Today’s my birthday. It slipped in quietly in the wee hours of the morning (probably about the time I fell asleep, then woke up thirty minutes later because I had to pee) and I am fairly confident it will slide out in much the same way (hopefully with a belly full of cake). Even though I haven’t been blogging during this whack-a-doo pandemic, I have certainly had plenty going on in my head about friendships, isolation, life, love and “health” (more about that in a minute).

Aging gracefully. Like, whoever came up with this little ditty was obviously young because let me tell you, there isn’t much grace in what Mother Nature and time start to do to your body as you age (Chin hairs? Really? Thank GOD for good tweezers!). You know those stupid memes that say, “I feel like my body’s check-engine lights are all on but it’ll probably be fine” ? Yeah, there’s a boatload of truth in that! When I contemplate my own aging, I often think of my mother. Y’all, she would not have appreciated the things time will do to you…the wrinkles, crow’s feet, laugh lines, general aches and pains that show up from the most innocuous activities, like, say turning your neck wrong or pulling weeds. She would have fought that shit tooth and nail, all the while complaining to whomever would listen. Still…I miss her. I’m sad that she didn’t have the privilege of growing older and would have happily (mostly) listened to her complaining just to have her here. It is that longing that keeps me sharp, makes me count my blessings, of which I have many, and reminds me these funky little gifts from Mother Nature ain’t so bad.

In my other life, my nonwriter life, I am a teacher. When the pandemic hit, our entire profession turned upside down, just like so many others around the world. We had to reinvent the way we “did” education and there wasn’t a moment to catch our breath from the beginning to right now. I went to work as “normal” one day, and the next we had “stay at home orders”. From that moment, it has been not-so-organized chaos. And at first, we (educators, administrators, and staff) were all praised, loved even, for the thankless job we’d been doing all along only now everyone at home got a crash course into our world. But it didn’t take long for those at home to tire of that. We then became “lazy” and parents posted with regularity that they should be the ones earning our paycheck because they were forced to do our jobs. No matter the danger, many wanted their kids back in school. We wanted the kids back in school, too, but not if it meant risking our heath, or the health of our families. We didn’t know if, or how easily students could bring the virus to school, spread it unknowingly, and play Russian Roulette with everyone’s lives. I mention this only in regards to how deeply the pandemic has driven me into reflection.

At one point, when our District decided it was time for teachers to return to the building before we had a vaccine, I remember sitting in a Zoom meeting with my bosses telling them how much I loved my job but how terrified I was that it was literally going to be the death of me or someone I loved and ended up exposing to the virus because of my job. I asked, “How many of us have to die before everyone takes this seriously?” I am fortunate to work for some wonderful people, who have gone to great lengths to ensure the safety of everyone in the building with regards to Covid. That being said, staring into the face of your own mortality is a sobering position to be in. Which brings me back to life. My birthday. This moment in time that feels different from any other I’ve ever experienced.

I’ve spent the better part of two years reimagining my “home space”, which I often refer to as “Safe Harbour”. Much of the immediate environment I’m surrounded by has evolved (with a lot of help for ideas from Pinterest, much to my husband’s constant irritation). I have made changes that encourage my physical health, putting in a little “training room” with a meditation space and ditching what was once a dining room we never used. I have ruthlessly, doggedly purged any clutter that was randomly taking up space and that included the mental “junk” I’d been holding on to long after its expiration date. Finally, I have been finding ways to support my own mental health by focusing on the many, many things I have to be grateful for, meditating on them, listing them one small piece at a time in my mind until I feel less panicked. I’m not gonna to lie…there have been some pretty dark times in the last 18 months that were take-my-breath-away scary. I turn on the news less and less because it feels as if the world has gone crazy and I’m trapped with not a damn thing I can do about it. When it is close to overwhelming, I turn on my Spotify playlists, select something that makes me happy, get my ass on the elliptical and sweat until the axis of my world shifts back to an alignment I can live with. I lift my little weights, doing sets until my muscles burn and remind myself this ol’ bag of bones is still alive and we’re OK. Whatever happens, it’s going to be OK. And up to this point, I’ve had a pretty great “ride”.

Happy birthday to me.

​And many blessings to all of you!
Love,
A.

On Monday morning 16 March 2020 I walked into my school building and a cloud of uncertainty. None of my colleagues thought when we left on Friday, we'd be coming back to no students. I spent the work week in my classroom diligently working on turning my normal daily routine with students into a totally digital learning setting but every second, those babies both present and former, were at the front of my mind. I miss their noisy faces. It was great having the luxury of a potty break (with plenty of toilet paper) whenever I needed one, but I'd have gladly traded it for halls filled with our funny, annoying, delightful little human creatures. The World is going to look different when we come out of this, y'all. All I can hope is that different will equate to better.

I've been preparing all week for what seems to be the eventuality that I might not go back to a brick and mortar school building for the rest of the year, all the while lying awake at night contemplating our ever-changing definition of "normal". It was stuffy in the house last night, as Spring slipped in just the way it always does. I felt as if the walls were closing in around me, the too warm air trying to suffocate me. I got up and opened windows sometime after midnight. No street noise. The only sound I could hear was a fat frog waking up from winter's sleep and letting me know he was still hanging out in the pond out back. Had I told everyone what I needed to say? Have I apologized to the people who deserve one from me? What bags am I still carrying that it is way past time to put down? These questions bounced around in my brain as I attempted to fall asleep. Exhaustion finally won that battle but from the moment I woke up today, the questions without answers and the crazy uncertainty of the times came back in full force.

On the other side of this, I want the World to be a better place. I hope that people will have "fresh eyes and more patience" with one another. I hope we will love each other and our Earth more and obsess over our differences less. And may we finally, finally realize that every role, every job, every face, heart, and mind has value. 

Oh, and please stop hording the toilet paper FFS! Nobody needs to have enough toilet paper to last them till the end of time! Also, keep making the funny memes! We need to be able to laugh now more than ever!

I was finally on a beach in Hawaii, one of my "trip of a lifetime" destination spots. Waikiki Beach stretched out below, and a Pacific island breeze softly blew away the harrowing seventeen hour travel day and all the hiccups that had come with it. I leaned against the balcony, soaking up the warm beams of a full moon and considered all of the struggles, decisions, and conversations that had finally landed me here. Standing in the middle of Paradise, experiencing a dream come true is a heady, powerful feeling, especially considering how utterly impossible getting there had seemed to be. I'd finally made it, saving money for over a year, meticulously plotting a strategy to get me to one of the destinations on Earth that I most wanted to go. And perhaps because my fiftieth birthday was fast approaching, I was already in a more hyper-thoughtful frame of mind than I would otherwise be, but here are some things I learned over the course of the next seven days...Paradise is just a place, albeit an exquisite one. The food is over-priced, although the pineapple is exceptional. It is extremely crowded (private beach, party of one please), and life's everyday messiness comes with you, tucked away in some random pocket of your carry-on luggage.

Since my husband left every facet of the trip planning up to my discretion, I created an itinerary for several days of our trip, including a Circle the Island Tour (Oahu), an evening out at one of the top-rated Luaus and a full day filled with military excursions (like vising Hickam Air Force Base and touring Battleship Row/Pearl Harbor). The rest of the time I left open so that we could wander wherever the glorious Trade Winds took us. 

Our first full day in Oahu was spent exploring, mostly to scope out how we could feed ourselves without having a heart attack from over-priced meals (like a breakfast buffet that was $40 per person...what kind of eggs were they serving????), where the most authentic shopping areas were located (because while I find those little car dash hula dancers really cute, I can buy one off of Amazon for like five bucks), and what adventures we wanted to do that couldn't be found on any travel guide (hahaha be careful what you wish for). The Luau was scheduled for that evening, and as luck would have it, according to my research there was a bountiful array of great shopping along the route. Armed with that information, we decided to take a cab to our Luau and then walk back (turns out that walking 2 miles in a pretty dress and flip-flops on streets packed with hundreds of people, and  I do mean PACKED, is not the most stellar of ideas).

The dinner and show at the Luau was amazing. It certainly lived up to the reviews I had seen prior to attending. Once it was over, we were giddy on the first stretch of our walk through the Waikiki Shopping District. The street was bustling with activity while the ocean lapped happily alongside the route. My tummy was full, my husband was lovingly holding my hand and there was so much to see I didn't even know where to look first. As we made our way down the strip, the crowds began to thicken and my poor choice of footwear started to become apparent. The piece of shoe between my toes was rubbing a raw spot that was becoming uncomfortable. I ignored it. Soon, there were so many people surrounding us and shoving in and out of row upon row of shops that holding hands became impossible. By this point, I could no longer ignore my feet, one of which was now bleeding. We still had a long way to walk, and the thought of actually buying something (except perhaps new shoes, preferably bunny slippers) and having to carry it the rest of the way made me want to cry. I also stubbornly refused to let my husband know just how uncomfortable and cranky I was becoming. After another thousand steps, or so, I was also ready to find a pair of pajamas and ditch that dress into the nearest trash bin. You know how once you're cranky, almost anything and everything around you just makes you more cranky? I was there. I kept noticing all of the beautiful women, many of them extremely well-dressed and wearing crazy high heels that at this point would have made me homicidal and I was thinking "How on earth are they able to dress like that and still actually smile?" I am sure at some point my husband actually tried to speak to me, but by now I was so far gone all I could see were obstacles in the way of a lovely, long shower, absolute quiet, and a bed. Once we arrived back at our hotel, I'm fairly certain I have never been happier to see an elevator in my life. 

The week was flying crazily by. I kept telling myself to savor every moment but it seemed as if time had somehow gotten stuck on fast-forward and all I could do was hold on for the ride. Our Circle the Island Tour was insightful and filled with a landscape that made me want to pack up everything (or sell it all) and find a little spot in a grove somewhere and stay forever. Visiting Pearl Harbor, listening to popular music from the big bands of the forties streaming out in the gift shops made me nostalgic and emotional, reminding me of mom and dad Schaefer, as well as my own parents, and grandparents. They were younger than I am now when they lived through those events. I kept wondering what they thought about it all, how it shaped them as people and what scars it might have left. I had to hug the retired Marine (which I hope didn't make him uncomfortable) who narrated our boat tour of Pearl Harbor and Battleship Row because his reverence and sincerity had such a powerful impact on me. 

As our week was drawing to a close, we decided to rent a car for a second day and go back to some of the military spots we'd briefly visited (and purchase a suitcase to check on the flight home, don't judge). When we came out of the rental place, I decided I wanted to look into a shop close by and told my husband I'd just be a moment. I walked in, looked around and saw shelves filled with mostly merchandise I'd already viewed from many other place, and came right back out. My husband was gone. As I scanned the area that was visible finding no sign of him anywhere, I couldn't even wrap my head around where else to look for him. I texted. No answer. I waited. And it wasn't long before my mind went straight into panic mode, maybe because I watch way too much Dateline. I told myself, "Breathe in, breathe out. Everything's fine. Breathe in, breathe out." Approximately six minutes passed before he came waltzing around a corner and into view, healthy and in one piece and wondering why I looked so rattled. Let me tell you, six minutes is a very long time when you're worrying about every possible scenario of what could be wrong! And that is how the fight started. Let me tell you, it was a whopper! He drove us onto Hickam Air Force Base to the Officer's Club, which had a huge stretch of park behind it and incredible views of the water. We sat on a blanket in the grass and worked through all of the issues that came up from our fight and at one point he said to me, "I'm sorry I ruined your dream vacation." It was in that moment that I understood with crystal clarity that the only perfect vacation, perfect life, flawless experience is the one that exists in dreams. In real life, it's messy. I said to him, "The dream was coming here, but it would have meant nothing without you to share it with. It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be real. And in real life, fights come when they come. What were we going to do, put off talking about any of this until we got home because the timing wasn't perfect?" Thankfully, we put off nothing. We hashed it out there in Paradise because the relationship was far more valuable than our location. Turns out "Paradise" doesn't include a lack of struggles it just comes with a really great view. 

One thing I learned very early in my husband's military career is to cherish every friendship and relationship you make. Say the things you need to say to people you love because nobody knows what "tomorrow" will bring and you might never have another chance. Frequently military life is filled with a series of goodbyes as people get orders and move away. And I mean civilian life is not much different. We change jobs (or others do), move to different places leaving neighbors and/or friends behind. I remember a boss I had not too long after I moved back to my hometown who, for the short time I was working for him, was a light in some dark times. His happy, funny personality, quick smile, and shared love of the Blues reminded me that Hope wasn't so far away and provided proof that there were still a lot of good people in the world at a time when it seemed they were in rare supply.

 When my youngest daughter joined the Navy and moved away, in the back of my mind I was thinking, "If I see her twice a year for the next twenty years that's only forty times I'll see her again in my life!" Considering she'd been a daily part of my world for the first eighteen years of her life, this was NOT a happy thought, even though I was over the Moon with the joy of what the future holds for her. Still, she is and always will be my baby, so letting go, saying goodbye. hurts like crazy.​ 

Of course, if you think about it, in the span of a simple day, you may cross paths with a hundred people, or more, that you'll probably never see again. To combat this harsh truth and my own situational awareness (and to keep from driving myself absolutely bonkers), I stay current in the lives of those military connections I've made over the years, friends who are like my family, through social media, celebrating their highs and lows from a distance but just as fervently. And I keep close others, as well, who've become dear to me through the internet or jobs I've worked. I've even reconnected to people I knew in high school, building friendships that are more relevant and mature due to time, age, and personal growth. One of those friends, a lovely lady named April, reached out to me after she found out she had breast cancer and we talked, laughed and built a lovely connection deeper than anything we'd ever had in high school, before she lost her battle. God, how I cherish the moments and memories we got the opportunity to share before she was gone.

Several weeks ago as I was scrolling randomly through social media, a pop-up list of "People You Might Know" came up and in it was the brother of a man I'd briefly dated in high school. Out of curiosity I clicked on it and as I was reading various things from his page, I discovered that his brother (that charming boy I'd dated so long ago) had died. "What? Wait, that can't be right," I thought and began looking for more details. Eventually I found his obituary and read it a dozen times thinking there must have been a mistake. But of course there wasn't. He hadn't even made it to his 50th birthday. Not long after I moved back to my hometown, I got a friend request from David. After I added him, we started catching up. We talked about all of the things we'd done in the years that had passed and shared memories about how  young and stupid we were "back in the day". It was fun seeing him as a grandfather. He was adorable with those precious babies and I enjoyed teasing him about it. He got to return the ribbing as I joined him in the "Grandparent Club" in 2015. He was so supportive of my writing career. He always read my blogs and frequently would message me once I posted a new one and we'd talk about them. He was also blown away (and pretty much said so, verbatim) when I told him that I had based a character in my new novel about him. I told him that the character would continue to grow and play a bigger role as the series went on. And when my novel debuted, he was one of the first to purchase it. He even wrote the second review I received and reading it was pure joy (see below). I was so happy that in the absence of time we'd spent, he'd built a loving, wonderful life for himself. I was also so appreciative of his staunch support. As my father's condition worsened, David and I spoke less frequently and by the time my father passed away, we had gone many months without contact. I lost my father in April of 2017 and David died months later in October. I have wondered often since our last conversation what was happening in his life, but I assumed when he was ready, he'd tell me. What was happening was...he was gone, and I didn't know. 

I sit here now racking my brain, wondering if over the years I've said all the things I need to say to those who've passed through my life and had such a powerful impact. It is important to me that they know. I mentally scroll through my mind, contemplating harsh words I've shared with others, wondering if I apologized when my words might have hurt them and made amends when and where I could. And as for David, I didn't get to say goodbye, but I know there was never a harsh word between us, even when we broke up all those years ago. I know that he was aware of the impact he made in my life and that I was genuinely happy about the man he'd become. As for the rest, I just remain diligently mindful of the people I have contact with, remembering that there is no promise for tomorrow and taking great care with what I say to each of them "today".

Review from David on my book Desperate Measures (he gave it five out of five stars):

titanboss reviewed on on July 20, 2014
After reading the book,it was something I would definitely recommend. If you like Clancy or Ludlum you will like Schaefer. The author had a unique way of writing the story that is a believable fiction. Instead of the lead characters being a super spy with a million gadgets or IQ of 175 hers were again believable. Lead character Abby is someone a normal reader could relate to. Caught in a uncompromising position that is realistic to the reader and gives you the sense of what would I do in that situation. The book does and will keep you on the edge and wanting more. It was an outstanding first offering and very good read. Eagerly awaiting the broad canvas Amy will interpret as Abby travels to Italy.
(reviewed 20 days after purchase)

On the last day of school, one of my 1st Period students asked, "Mrs. Schaefer what are you doing for the summer?" "Well," I said, "reading, traveling, cleaning, gardening and my favorite...sleeping IN!" Most of the class groaned at the reading declaration (but not all, which is huge progress), and nearly all of them laughed at sleeping in. They were anxious to tell me about the video games they'd be playing, as well as trips to the pool. Many of them  also touted my own desire to just sleep in! And while they almost all told me about how excited they were about the time off, I know that many will be in various precarious circumstances over the break (which keeps a nagging worry for them at the back of my mind...occupational hazard).

As I watch State Legislators haggle and argue about education issues such as the budget for the next school year, I wonder how many of them are truly invested in the welfare of these children. Based on a lot of the decisions I see them making, their actions scream not many. I could elaborate with a list of facts and details, arguments and opinions, turning this post into a education political shit storm, but that's not what today's thoughts are about. Today's thoughts are focused on books, in general, and a love of reading, specifically. I tell my classes year after year two mantras with staunch regularity--"Knowledge is power" and "Falling in love with reading is your escape." I then spend an entire school year backing up those two ideas with evidence to support that they are undeniably true. In fact, if I think about it, I could make an argument for every single lesson plan I've taught having its roots in these two themes. The truth of this makes me ridiculously happy because it is my goal that every child who crosses my path takes away two things, the feeling of their own empowerment and excitement over a book! 

Since many of my former students fairly regularly pop onto my website to see what I'm up to, the first book on my summer reading list is Shoot Like a Girl: One Woman's Dramatic Fight in Afghanistan and on the Home Front by Mary Jennings Hegar. I am normally not much of a non-fiction reader unless it involves current local, state, or world news, but when your daughter hands you a book filled with post-it notes where parts that resonated with her are marked and says, "Mom, you've gotta read this", you do! Usually when I crack the spine of a book, I want it to take me somewhere "else", away from my life which is already inundated daily with harsh truths. Opening this book and delving its depths, however, is like going on a silent journey through the pages with my daughter. I can clearly see connections to her own life, her father's military career, and the overlap weaving in and out of the two of them. It's beautiful, in and of itself, and made even more lovely because the author of this book has such a strong, empowering voice on her own. 

Thank you for the book recommendation, Freckles. As for the rest of you, if you haven't read a great book in awhile, now's the time to start one!

The desks are scrubbed and stacked, the brick-a-brac is stored away in cabinets or boxes, and I am officially home for the summer break. This means I'm currently as unbusy as I could possibly be since the beginning of 2019, and yet...I wonder if my students are getting enough to eat and if they're safe, happy. I watch more news, read more social articles (probably not a smart move) and I'm more frustrated than ever at the state of the world that we're leaving for our youth. I am angry at the actions of so many in charge who seem to be playing a personal game of greed and self-promoting agendas at the expense of so many lives, leaving thousands struggling day to day. And, like, who cares?

People are living their lives, fighting their own battles. Who has time to invest in a system, a process, where little seems to change and circumstances continue to deteriorate? Climate change? Look, I've got to pay my car payment, my power bill. I can't be worrying about what Mother Nature is going to do (or big business, or government...). I've got to keep food on the table. State Legislators underpaying teachers, getting kick-backs from big business products created for the classroom, Health Care cuts piggybacked onto other laws people with self-serving agendas are trying to push through, what can any of us do about these things? Hell, I should be on a float in my pool right now listening to the birds, watching the clouds float lazily by while my biggest worry is what I'm cooking for dinner. I mean, it IS my summer break and honestly I worked my tail off the last school year going full-throttle doing the multitude things that teachers do, much of which happens outside of a classroom. Instead, these social issues are heavy on my mind (including what I, personally, am doing or not doing about them). 

I come back to the question, "Who cares?" And I swear it's true, if you look for the negative, you will certainly, easily find it...but the alternate is also true. When you look for the positives, you'll find those, too; a news story on "60 Minutes" about a group of kids who are suing the US Government for their role in climate change; hundreds of thousands of teachers marching on their home state Capitals, advocating for the children and their colleagues on issues that should have been "fixed" by sub-standard Legislators long ago; Law Enforcement around the country taking part in programs like the Lip-Sync Challenge in order to help build stronger relationships with their communities. And then there are people like Magnus MacFarlane-Barrow who started a foundation called "Mary's Meals" that feeds children around the world (see video below) and is making such an impact in these precious young lives. 

​My three-year-old grandson and I love the movie Zootopia. One of my favorite lines from Judy Bunny is, "Ready to go out and make the world a better place?" I'm not always sure of what my role for doing that is, or if what I am doing is enough, but it's certainly something I am often thinking about. The answers are as elusive as those lightning bugs my grandson likes to chase, but like him, I am not easily deterred. For now I'll keep using my voice, teaching tiny humans, and pondering other ways to use my "powers" for good. 

​

The day I decided not to allow my father to continue playing "absentee" in my life (thank you Jim), I drove to his house, sat on his living room floor at his feet and spilled out a childhood of shit stories that he didn't want to hear and I didn't want to say, but it had to be done. At one point, I said, "And all that time do you know what I kept hoping and praying for?" He shook his head, not wanting to speak, and to be fair after all he'd heard, most of which was "new" to him, I couldn't blame him. I told him, "I kept waiting for you to come in with your cape and save me, save that little girl who felt the world and adults around her were surely going to crush her to dust. I needed a hero and I was hoping it was going to be you. And the sad truth, at least for that little girl, was that no hero ever came. You didn't come" He was quiet a long time before he said, "Sorry about that," in that gruff voice of his. "Yeah, me too," I told him and I meant it. Sorry for a childhood of innocence lost, sorry for a relationship that never happened, no matter how desperately I wanted it to, and sorry that it had taken so long for one of us to "force" the issue, look at it from all angles, good, bad, and truly ugly.

Now I type with shaky hands and  eyes still wet with too many useless tears because my not-so-heroic dad is gone. And I find I miss him as much now as I did when he was alive, in fact in that regard little has changed. But I remember what that conversation and confession from above gave me...time. I sat with him during nearly all of his chemo treatments, whether he liked it or not. I held his frail hand and looked up stupid, useless information on my phone to entertain him (except that one time when he had me look up the actual chemicals in his particular chemo cocktail and read to him what was in them). I sat in waiting rooms where we chatted mostly about the inane while we waited for doctors to consult, test results, and the word from various nurses that he was "good to go". I got into a routine of calling him every morning just to see how his night had gone and wish him a good day. And three days before he died, our morning conversation went like this:

*Pulling into my parking space at work, listening to his phone ring. He picks up.
Me: Hey, Dad.
Dad: Morning, girl. (I could hear the tired in his voice, even though he was wide awake.)
Me: How was your night?
Dad: *long pause* About the same. But I'm awake, I'm alive, and you're OK. Today, I'll take it.
Me: For sure (reminding myself to NOT cry because I had a classroom full of students waiting for me). Have a good day, Dad. Try to eat something, okay?
Dad: We'll see. Love you girl.
Me: Love  you too.

I hung up and held it together, which is to say I pulled a trick I learned from my ornery father and shoved those emotions so deep down I'm surprised it didn't crack my entire body into a million pieces. I got through the day, and so did he, but both of us knew at our nightly conversation that the end was close.

And here I am, two years later sitting in my quiet house on Father's Day uncertain about what I'm supposed to feel. What I DO feel is angry and confused...and quietly sad. It's weird because it's like that little me of long ago is standing (or sitting) beside me and together we're still asking ourselves, "What in the absolute hell????" In the end, she and I saved ourselves (no need for a daddy superhero). In the end, she and I fought our way back into Dad's life. And we stood with him, every step, until the very end...because that's what you do when you love someone. You stick. Even when it hurts, even when it's so hard! You stick.

To my Dad--I know your Father's Day is happy, because today you are cancer free and no longer in pain. And I forgive you, even though I'm still pretty mad about some things. I'm working through them and promise you I'll get there.

The teacher and the writer are at war. My heart hurts from that realization and as I draw it around me, allow it to settle, I pull all of you close, gathering your strength. You've waited for me for months. I have been silent at the keys of my laptop. But in my mind, there is always so much noise. And the crux of my problem is this...because of my teaching career, which I have returned to with gusto, there are many things I must sacrifice from my writing career. I have to frequently keep so many truths utterly quiet, and this fact strikes at the very heart of the writer soul. The why...is complicated.

Without going into a host of mind-numbing fact, or writing a dissertation, I'll try to explain how I have come to be where I am now. First, in my experience, public education in America is a ridiculous mess. At the top, where policy makers and politicians make sweeping decisions for education, frequently those decisions come colored with a slant towards political gain. This, often, is devoid of any true regard for what is best for our children. And I know for most of you reading this, it's not a stretch to imagine that those with real power rarely give thought to those without, instead working with the intention of either holding their own power, or gaining more, no matter the cost. Second, you have all of those in the middle (i.e. your school boards, Central Office personnel, administrators, etc.) who are trying to follow the mandates of those at the top, while also fielding the demands of parents, community, and whomever else shows any interest (or criticism) of the entire process, fondly known as "stakeholders". At the third level, you have educators, curriculum coordinators, teaching assistants, etc., catching and executing anything and everything thrown at them from above. And did I mention we haven't even gotten to the most difficult parts yet? 

Finally, we arrive at the children, themselves. And here, I must ask you dear reader, to go back. Let your mind wander back to a time when you were just starting to become old enough to ask yourself some pretty scary questions like, "Do I fit in?" "Will so-and-so's group accept me?" and lest we forget (insert shudder here) "Hey, what about that cute guy/girl?" "How can I get him/her to notice me, like me?" At this precipice of our lives, we're all pretty much in the same boat with that angsty preteen/teen phase. Now add on some very heady life-problems that their parents, siblings, grandparents, etc. are dealing with...problems that are horrifying to deal with when you're an adult, and almost unimaginable from a child's perspective. Then, try to focus and impress upon said child the importance of high...stakes...testing. And yet, we must. That is our reason for existence in their lives, right? To educate them (which in the political world means get them to perform appropriately on said high stakes testing). That way we, the adults, can all pat ourselves on the back. We did our jobs, see? Look at "these" results. They show a child "well-educated". Don't they? And now we have arrived at the lies. Instead of pontificating about them, here is where I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions about the "system", so to speak. Instead, this is what I see every moment of every day that I walk into a classroom...

I see little ones, or blossoming young humans all struggling to name, identify, and make sense of the very real grown-up world going on around them. I see numerous opportunities to help them fall in love with books that will not only teach them things, but take them away to a place that shuts out the uncertainties of this world for a little while and lets them imagine endless possibilities of what else "can be". I see a hundred ways, a thousand ways to plant nurturing seeds of curiosity, growth, exploration, and ideas for a better world and attempt, with love and support, to convince them that they have the power to make that vision of the world come true. It is one of the highest, purest forms of love I know how to give. And when it is done, when my time with them is complete, I feel hope. I feel hope that I have armed them with something useful well beyond myself and my tiny role in their lives. I hope that I have given them a kernel of beauty to hold on to long after the world has turned bleak again. When they go, they take away pieces of me. In this, I am not unique. Over the years, I have come to know many other educators, administrators, police officers (SRO's), curriculum coordinators, counselors, etc. that do the same, want the same. It is an exhausting process that frequently comes at a very high price (low pay, little respect, impossible expectations, etc.), but it is also one of the single, most beautiful endeavors my life is a part of. I believe it is the love of such important work that brings many to the education profession in the beginning. This is also used against them, where the ugly lies begin, perhaps the biggest being the excuse used to justify underpayment of those in the profession. "Teachers don't go into it for the money." Laughably true, and spoken to me verbatim from a politician in Arizona who was looking to cut funding to education, AGAIN, and had only that platitude to offer. "This mess in education isn't my fault," he said. A comfort, I'm sure, to all the thousands of children counting on him (and others) to have their best interest at heart. 

Now, the writer in me has more, much more blood to spill, frustrations to share...but the practical, self-preservation part of me must stop. The deeper truths must remain utterly quiet and pulling them back, swallowing them down is HaRD. It is enough, has to be enough, that I know them, that I can share them in the smallest of circles when they won't stay down another moment, lest they eat me alive like some black bile burning me from the inside. It is enough to know that those close enough to me to keep and protect my counsel will, with a complete lack of judgement. I couldn't function in the world "outside" without having Safe Harbour to come home to, there's just too much injustice about it that would make my head explode. I will learn how to get past the war happening inside of me right now, and when I do, I will come here with much more frequency. Until then, I am so grateful to all of you who keep coming back even in my long absences. I check. I feel you close. I have folded your support into the walls and roof of my Safe Harbour.

Here I remain,

Lovingly Yours...

​A.

​

It is a chilly November morning, the wind a gentle bite reminding me that winter is near. Election ads are finally off my television (praise be) and Thanksgiving is just a couple of weeks away. The only sound in the house today is the steady thrum of laundry going (an endless, thankless chore that keeps us all from smelling like a goat when we venture out in public). A quiet house, for me, often equates to a noisy mind, and today is no exception. Even though I haven't spoken about it, I've been thinking a lot the last several days about my life's connection to service of country. Of course, it's probably not a coincidence since Veteran's Day is tomorrow, but I know that's not the whole of it. I have spent my entire adult life connected to the military, first as a military wife and now as the mother of a Navy pilot. In large part, because of that, I am hyper aware of the state of our Nation, as well as the world. I'd like to think that even if I hadn't had such an intimate relationship with political issues that spilled over directly onto my daily life, I would have still stayed aware of a larger "picture" that's going on around me. Even as a child, I was never one to put my head in the sand and ignore the goings-on of the world rotating beneath and around me. It is often true that I would consciously attempt to blend in to the walls, careful never to draw too much attention to myself, lest I become a target of things that terrified me, but blending in isn't the same as completely checking out. Besides, it was always safer to know what storm was coming at me, rather than have it blindside me in the dark.  

In all of that, I remember...I have saved myself from some pretty dark places, and my record for doing so is 100%. There will be more dark places on the road ahead, but I have found my feet, found my voice, slayed or learned to embrace my demons. I have been able to do all of these things, in part, because I was born with a deep belief in freedom. And if I think about it, I can find an endless supply of examples that freedom is hardwired into every child born of this Earth. A toddler learning to walk, a teenager bucking restrictions and restraints, that fearless quality to which almost all little ones apply to the world in front of them. And while freedom is not found in every core political belief system around the world, it still is pervasive in every child from every corner of the globe. 

There comes a point, however, if you're paying attention to the people, places, and things "outside of  yourself", when you realize that freedom comes with consequences. The freedom to say and do as you please, speak whatever pops into your mind at any point, to any and everyone, these things come with a cost. Then it becomes a game of measured choices. It is at that moment of realization where one begins to truly understand the sheer responsibility of freedom. How do we nurture and care for it, while maintaining a position of kindness and respect for others? Because let's be clear...if anyone and everyone was "free" to do anything and everything that crossed their minds, we'd live in a world of complete and utter chaos. "Your" freedoms and "mine" could quite literally destroy us both in the process of their respective executions (like, for example, your freedom to own a weapon of war, shoot anyone or anything you wished thereby creating your own real-life video game, while me and mine were on your "list", or simply "in your way").

On this windy, cold November morning, the day before Veteran's Day...I am thankful for those who are in the service of others, even when doing so is complicated. I am thankful for those who value and protect "freedom", even as they measure their own thoughts, deeds, and actions. I am sad for those who remain oppressed by poverty, or circumstance, or indifference. And I am happy for this loving, crazy, messy life I'm living, that's not all "perfect", but gives me the freedom every day to just be myself without fear or apology. 

And to all Veterans everywhere (as well as those who support you), thank you. Respectfully yours...

Love,
A.

Time is such a precious thing and yet so often I forget its utterly priceless value. I become wrapped up in the "day to days", washing dishes, planning lessons, folding laundry, or idly staring at a TV screen, watching, not watching, whatever trash is on it while the moments and hours, days and weeks of my life-clock tick tock. How many moments have I wasted being angry, or afraid to try something I really want to do? How many blank spaces have I allowed, as my focus was elsewhere, on the inane, the mundane...a pointless meeting here, a fruitless mound of paperwork that took me hours to amass? To what end? And what does anything that I do actually mean? I have spent a lot of time over the course of my life asking myself that last question. It is one that comes up almost daily!

In the evenings I frequently sit on the back deck with my husband and fire philosophical questions across the proverbial bow of this small speck of land we call "ours" and he takes them all in stride, for the most part indulging my musings, although sometimes he will have a tidbit of his own beliefs to interject. We talk about the overall state of the United States and the current climate set by the disgusting leadership, fueled by division, hate, and lies. We talk about the broken education system of our nation, that's driven by politics and a bogus spit-shine image, with little regard to the betterment and welfare of our children. And when I've been watching way too much political news, I stew about how at least on a surface level it would seem nobody gives a shit about what is "right" (ergo a new Supreme Court Justice who lied under oath in his confirmation hearings, and a President who openly victim shamed a Professor as the butt of some twisted joke he was telling). I rant, sometimes most passionately, about our lack of care or concern for our planet (...because, you know, according to some, Global Warming is made up-OH and the Earth is flat, right?), real justice, and a seemingly total disregard for compassion. One constant in these discussions is the struggle internally I have in regards to solutions. What am I doing to make any of these things better? How am I part of the "change" I want to see? What can I do, anyway?

I am one tiny no one in a sea of over seven billion people on this planet, one small voice in a sometimes very backwoods town. I have thought of running for political office as a way to exact real change, but the thought of what doing so would turn me into makes me want to throw up. I have even contemplated selling the little I own and moving to somewhere in the world with great need for teachers, giving whatever place that was all I've got for as long as I have left. But I remember...the student I hugged yesterday, who has moved on to another grade but still seeks me out when he can, just to get a hug. I told him I was proud of him and rooting for his success. He smiled down at me, a bit embarrassed, and said, "Thanks," before heading off to class. I remember the students from my 1st Period telling me to have a great day as they exit my class, "See you at lunch" one of them calling out to me from the hall. I remember my grandbaby, that wild, adorable mess of a tiny human, asking me to make him chocolate pie and then smiling at me while he licks the plate clean after eating the piece I gave him when he'd finished his lunch. 

I'm never going to sit in the Oval Office making grand decisions for the United States (and wouldn't even consider it until it was fumigated by HAZMAT after this current POTUS departs). I'm never going to build schools in third world countries (...because let's face it, in this lifetime I'm not going to have access to Warren Buffet kind of money). One thing though that is not out of my reach, however, is to love fiercely, because "this" all ends.  And when the cacophony of crap that doesn't matter gets too loud, or makes me feel overwhelmed with its very wrongness, I can remember to have faith...even if it's just the size of a Mustard seed.