just too temping. Off the road he went again in another face plant, finding snow in his nose after being hauled out the second time by his bumper.

This time Sammy decided to stay put. No more adventure. He pulled himself off the road into a little clearing and made ready to nap there, shutting off the shine of his eyes with sleepy eyelids and agreeing to wait out the ice long as necessary, just wishing he were tucked into his sheltering garage some five miles south.

The Lord Gave and the Lord Has Taken Away. Blessed Be the Name of the Lord

"Miss Knott, did you let your cat out today?" I feel my stomach tighten as I listen to my fifth grader's question over the phone, remembering how just this morning I had picked her up from where she lay curled beside the heating vent in all her queenly calico glory and put her outside as I left the house for my walk across our county road to school.
"Yes, Austin... why?" I force myself to respond, but somehow, already, I know why.

* * *

It was a quiet May evening this spring when I went for a walk with a dear friend of mine on the Andrews University campus for a mutually-much-needed chat. Midway past the custodial building, however, we were pushed beyond the concerns of our own lives when we were interrupted by the persistent meowing of an attention-famished little puss, so desperate for love that she would later, with little coaxing, follow us back to the "no-cats-allowed" apartment complex, submit to being snatched up and popped inside my B49 door, scarf down a can of "human" tuna, all the while purring and meowing so constantly so as to lose her voice--and still continue on telling her story of woe and then rasping out her happiness as she spent her first night on top of my stomach, waking me up every several hours as she got lonely in my tiny, human-filled apartment.

And thus the little one entered my life. The next several days, no, even the next morning proved to be adventuresome, an apt foretelling of the nature of the months that would follow. No sooner had she awoke, but she peed on my visiting sister's sleeping bag as a welcoming gesture and was tossed outside for her misconduct, I sadly expecting our short friendship to be thus ended as my frustrated sister closed the door behind her skinny rump. But this little one was not to be deterred--one night of keeping me awake with her exuberance hadn't been enough. Within hours she shocked me by announcing that she was back at my rust-red door and hungry, and within days she had turned into the "9-c'clock cat," adjusting her business to my teaching schedule. She faithfully returned each evening at that hour exactly, proving herself and thus drawing to herself the name of "beloved friend"--Amie--by her nightly presence on my bed.

And then she became a Trooper as she, a troll, transplanted with me to the land of the Yooper. She was a trooper who liked to wiggle in and out of the long blinds hanging in front of the glass door in my bedroom, making them tinkle, to get my attention. She was a trooper who had a way of bumping my door open with her moist, love-seeking nose just as I was changing my clothes--Amie! She was a trooper who would rather be outside than use her plush litter box and who sat on my back steps listening for my alarm clock at 4:45 a.m. at which point she would start her yowling--and door-seal-popping if necessary--to make me get up and let her in. She was a trooper who would tell me she had something to tell me as I came home from school so earnestly that I would finally give in and lay down on the floor, on my back, so that she could daintily prance up on my chest and tell me everything through her purring.

And she was even known as a cat with a desire for Holy things amongst my community, following a Wednesday-evening-moment-of-curiosity during a church cleaning, and a subsequent absence of two days during which time my nine school youngsters and I were praying for her . Friday evening I came back from a sunset-"God, why?"-run, and there she was, dolphining up against the white birch tree in my front yard in her excitement to see me again. The next day, as I related my Sabbath praise of a returned loved one, a small chuckle was heard across the church sanctuary and "the rest of the story" was shared: how some little calico cat had insisted during a Friday evening Bible study that she wanted out of the church. Right now! No, I never found her enthusiasm to leave much room for patience.

* * *

I find her by my mailbox, on the right side of the road as Austin had said, stretched out and stiff already. Her brilliant life force is quieted for the first time since I've known her. I pick her up, as I did this morning, and I take her home to where she must have wanted to go--too eagerly for once. And I find this first possible full night of sleep spent in another sort of wakefulness, this one also due to her. But maybe that's so I can talk a little more with her Maker.

Pianos in the Kitchen and Chili-tasting Tractor-racers

Just about two weeks ago my students set me lovingly straight on the fact that "Yooper" does indeed have a plainly phonetic spelling instead of my made up rendition (U-per), a spelling that is just as important as the narrow-mouthed vowelly accent they themselves have and the turn-a-statement-into-a-question-"eh" that I am struggling to keep out of my own language. But this is but one amongst many Yooper gems.

* * *

Thirty students and all three small classrooms full at Wilson Junior Academy is a good thing--and a cause for chuckling each Tuesday morning as I push the piano out of my room, and then at each lull in my busy teaching schedule throughout the day. In fact, through two closed doors and across the hallway I can hear it, even as I instruct my 5th-8th graders on how to use "muscle verbs" to strengthen their writing, even as the nine cries of "Miss Knott!" make me wish I could clone myself at least once. Through it all the fingers of our eager youngsters plink away on the keys of our piano, to the audience of a stove and a microwave and the hot lunch dishtowels and a piano teacher, all day long, all in the brilliantly acoustical kitchen. . .

* * *

Matt runs out of the men's bathroom, his eyes big. "Miss Knott," he says, his normally quiet, deep voice a little huskier than normal in his apparent distress, "I just flushed my flash drive down the toilet. It has my essay on it!" He rushes back in. The essay. The one he's worked on so hard. The one that I can't wait to read because he asked me the other day what those flowers were called with brown centers and golden petals. "Black-eyed Susans," I had told him, and then I saw him typing. Perhaps I am biased, but an essay mentioning Black-eyed Susans is bound to be a good one.

I don't know what to tell him. He actually flushed it? But a moment later he comes back out, the flash drive dangling rather lifelessly from his hand. Dare I ask? I take it home and pray over it as I put it in a little pitcher filled with white rice. . .

* * *

"This is really happening," my student says, eyebrows working up and down for emphasis, "a little kid is out in the hallway, putting something into the outlet." Thumbs point over the shoulder, and I dash out. Sure enough. There's little Sawyer--his right foot already in a tiny black walking boot after breaking his foot not long ago--innocently poking a plastic fork into the fascinating electrical crevices. . .

* * *

Hayrides. Jacob wonders what the big deal is--a ride in the cold on a bale of hay. In my mind I ask the same question. But Yoopers take them to a new level, racing their New Holland and Ford tractors up the middle, or rather, dominating the whole county road with their caged cargoes of chattering passengers. They find an old trail through the woods, or perhaps make a new one. They rumble and pitch us across the Cedar River. They weave in-between giant rolls of silage and barns amidst a manure-scented haze. And afterwards there is a chili cook-off tasting session--twenty some chilis ranging from vegan to veggie to a solitary meat stew at the far end of the table, swarms of folks with their plastic cups and spoons gathering around the pots and the cornbread and the quart of maple syrup that is soon used up.

* * *

Gailyn and Valerie tell me that they can give me some more apples to expand my carefully canned, five-quart collection of applesauce, and so I meet them at their "new house," as they call it, off in the woods on a curious leaf-strewn gravel road with a galvanized gate gaping open at the entrance. Here they are far away from their cranes and sawdust-burning stove machinery that they hope to sell off as running business someday.

They grin and wave at me as I drive in and invite me into the cute little hunting camp that they are remodeling. I didn't know that they have this other house besides the one from whose porch they throw and then hand-feed apples to the deer. They both give me a sheepish look when I ask how long they've been working on it and what they're doing. "Well," Valerie begins, "we were just going to fix up the closet, make it a walk-in. . ." She points to the corner of the camp's footprint where there is evidence of a recent struggle and the hopeful look of a bedroom and maybe something more. "But then we really didn't like the staircase--it was here," she says tracing her finger across a mark in the fireplace, right beneath the loft. "So we took it out. And then we took off the paneling on this wall, to put on the outside wall of our walk-in closet, and we discovered that the squirrels had chewed through the wall behind the paneling. So we have to take that out too. And then we looked at the wiring. . ." They chuckle good-naturedly and throw up their hands. "It's all her idea--naw," Gailyn pipes in, and looking at his wife fondly. He, on the other hand, dreams of the day when the house will be finished and he will walk outside and whistle and have the chickadees flock about him, landing on his hair and crumb-filled hands as they did when he was a boy.

* * *

"Bridge may be icy!" my seventh and eighth graders chorus to me as the wheels of the minivan I am driving begin their climb up onto the Mackinac Bridge, heading north, heading home from the lower peninsula's Camp Au Sable after several days of conference-wide company. Later when we stop at a rest area on Route 2 along lake Michigan, they pop out of the car so joyfully that a woman giggles and says we look to her like a van full of clowns. I laugh along with her as my charges run in to the bathroom. And then I race along with them down the boardwalk to the sands of the beach, all of us inhaling the smell of leaves and water and cleanliness, and there they scrawl in the water-lapped sand with a mixture of fingers and shoe-heels, "We are home!" Somehow I feel as if I want to tack an "eh" onto the end of that. I think so too.

A Reaper Resting

O there'll be Joy when the work is done,
Joy when the reapers gather home,
Bringing the sheaves at set of sun
To the new Jerusalem,

Joy, joy, there'll be joy by and by
Joy, joy where the joys never die
Joy, joy for the day draweth nigh
When the workers gather home.


Grandma Madeline LaClair
5.3.1928 - 7.12.2011

On Thinking about Things and Moving and Inspired by the Thoughts of Thoreau...

"Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon's effects, for his life had not been ineffectual:--'the evil that men do lives after them.'--As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate in his father's day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now, after lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these things were not burned; instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of them, there was an auction, or increasing of them. The neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie there till their estates are settled, when they will start again. When a man dies he kicks the dust."--Henry David Thoreau, Walden ("Economy," 54)

Well-spoken. But what now?

Some might argue that I am young and that it is not too late.

Young? How?

Do you not know that I bear the ancient genes of frugal New Englanders in every digital hair and attached earlobe of my body, that I carry the generations-old, thrifty, conscientious whispers of "you might just need that later... better hang on to it," in my already well-entrenched cogitation pathways, that a book by one of my favorite essayists sits in the room next to my own, titled String to Short to Be Saved, and tells the story of a box with just such a label found in one of Thoreau's "dust hole" type attics... with just such hapless string particles inside?

I have never liked yard sales all that much, but that does not make me any more of a hope case. I simply cannot bring myself to go that public and especially anytime the word "rummage" appears on signs I feel the guilty need to bolt around the nearest corner. But you have not seen me furtively creeping along the wall out of my dormitory room to the unofficially titled "free tables" in the upstairs lobbies, nose twitching, beady eyes darting, ready to sidle nonchalantly past with only a glance if the door should open, ready to run back to my nest, rat-tail trailing behind me, if suspicion should arise, but eager to just see what's on that table. It might be something useful.

I do wonder what dried tapeworms I have collecting dust in the crannies of my room... But I fear a greater problem. What about the carefully dessicated giraffes that will crumple even the loaded bumper of my toy truck?

And I will dismiss the first solution that comes to mind as impossible: Perhaps those giraffes would be happier staying with my parents in Vermont. No! Even there the frequent rain would cause their exponential and hydrated growth into complete giants, not merely dried ones.

Toting Expansions

My veterinarian sister left for her New Zealand job on Thursday, all of her worldly possessions crammed and weighed and prayed into six oddly-bulging bundles--bike box, ski bag, ginormous hockey satchel, suitcase, backpack, duffle. We helped her haul her pile through check-in, and then watched her from behind the thick layer of security glass in Burlington, VT as she removed her shoes and took her laptop out of the well-loved backpack and flashed us a final grin. If the ashcloud over Chile lets her, she will fly with her relatively small mound from Los Angeles to far across the gray sea on the morrow.

Now I look out the window at the little white Toyota she left behind. I don't think that I could fit my entire life into six bundles anymore--let alone into either (or both!) of the two tiny Geos that have each taken their bows out of my life in the past several weeks. That's why I have Sammy, sturdy yet as ever, and minus only my sister's beloved collection of bumper stickers stating such enlightening tidbits as "Coffee: It Makes You Poop." (That one in particular seemed especially loyal to my sister with it's tenacious glue, but the determined teacher in me prevailed.)

In three weeks or so Sammy will help me move out to U-per land as he has faithfully served my sister for ten years--New Hampshire to Michigan to Vermont to Colorado--this time with a bed set in the back and a signature pair of green crocs on the dash. In southwestern Michigan we will add to our entourage a calico named Amie--who adopted me--and such cumbersome delights as a cello and an oboe and "several" unfortunately-shaped boxes. We'll buy the dishsoap once we reach Sam Campbell land--that is, if they use such things up there.

Yet again I long for the sleek-shelled simplicity of being a turtle.

Another One of Those Things...

In my child's mind I used to think that Geo Metros were the ugliest cars, rolling around as they did with their silly bubbled bodies and impish pointed noses. And besides, everyone else in my family had trucks--practical vehicles good for the growing woodpile and pulling horse-trailers and some semlance of self-esteem...

*Proud Geo owner, 2007-2011

My father is a teacher. He is a good one, and I used to "know" that I was not. As a college freshman, studying English was as close to education as you were going to get me. Okay, if I had to, I would add secondary education as a minor... and maybe Teaching English as a Second Language would be surviveable... but never, ever ask me to teach the little ones!

*Excited beginning teacher, 2011-

Serving in a foreign mission field? That was for those who had a passion for it! And that did not include me. Wasn't there enough work to do in the home country?

*Student missionary, spring 2010

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Colporteuring. For years I've hid behind a flimsy excuse of shyness and awkwardness and a lack of the ability to be pushy, the claim of wanting to witness in a less shocking manner, and if all else failed, the stubborn laugh and the "I just don't do that." It seems I might have learned from previous experiences that such locked and barricaded rooms in our mental hallways are the delightful challenge of the Master Lock-picker...

After merely a three days of personal experience, I could tell you about the Surabian, non-Christian man with olive skin and dark curly hair whose eyes were magnetized to the cover of the Great Controversy. "I am fascinated by this title," he told me, his fingers reaching out for the book.

I could show you the two highschool girls I almost walked away from, their young eyes sparkling over the healthful cookbook and Man of Peace, an adaptation of Desire of Ages.

I could have you listen to the retired theology professor from Michigan State University, politely disagreeing with the divinity and second coming of Christ, with the books I carried, with the faith and beliefs I held. I could have you hear his wife scold him into giving me a donation, and see him give an amount such that I could press a book into his hand. "Please sir, I want you to have this."

I could share with you an inner peace and joy I've found only when allowing God to break down my barriers and work through my inexperience, prejudice, and weakness to show His mighty power and glory.

Joy Comes in Batches

I've always loved May--perhaps I can use that as a feeble excuse for why I've waited for so long to write, in order to make that pleasant plunge from the cold and snow of December into the fragrant, moist air of spring. . . or perhaps because like cookies, good things are even more delightful when there's more than just one to share. . .

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Student Teaching
January 3 - March 25. 6th Grade ELA at the Berrien Springs Middle School. A great team. 144 wiggly youngsters. An opportunity to share my own delight with language and an opportunity to be "found out" as a Seventh-day Adventist Christian by my students in a public school environment. An experience cut short by the offering of a permanent substitute position...



Miss Knott the Art and Entrepreneurship Teacher
March 28 - June 10. Thirty calls for help at once, ranging from "Hey Miss," to "MissssssKnott," to my personal favorite from little Bryce, "Hey there Miss Lady." Paint and clay and business plans and shared inspiration and undercover mission work...




Graduation
May 1. Five years later and still so much to learn! A little anti-climactic: Teaching Friday, April 29, high Sabbath, busy Sunday, teaching Monday, May 2. Reunion with many dear ones.






Soon to be U-Per
May 1. Acceptance of a 5-8 teaching position at the Wilson Junior Academy, Wilson, MI. God has a sense of humor. Yes, I had to look up the location too! A philosophical and mission-minded fit. A complete God-caused-weekend-flip-flop from "This is Nineveh!" to, "Lord, I would be honored to work with such a committed church and school board. Your will be done."






Dr. Rachel Knott, DVM
May 13. An eight-year-old's dream receives a diploma.The mountainous beauty of Fort Collins, CO. 11,000 feet of elevation, snow-buried huts, a sun-pinkened face.





and

Jacob Gibbs
January 16. A ministry-minded Sabbath friendship becomes a mutually admitted matter of God-concern... and then...
(March 23) a more than friendship sort of friendship, well-doused with prayer and joyfully growing.

Only One Explanation

I felt my wheels twitch as they moved off from the damp pavement to a slushy sheet of snow at 60 mph. Before my mind could tell my hands what to do, they had turned the wheel sharply in an attempt to correct my angling toward the big utility van I was passing.

***

The roads had been pretty decent up until then. Just as I had left Berrien Springs at 2:30 a.m., the snow had tried to smother out my optimism for the seventeen hours ahead of me, but I had passed through the pocket and by the time I was on I-90, heading impatiently toward Vermont, the road was dry in places, wet in others. I was out of Michigan. Through Indiana. Ohio's end was in sight with the snow speckled signs telling me I was 50 miles from Erie, Pennsylvania.

The winds had been gusting around me already for five hours, occasionally bearing snowflakes, and in Ohio, the snowflakes had gotten thicker. I wasn't too worried though. I was heading home.

***

My little Geo Metro, Chuck, had a mind of his own when my hands set him free like that--as if he was suddenly getting me back for the times I've squished four people into his two-seated smallness and stalled him as my left-foot got accustomed to his finicky clutch and forgot to cover his ragtop before it snowed. He was skating all over the road like a whirligig beetle.

And then I saw myself headed straight for the side of the utility van. I remember thinking it wasn't going to be good. I remembering wondering if it would hurt when Chuck's chin and nose would crumple up in front of me and then munch me up too.

And then we hit, Chuck ramming his front into the flank of the white van. My computer on the seat next to me flew into the dash. Chuck was still going, spinning, heading back west on I-90 east, then turning again, completing his antics and wobbly 360 as he knocked himself out with a smash against the guardrail.

***

Before leaving at 2:30, I had knelt down on the brown carpet of my apartment. Usually I'll close my eyes for a few seconds as I sit behind the wheel in preparation for a journey, the words running around quietly in my head. But yesterday morning I needed something more. I needed to hear that prayer be real.

And it was. In the yet-dark hours as I headed out and the stars streaked across the sky. As I sat wedged against the guardrail and found that I was alive and that nothing hurt. And when I looked and found that even the bulb of my broken taillight would continue to glow out behind me--along with the warmth of gratitude within me--for the remaining twelve hours, for the last of the lingering journey, Home.

Seeing, Among Other Things

Ginny Owens sings that she doesn't climb mountains to see the view. I want to sit in my purple chair and stew on that for a few minutes, but she is going on, hardly waiting till she can open her eyes to God's wonderful wonder, His display of great beauty and power. She can't keep from singing.

I can't seem to keep from running these days. All that time, my calves sore, my body ready to plop into bed when I have to stay up late and finish the assignment I couldn't do while I was running. I guess that's predictable, but...

Can Ginny Owens run? Can she climb mountains? How can her feet know where to go even if someone tells her? Can they know each root, each pebble, each ledge slanting away from her and slippery with snow melt?

And why would you hike without a view?

If your heart is singing, I guess that's why. If your faith is seeing, even though you're blind. If your body aches with the burden of God's love blowing the scent of mountains across your face, not merely because you gritted your teeth and made it go.

The Evidence of a Long Time

That frightfully buzzing, biting run
Petered out in a dorm room so many
Seconds ago that my
Computer no longer remembers
I used to visit my blog
Occasionally.

Biathlon

I run the final length of dirt road and plunge into the corn, crawling, the bubbles I stir up with my outstretched arms and hands streaming over me like dew or sweat or pollen, lisping through broad green tongues, "aren't you claustrophobic? Aren't you tired? Aren't you giving up yet?

I emerge, dripping, breathing hard, trying to huff the strength down into my legs, and run onto the wooded path, the wind whistling through the water in my ears as if my arms are taunt, freshly straight behind a skiboat on a wakeboard.

And now my competitors join me fiercely like a herd of deerflies buzzing around me, biting my back, shrieking in my hair, making my face flush brighter, faster, faster. They follow me, undaunted by hills where they crowd around me thicker, hardly lagging as I once again find myself on the dirt road, the paved road, up the last hill.

On the sidewalk my last tenacious contender, in a burst of extinction, rams against me, laughing at the swinging of my arms at her, but daring not enter behind me into the winners circle of study.

Distractions

"They are not quite decent," indeed, "to tell the truth" and to borrow, just for a moment, the words of Jane Kenyon.

Waving to all who peer out into the courtyard, they perch on the best ride in town, the top down, the wind in their hair, their showy white hats blowing about their faces and feathering and silking upward to a brilliant pink tip.

And the way they carry their limbs! Just so, like the male swan, neck curved, pinioned wings gracefully drooped to draw the eye of the lovely female--

I feel I ought to give them a thick bottomed glass and pour them a drink of my very best, sit in their company, lean in to catch the fragrance of their light perfume,

Which I do,

They, resting daintily on the edge and then sliding their slender, brown legs into the very middle, properly bent beneath them at the knee,

Sipping up the sparkling water with their toes.