A few mornings a week, when it's still dark outside, I drag myself to an indoor swimming pool to exercise before I get to school to teach. I watch the long lean high school swimmers, silicone caps on head, rearrange the swim lane lines from the 50 meter distance to the 25 meter distance after their 5:30 am workouts. They're readying for us; the mostly recreational swimmers. I watch the masters swimmers, with their tight swim caps, their special goggles, their individual sets of fins, kickboards, their structured workouts and water bottles get to the pool edge just as I do. I grab a kickboard from the bin, pull out my water bottle, stretch my goggles over my head and hop in. I can see the other swimmers when I turn to breathe on one side. Their precise, sleek strokes are propelled by quick kicks. They look smooth. I make a mental note to get my elbow a little higher before my hand breaks the surface.
After many summers swimming competitively as a teenager, some of it is like riding a bike. Some of it isn't. I don't do the butterfly stroke for more than half a lap these days. But, I add a few more laps each day. In the middle of my swim I add 1/4 mile of anaerobic laps to get my heart rate up. Way up. Even though my swim isn't as structured as it might be, I get the same satisfaction from the time in the pool as I did when I was much younger. And even when I'm working hard, it still feels like playing to me.
I couldn't wait to start the finish of the book. I'm reading two books right now for a book club. One is for the March gathering and one is for April. The April book, When the Emperor Was Divine is a much shorter novel. I couldn't help but, pick it up. The tiny book was calling to me. I read chapter one. I was hooked. I couldn't wait to read this!
But, I really wanted to finish the other book, The Heretic's Daughter, longer and with language that isn't as sparse or modern, by next Monday. I opened it right away this morning to get closer to the end. I began to think of the dilemma. The story was too good. I'd be done with it too soon.
There is some consolation knowing I have the other story ahead.
The story projected onto the entire screen for the other writers to see. The writer of the piece beamed. I read. She beamed some more. I beamed as I read. I said it was an example of a small moment that really showed how the writer felt. When I noticed it a few days before in a conference I knew I wanted to share it as a mentor text. It was especially important to share this writer's talent. It wasn't always the first thing a classmate noticed about her.
There wasn't a student moving and eyes were on that screen. The writer wasn't usually this engaged. At least for very long. But her story about going to the buny stre with my mom and ded was holding her attention. She looked around to gauge the reaction as I read. The buny hopt ont my lap and lcked me. I hgged it. I said yourr prrfect.
Her classmates let her know they could see the bunny on her lap. They asked her if she was afraid when the bunny hopped into her lap. Comments continued without me. "I think she was happy because she hugged it." "When she said the bunny was perfect, it meant she was happy." You didn't have to say you were happy. You showed you were happy." "I had a movie in my eyes about the bunny."
This was one of my favorite writing workshops ever.
Thanks Stacy and Ruth for lending space on Two Writing Teachers for another month of slicing. Thanks slicers for another month of great reading. I'm late posting here but, sincere none the less. This month I looked forward to the few moments during the day or night when I could get a glimpse, I wouldn't have otherwise have had, into my virtual compadres' lives. Knowing we were all writing about the small, fleeting things in life affirmed the importance of recording and reflecting. I read wonderful vignettes about appointments, pets, children, writing, food, travel, relatives and how each of those topics written in one word seems sterile and empty, but with a bit of description and reflection forms something else... a meaningful part of our day.
I enjoyed taking a peek at my own day. Those small moments that you can't get back... unless you write a little.
Tonight, like every other Thursday night, it was my turn to drive my daughter and her friend to acting class. On the best of nights it's a start and stop drive that takes me across three towns and dozens of traffic lights at the height of rush hour. Not too much fun. But I look forward to it.
Once I park, walk the girls across another busy street, go into the church and drop them with their director and fellow performers, I turn around (small smile) and have 75 minutes to enjoy a girl-friendship. My friend Patty lives in that neighborhood. I don't know if she is usually coming home around that time from her job as a journalist but she makes time. So we meet.
We first met over 10 years ago when we volunteered to facilitate an orientation program for Marine spouses. It was basically a cultural class. The foreign culture was the US Marines. We had a ball with those young wives. Though Patty and I were never on the same base at the same time we had lots of common friends. Lots of common experiences. I was in awe because she wrote for the newspaper in one of the towns we lived in and was witty, smart, and fun.
We met tonight in the same coffee shop, sat in the same seats on the same side of the deuce (restaurant talk for a table for two), with our same hot drinks. We caught up. We do this pretty efficiently every other week because my car turns back into a pumpkin at the stroke of 6:30. Our topics included the usual diversity. We provided updates about our kids. She has two boys, a junior and senior in high school. I have three girls, senior in high school, junior in college and one out on her own. We caught up with our own stuff. We talked about empty nests and semi-empty nests. She's preparing for both. I offered feeble tips. (She and her husband don't need them.) We dipped into talk about travel, how her husband was on a trip to Asia last time we met, school events, fundraising, friends who divorce after 25 years of marriage, and our kids who act and sing. We pondered what our kids were going to do when they really grew up. We laughed a lot.
We didn't solve any big problems. Heck that would take longer than 75 minutes. We didn't even discuss the big stories in the Washington Post. We just met. We made small talk. Only really it isn't small talk.
I have a bit of a vicarious relationship with my Japanese ethnicity. I love almost all things Japanese- food, dress, business, culture, music, art, geography, language, anime, judo, paper. I wanted Myoshi Umeki to be my mother! I haven't spoken Japanese for about 45 years, but I still feel connected to this language when I hear it or see it.
Before Two Writing Teachers started this month's Slice of Life Challenge it had been months since my last post. I decided to reacquaint myself with my own writing. Today I read one of my last posts. It was about transitioning to a new position in my school. I noticed there was a comment which must have been left months ago. It was in Japanese. My heart skipped. What did it say? Who was it from? How did they find my blog? It was probably some teacher in Japan wanting to know more about how we teach literacy in the United States. I suddenly felt like an ambassador of all things reading and writing. I felt responsible. I mustered my fledgling knowledge. I wanted to reply to his/her comment with thoughtfulness and just the right words.
So I entered the characters into the google translator and waited for the English version.
I read down the list of terms trying to make connections. Wait. What did those words have to do with literacy? Ohhh... My commenter, Otemoyan who doesn't represent the comical Japanese song very well, is as they say, "furyō shōjo" (bad girl).
The right words would not be necessary. The delete button would be necessary. I immediately deleted the comment but not before I mourned my lost Japanese teacher friend. I offer my apologies to all who may have read and understood that comment prior to my knowledge.
On my way to work this morning my phone had an updated message on my Facebook icon. I thought maybe one of my daughters left a comment or a friend posted something new or a friend of a friend had commented on a comment or another friend was suggesting a friend or maybe a page. I mean it does go on, doesn't it?
Someone was contacting me. I saw the name. Hmmm. I had an English teacher in high school with that name. She was one of my favorite teachers of all time. Sophomore year? Junior year? I couldn't remember. I did remember she always dressed so nicely. I remembered we read The Scarlet Letter and The Canterbury Tales. I remember memorizing the first stanza (at least) of the Prologue in Middle English and performing it. I loved how it sounded. I loved how close to the modern version it sounded, only wound with some ancient thread. Reading that prologue was about as far away from the small desert town I lived in as you could get.
I finally got to open the note late afternoon. It was her. She is still teaching in California though not in the desert. Teaching for 37 years and still loving it from what I could read. I can imagine that pretty easily. She reminded me it was sophomore year. She still looks the same... smashing in a red evening gown.
Today my best galpal and I went to have a comfort food lunch. Meat loaf, steaming hot biscuits, mac and cheese, lasagne, and buttery mashed potatoes might be what you mentally conjure when you think comfort foods, but for me, it's oyaku donburi (pictured). Japanese to English translation: chicken and egg rice bowl. Oyaku means mother and child in Japanese- thus, the chicken and egg. I don't care which came first when I eat this delicious food with a cup of very hot green tea and crisp radishes. The tea I gingerly hold with my hands cupped only at the bottom as is the custom. The second we walked into the little restaurant, heard irrasshaimase (welcome) and saw the sushi counter, the wood, the paper decorations, the limited menu, the crowded tables, and then, smelled the wafts of miso soup under our noses, we knew we were in the right place. My friend isn't Japanese but she has lived there twice and loves Japanese food. I came by it genetically. I grew up eating osoba (noodles) or rice with pickles for breakfast. Sometimes before school on a cold day I would pour my green tea into my rice to make soup and sprinkle with furikake (Japanese dried seasoning). Sometimes I still do. Much like a hot crusty baguette, rice is my staff. We read the menu with indecision. We wanted it all. Once we decided we couldn't order fast enough. We had "kid, hobby, education(we both teach), what's new?" talk as we swapped plates and bowls after every couple of bites to be sure we had completely indulged our palates. All the while as my chopsticks picked up morsels of food I had thoughts of childhood, school, meals with my mom, and smells from our kitchens past. That is true comfort.
