Like a Teacher

Do you know what it's like to be a teacher? 

As a public school teacher I spent my time trying to give 15 percent of my class the chance of a lifetime.  I spent my time trying to give 70 percent of my students curiosity, respect, and experience with the world of art.  I spent my time trying to keep 15 percent of my class from destroying everything I was trying to do.  And I had to do it on a pitiful budget, find a way to raise extra funds or spend my own funds trying.  I didn't really do it for the salary, but I made a fair salary.

Now here I am: a private teacher.  (Oh yeah, did you ever notice what is made by : and a together?  :a   Somewhere I have a whole page of imaginative keyboard faces.   %^/)  What was I talking about?  Oh yeah.  Here I am teaching people to paint, draw, throw pottery, handbuild ceramics, sculpt, etc. and all the while throwing in tidbits about art that bring some life or direction to the whole process.  I make very little and I love it anyway.  I breathe it in and out.  I loved art history.  No one would pay me to teach them art history, so I sneak it in one tidbit at a time.

I am a teacher.  I love it.  My students say they love it.

Irony?  I forcefed my children music!  Now I have two daughters who are learning art and I can only discuss shortly from a distance the wonders of art with them.

Do you know what it's like to be a teacher?

Ode to a Beautiful Floor

I do not know what chemicals were in the mortar mix

Or what the make up of the Portland that my tiles fix

The awful smell that wafted up from sealer - finish spread.

The dust and fumes that round me rose and breathed into my head.



I am not sure what damages were done to my poor back

by lifting, moving, carrying the buckets and the sacks

And I’m uncertain just how long my nails will hold the stain

of colored mortar.  Will they ever really be the same?



“Why did you do it?” some may ask when taking in my plight.


“A job not made for ladies fair,”  I guess perhaps they’re right.

But standing back, I take it in and noone could ignore

that I am happy as can be with my new slate tile floor.

Cycle of water

It seems each time one family swims in my pool I get algae the next day.  Then I battle it awhile and slowly I get rid of it.  They come back and it comes back.  Not that I’d not have them come, mind you, but algae isn’t easy to get rid of once you get it.

My husband and I have discussed this and come up with a couple of thoughts.  First, it’s probably from the floatation devices they bring that are frequently used in the lake.  Second, knowing this should bring an immediate reaction after their departure.  But algae are tenacious.  I wish I had its determination and strength!

I’ve learned that algae can pass right through a sand filter unscathed.  Filtration is just a water ride for these little buddies.  So on the advise of my pool doctor, I’ve learned to waste water them.  It takes consistency and time but the real problem for a conservation minded lady is the whole “waste water” concept.  So my mind again collaborated with my brilliant husband to come up with a plan. 

I have the gardens you know.  The problem is they’re up the hill.  We have an awesome Jacuzzi pump that will tear a garden 10 feet above it down to the subsoil in a matter of seconds.  I placed the hose in the waterfall for a time, but we’re back to the whole wasted water concept in less than a minute.  This is what we came up with.  50 gallon barrels with spigots and 75 feet of waste hose.  Well that slows the water suction on my vacuum system a little, but it’s doable.  Attach a garden hose to the spigot, and voilla recycled water.

Yesterday, I bought the stuff -50 bucks worth- and put it in place.  Then I got in the pool and began vacuuming algae that hasn’t gotten too out of control yet.  Well, with a few glitches, the system worked well.  The peach tree and iris garden got a good soaking and didn’t loose their topsoil.

Because of the dry spell, we’ve had quite a few leaves blow into the pool.  After the vacuum, I used the leaf net and then proceeded with my lap swim.  It was beautiful.  The pool was almost clean, the air warm, the water mildly cool.  Perfect! 

Then after about 4 laps, I felt a cool breeze and the sky darkened from the north – ugly clouds.  Our 40% chance was about to be reality.  I got out and started toward the house when a heavy gust turned me around to see a huge cloud of leaves heading for my clean pool. 

I cried out “Noooooo!” moving toward pool side in useless defense.  It would have made a great movie effect!  With heavy drops announcing the coming storm, the wind died off and I stood beside my algae reduced pool full of leaves and sighed.  Well, now then, isn’t that a new take on the cycle of water?

Last night, we discussed pool covers!

My Father . . .

The day he died, I stood in his room and said to him, “You can go now.”

He could not respond.  He was somewhere between this life and the next. 

For some time he’d lost his zeal for living and it broke my heart, for he had more zeal for life than anyone I knew.  Though I saw his torment and prayed that God give him rest from it, I never said that to him until that morning.  In a short time, he was gone.  No big thing, just gone.  It didn’t hit me at first.  Eventually, I struggled with the moment.  Had my words killed or released?  Truthfully, I’m not that powerful.

I was laying a rock patio behind my house.  I worked furiously the morning of the funeral.  I saw the verse “We’re surrounded by a cloud of witnesses” in a different light.  My dad was a man of simple faith, always surprised at the result like a child who asks for a treat and does not know if the treat will be given.  Yet he asks, trusting the good in people, the good in life, the love of a parent.  The receiving brings a light heart and a confident joy.  So was my father and that morning I knew he was hearing and seeing from afar.

I put a few cds in the player and programmed a set of songs.  Leader of the Band;  Goodbye My Friend; Elijah; The Last Time I Was Here; North of the Sky.  I put it on repeat sequence and worked and cried.

My niece was staying with me, getting ready for the funeral.  Later she told me that when she heard the songs the first time, she was intrigued by my choices.  When they came round the second time she thought, “Well, that’s neat.”  The third time she listened quietly.  The fourth time, she said “I think I’ll just stay in my room.”  I didn’t mean to scare her.  That night she stayed with my mom.

There was a cleansing, solidifying quality to that list.  I’ve never listened to it that way again, though I consider it each Memorial Day.

When I am pressed in by the direction or non direction of this world, it comes back to me eventually.  My father stood for what he believed, sometimes quietly, sometimes not.  He was a man of integrity; he was my hero, my mentor. 



My father was a good man.

This Beach

         It wasn’t my ocean!  The air wasn’t permeated with salt.  The sound was muted though relentless.  The sun rose over a long row of houses that fronted the beach.  The beach was littered with shells foreign to my friend’s vision and my morning vigils to watch the light appear were held in solitude broken only by a quick salutation from a stranger who rose early to run or fish on the beach. 

            There I stood, waves lapping my toes and the hem of my dress like the second choice puppy from a humane shelter.  They cried out for attention, but my mind wanted a different beach.

            I would not wallow in self-pity.  I would accept my disappointment gracefully, claiming as much fun and inspiration as I could experience or fake.  There would be other vacations with the ocean at my feet, but not this year. 

            I looked for interesting shells to use in a water design I have planned.  I took lots of pictures to replace sharing my morning.  I watched the color develop in other parts of the sky and looked for its effect on the approaching waves.

           Accepting disappointment is not my long suite.             

            The third morning, not only did the clouds not afford a meteor count from the Perseids but there was no color to be experienced in the dawn.  I stood disappointed on the shore picking through the meager shell selection available at high tide, accepting the fact that we would leave in a few hours and this was my last walk on the beach this vacation. 

            My life is sometimes like a submarine functioning below the water’s surface.  I send a periscope into the atmosphere of reality, see a limited view of what’s out there, exuberantly surface under an ocean liner and ponder the problem of acceptance. 

            I’m not sure why I wasn’t paying attention that morning, but a tiny, muscled woman of Asian decent nearly knocked me down.  Her mind was on running.  We spoke quickly, somewhat embarrassed.

            As I looked up and away after her departure, I saw a dark line out on the ocean.  As I watched, it moved some and excited, I wondered if it could be a whale.  By the time I got my camera turned on and ready, it was gone.  I don’t know why it affected me that way, but suddenly, I realized that accepting disappointment was not my only option.  Accepting the joy was as much a choice.  I reflected on the fun and the comradery.  I had gathered many mementos and had a host of stories.  I had watched those I love romp and play and giggle.  I’d felt the ocean wind, powerful waves, and wet sandy hugs.  I had pictures of a rainbow cloud, a lighthouse, a dolphin, and a bird fight.

            The waves lapped my toes and my hem and I laughed.  I spent time trying to photograph the perfect wave.  The waves were truly beautiful that morning.  When the sunlight finally appeared, it scattered highlights on the water like jewels.  The storm from the night before had left odd bits and pieces behind.  I collected some with my camera and some with my hands.  It was truly a lovely beach, and a lovely time.  Now it is part of my past, and myself.  The memory is sweet.

Jackie

I wrote this for my daughter this past spring.  I think she 'got' it.  The poem speaks into my life as well.

My daughter dear, I do not know

just where the paths we follow go

and I must trust Who takes us there

is good and right and kind and fair.

For if we push and plan and scheme

in our own strength to own our dream,

we will not reach a better end

than we can have through God our friend.