Oh, those affirmations!

 

 

It helps to know what you want from yourself and your life. I’m not always focused and purposeful, but when I am, affirmations help me. Here are some of my favorites:

 

  • Small portions of good food satisfy me completely. (That sounds about right, doesn’t it?)

 

  • I’m alive, alert, awake, joyous, and enthusiastic about being here. (Used to make my students say this to start the day!)

 

  • I eat to live, not live to eat. (I use this one a lot…maybe not enough!)

 

  • I’m a strong, sexy, sassy woman! (Well, it helps to think positively. hahahha)

 

  • Wild women don’t get the blues!

 

 

drinkallthecoffe

 

What helps you get out of bed and make your day the best it can be?

Not in any particular order, I’m thankful for:

  1. My husband’s generosity for me and others
  2. My little circle of friends who support one another…thank you, people!
  3. The sun shining
  4. The waves crashing on the beach
  5. The view from my house
  6. My family, including our beautiful 2-year-old German shepherd
  7. Ocean breezes, especially when it’s hot
  8. Inspiration for my writing
  9. Time to just “be”
  10. Our beautiful home
  11. Books
  12. Lessons learned
  13. A good chiropractor
  14. Music

And now I want my day to be full of discovery…in whatever form it wants to come! I’m good to go!

Susie    How about you?

Cancer Doesn’t Care

What kind of person are you? Are you kind to strangers, find pleasure in helping those in need, considerate of your neighbors, a steward of the earth, and loving to your family? Do you give of yourself even when it isn’t convenient, and do you nurture those you love even though they may not always show appreciation for your tenderness?

 

I know some special people who exemplify all that is good. While not without fault, these wonderful beings are for the most part joyful, warmhearted, and loving. They will bring their special brand of kindness to bear in difficult situations, think before they speak, and graciously give of their time to be there for others.

 

There are those who love to gossip, celebrate when others fail, and don’t mind their tongues. They seem to take our sunshine away, don’t they? These individuals may be quick to find fault in others, lack consideration, laugh when others fall, and maybe value money above all else. They will be nice to your face, but not hesitate to disrespect you behind your back.

 

None of us are perfect. But the problem I have in this moment is the realization that cancer doesn’t care what kind of person you are.

Cancer strikes good people. Cancer moves in without regard to how many karma points you may have built up.

 

Sometimes I feel it is invading the lives of good people more often than the “other” kind, and I have to say I’m angry about this. I’m at a loss for what to say or what to do when a friend loses a spouse, a child, a mother, father, brother, sister or other family member to cancer. Cancer has claimed good people who would give you whatever you need, whenever you need it.

 

Because cancer doesn’t care.

 

It is not that I wish this horrible condition on people I deem as “not good” or that I believe anyone is deserving to be invaded by this sinister disease. Not at all, but I just get so angry when cancer happens to good people. And then I cry for my friends whose lives have been taken and for others who are left to mourn their loved ones.

 

I was captain of a Relay for Life team in Washington State for five years. My teammates and I raised a lot of money for the American Cancer Society. We came together to show cancer that we do care. It was a precious 24 hours that made us feel we were doing something positive, together with the people who donated to the cause.

 

We gave our teams funny, clever names, sometimes with a name to honor a cancer survivor, or someone who didn’t survive, and together we put up tables and tents around the track where we camped for the duration of the relay. Some years during the relay it rained and the wind blew. We kept walking.

Susan, Frank & Julie

In 2006 The Nickerson’s Knights were awarded a Silver! Frank was in treatment then and he was very weak. He is a survivor and we are so happy about that.

My team was named “Nickerson’s Knights” for our colleague, Frank, who had stage 3 colon cancer. He has been cancer free for over five years now. Yay!

In the first lap we celebrated survivors! When darkness came, we lighted the luminaries to honor those who were survivors and for those whose lives were taken by cancer.

 

luminarias 2007.jpgCelebrating Frank.jpg

At least one team member had to be on the track at all times in that 24 hours of Relay for Life. We relayers held hands, walked together or alone, shared stories, laughed and cried for those who died and those who were in the midst of dealing with cancer. We showed we cared the only way we knew how—raising money and walking and running around a track.

 

HOPE 2007

A few of the relayers from Kamiak High School

 

Not a single person I know has not been somehow touched by cancer. We have all lost someone we have cared about. We loved them and now we miss them. We all know people who are living with it right now. We think about them and we do what we can to let them know we care, because cancer doesn’t care.

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Sharon, with her husband, Phil. She was a friend from junior high and high school, and she was one of the good ones! Her celebration of life was held in July 2014.

 

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Jerry was a great friend. He was an excellent photographer, a beloved teacher, and he could sing the blues. What a wonderful, funny guy. We miss you, Jerry.

 

 

I’m going to leave you with two questions:

  1. What are we, individually or collectively, capable of doing to rid the world of cancer?
  2. What can we do to ease the pain of those whose lives have been touched by cancer?

 

 

 

In a Book

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Blaring from the shop’s façade

A neon sign claims “OPEN”

Step in here; please search the

Shelves that cradle books for you

 

Revisit dreams; life’s pride and purpose

Devour pages one-by-one

Eat words slowly—as you wish

Satisfy your long-held search for meaning

 

Books bound by fragile, wrinkled hands

Or joined by man’s devices

How little it may matter to a reader

Aching only for a sweet taste of wisdom

 

Lines fill with letters meant to squeeze

And ring their finest colors

Hear the soft, faint sounds of solitary breath

Collected vapors singing— in a book

Feel me. I am Heat.

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“I am Heat, and I have come for her!”

 

 

Somewhere in the middle of her chest I take hold. I hunker down for awhile gaining strength. She feels it. I know she does, because she moves uncomfortably, pulling at her clothes. It is her feeble attempt at getting some air movement between her skin and her clothes.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, I creep farther, invading her arms, shoulders and neck before flushing to fill her cheeks. Her ears turn visibly red; she is engulfed, feeling the burn now. In a rush I move from her upper body, pulsing quickly down to her toes. Before long I rise to the top again. I am waves of heat going up and down, up and down.

 

The first time I entered her body uninvited, it was a rush of energy that was almost a pleasure to her, but soon my strength improved. I practiced until I became perfectly efficient at filling all her tissue, her muscles, veins, cells and (best of all) her mind with my gift of heat.

 

Pleasure is no longer associated with my presence. Now her experience is more akin to an uncontrollable freight train to hell. I want to whisper in her ear, “Fear me!” but I feel pity for her in this moment.

 

Her usually straight hair is forming into ringlets. Drops fall from her face onto her white blouse. Drip. Drip. I’m doing my job well, aren’t I?

 

She focuses every ounce of her resolve, longing for relief from my hot, tight grasp. Ha! She can’t get to the window fast enough. She can’t rip off her outer garments quick enough. The panic overcomes her. She’s frantic.

“Open the window for God’s sake,” she begs. “Where is the damn fan?” 

 

Don’t look at me. I don’t know where her fan is. I don’t have time to hide things from her. I’m busy making her sweat. And I do so relish the time we have together. Her body is my vessel; I am her uninvited furnace.

 

Too soon I become tired of my little game. She is flustered and soaking wet. I am satisfied that my job (for now) is done. Even in this moment as I release my grip on her, I vow to take over her body again soon. For weeks, for months, possibly for years, she will live in dread of me.

 

Feel me. I am Heat. I am the heat of menopause, and I’m coming for you next.

Paying Attention

 

I take a deep breath. I’m about to give my introductory lesson on the craft of writing to my 5th period class of rambunctious tenth graders. It is my responsibility to guide these 15 year-olds to a point where they can easily and successfully write expository essays (writing to explain). The second genre of writing I’m charged to teach them is to write persuasively. It is imperative that they get their points across.

You may agree that it is not easy to write well. Likewise, it is not easy to teach writing to teen-agers. Even though many excellent and creative teachers have worked with them before they landed in my classroom, I’m feeling pressured. I’m the last in line before they take the WA State Assessment of Student Learning. I must get them to the starting gate AND all the way to the finish line.

It is understood that these (mostly reluctant) students will need lots of writing practice to hone their skills; not just for the state test, but for communicating well as they move on to college and/or directly into the R.W. (Real World). Did I mention how much pressure I feel? It’s still early in the school year, but the state test is looming in the not-to-distant future.

Writing is a skill, but it is also an art form and a way to work through to your inner self. My goal is to have them focus on their ideas and then work to support them with solid details and examples. I tell myself that if they will organize their essays and make appropriate word choices, they will be well on their way to success.

But that’s not all. Knowing how to be skillful with sentence structures, using an appropriate tone or voice, and sticking to the standard conventions of writing–punctuation, grammar, and spelling–will be necessary to round out the task.

It is interesting to note that when I was teaching, my students did not have access to computers for the state test. How many of us write longhand anymore? We can rely on spell-check and we can easily delete and move text around using a computer. These students had to write legibly, in a booklet, using a pencil that the school provided.

Most of the kids have just eaten lunch before fifth period, and some of them are feeling a little drowsy. Getting their attention, coercing them to focus on my English curriculum, is never easy even on a good day. Hey! That must be why we teachers make the big bucks. Ha!

 

I finish up my introductory writing lesson with: “In a nutshell, you must decide on a topic, know your audience, as well as your purpose, and write in the appropriate form. These are the basics, ladies and gentlemen, so tattoo these into your minds: TOPIC, AUDIENCE, PURPOSE and FORM (TAPF).”  

I look around to see Jennifer fiddling with something under her desk, her eyes staring down at her hands. She is texting, damn it! Kevin’s head is bobbing. He’s obviously keeping time to the music coming from headphones hidden under the hood of his sweatshirt. Brittney’s head is on her desk. It’s only a matter of time before the drool starts. IS ANYBODY PAYING ATTENTION?

I switch off the overhead projector I used to show them examples of good and not-so-good writing, along with my carefully chosen and highlighted bullet points. The previous night, I spent two hours at home after work putting the finishing touches on this carefully crafted lesson. I swear it hasn’t been a boring lesson; I delivered it with humor (stand-up comedian style) and a grace unparalleled. I provided them with opportunities to participate in order to keep them engaged (awake).

I walk over to my desk. I plop into my chair. I sigh. Other than that, however, I am calm and quiet.

I’m thinking about a time when a student told me he found it surprising that when he knew I was the most frustrated or upset, I became completely quiet. You see, I am often rather boisterous and I laugh a lot—loudly, as I banter with my students. I love teaching and have been told often that I am rather good at it. I have a box full of letters and cards from former students, who have praised me for helping them to succeed, even excel. (Their words). Professing their love, they sign off, saying they want to stay in touch. Now that’s the real paycheck.

Now I hear the familiar sounds of notebooks being stuffed into backpacks and the zippers closing them. Some kids are already up and moving toward the door. The bell won’t ring for another minute. Ordinarily I rail against this behavior—them getting ready to leave sooner than need be, and I hate it when they amass at the door before the bell rings. It’s as if they are a pack of dogs waiting for the bowl of food to hit the floor.  I am again struck with the realization that they can’t wait to get out of here!

As the bells sounds, two girls, one with pink hair and a nose ring, both with timid looks, advance to my desk. “Are you okay, Mrs. F.?”

It is a good question, and I don’t hesitate to smile and say, “Sure, I’m fine. Just a little frustrated that I can’t get everyone to pay attention.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” April says. “They are all just a bunch of bastards.”

 

Classroom Collage of Memories

Snippet of my Years of Teaching

 

The Baby’s Breath is Sugary

Susie gives Cam a bath

 

The first year I lived with dreams of travel;

of climbing mountains in Switzerland with my love,

relishing spaghetti in Italy, sharing sushi in Japan.

 

In New York I would climb the Statue of Liberty,

and the morning mist would kiss her face.

Just like my love would kiss mine.

 

We’d stroll a Spanish village flanked with shops,

and holding hands we’d hear sweet music makers

strumming their guitars made of ash and alder.

…………

It must be two centuries ago when I felt my lover’s hands sliding

over my tender parts and places; in the days when we shared

our aspirations of roaming the world together.

 

But for now, our baby’s breath is sugary

and replaces long held desires for us to hail a cab in Barcelona.

With love and our red umbrella, we shield our infant son instead.

 

Our plans of travel replaced with little things

like watching him sleep. This precious child who has captured us,

and whose baby breath is sugary.

Do you judge me?

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Perhaps I am eccentric. Sure,

my oddness rises to the surface.

I question: whom among us is conventional?

 

Transporting to the aesthetic embracing

us, we revel in earth’s promises.

(not to be overtaken, but for buoyancy)

 

Will you strive to be an iconoclast

carving (tearing) my beliefs apart,

reducing my metal from its ore?

 

Perhaps I am eccentric and my peculiarity

rises from the floorboards, but I must not

permit ordinary vapors to fill me.

 

Nonchalant, secure;  disapproval does not worry me—

it isn’t hubris. Do not accuse me (please)

of being full of excessive pride, full of conceit.

 

I merely suggest we trust our guts, our instincts,

and listen to our animal voices; why not

permit mysterious spells to challenge logic?

 

Allowing an impulse—a sweet whim

to overtake us in moments of fancy,

to live fully formed, radiant, and crystalline.

in full measure

cactus flower

 

Candied pineapple sits on my tongue

sensory, sweet and bursting with a

joy of homecoming and you

resounding off the walls

…memories swirling in

 

 

The rules were broken yesterday

hammered and torn into private pieces

mostly warped from personal pain

choked down to lie where nothing else matters

…where nothing else makes sense

 

 

Naught is heard or felt or known

to stop the flow, the flow of emotion

where only the small and tender can find

their way home where summer dresses hang

…in the closet next to winter coats

 

 

To scarcely touch and be touched

an awareness of my heartbeat

from an inner core of percussion

while sensations turn in swirls of hot dust

… blindly settling into corners

 

 

Back from the dark, the starched and strident past

of bent and broken chairs

the chairs that tried to place you there

You…sitting…there

…darkly handsome with perfect posture

 

 

Lips on mine at this feast

when you fed me candied treats

to coerce me into loving you

forcing sweets onto my tongue

…in full measured spoons

 

 

Only the small and fragile resolve

to find a place to fall undamaged

a place to rest, to please

to will and to allow

…for a hand to press a soft and tender thigh

My girlfriend says…

My obsession with the English language is a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. That’s what my girlfriend, Donna, recently told me. I’ve heard that before.

Is it my fault that I get upset when people say things like, “I seen that,” or “There wasn’t much people there,” or how about when someone writes, “Your a happy person.” That one really gets me. I find myself yelling, “It’s the contraction you want, YOU’RE, not the possessive pronoun, YOUR.”

Oh, and guess what? A lot =two words. It isn’t alot. Is it a lot to ask that you write it as two words? I used to ask my students, “Do you write a little as one word?”

The English language is a living language, so the common practices sometimes find their way into our lexicon. I predict that in my lifetime, the two words a lot, when used to mean a great number, will be acceptable written as a single word. I will have to get over it. Let it go. Oh heaven forbid.

Don’t get me wrong. I make plenty of errors. Big mistakes and itsy bitsy ones too. (That’s too as in also or excessive…not to, the preposition as in I went to the park).

People look at me funny when I tell them that I actually read the dictionary. I start to look up a word, and something on the page catches my eye and I start reading. Don’t you do that? One day I was looking up a word I didn’t know (there are many of those), and I read the definition for moot. What an eye-opener. I will bet you a million dollars that 99 of 100 people use that word incorrectly.

Moot

Contrary to common misuse, “moot” doesn’t imply something is superfluous. It means a subject is disputable or open to discussion. e.g., The idea that commercial zoning should be allowed in the residential neighborhood was a moot point for the council.

Here’s a test for you:

Correct? Incorrect?

Everybody must bring their own lunch to the meeting.

As an English teacher I spent hours reading my students’ writing and using my green, blue, or purple pen (red gets a bad rap) to give them feedback. It was the worst part of my job. It was my responsibility to actually teach these wonderful children how to communicate in writing, do it well, pass the WA State assessment of writing, and move on into the world with a sharpened pencil. It was my job to find mistakes and help my students not to make them. I took my responsibility seriously. Just ask them.

Okay, back to your test. If the subject is singular, the pronoun, to which it refers, must be singular.

 EVERYBODY is singular. That, in itself, may be news to you. But it is singular. Consequently, the correct way to write this is:

Everybody must bring his or her own lunch to the meeting. 

It sounds a bit awkward, with “his or her,” but it is correct. I suggest you find another way to get that information across so as to avoid having to use his or her. How about a simple, straightforward directive, “Bring your own lunch to the meeting.”

You can only imagine how much fun it was to be fifteen, in my sophomore English class, and having to put up with me constantly going on about such matters. Teen-agers spend a lot of time thinking about themselves–how they look in the mirror, how they look to each other, when is the next party, who will be at the next party, who likes them, who doesn’t like them, among many other things. Using good conventions in writing isn’t high on their list of things to think about. I had to be sneaky and creative.

For example, PUNCTUATION DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE:

WOMAN WITHOUT HER MAN IS NOTHING.

or

WOMAN, WITHOUT HER, MAN IS NOTHING.

You see how two commas make such a big difference?

Writing well isn’t merely mastering the WRITING CONVENTIONS; there are a lot of other issues. The use of proper grammar, punctuation, spelling, and word usage are only a small part of what it takes to become a good writer. But I’m not going into the rest of it right now. Maybe another day.

Don’t think I can’t hear you sighing with relief.

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How about some bacon?

Normally, fish is the only meat I consume, and while I’m not a vegetarian in the strict sense, I haven’t had red meat in 36 years. The sight of rare prime rib makes me nauseous. Most people love the smell of bacon frying. Not me. I have a problem with the odor and with the annoying, hot grease that spatters from the pan when you cook it. When I quit eating meat it had nothing to do with the inhumane ways of raising and slaughtering animals. I was not one of those nuts running around sobbing about cruelty to animals. I just didn’t like the taste of meat. In the years since I gave up red meat, I have learned a lot about the raising and slaughtering of animals so that we humans can have a nice pork chop, a rib eye, or a pepperoni pizza.

 

One such lesson came from Newsweek.  When I used to read Newsweek, one of my favorite features was the “My Turn” essay. These are essays from ordinary people who write about a topic of their choice. Many of the pieces are educational, teaching me something or requiring me to think about something in a new way. I found enjoyment reading these interesting, enlightening, sometimes amusing or sad essays. The one that sticks with me the most was written by a not-so-ordinary citizen. One of eleven children, Bobby and Ethel Kennedy’s son, Robert Kennedy Jr., wrote his essay to make the case against our country’s industrialized pig farming. This exposé falls into the category of shocking enlightenment for me. Kennedy’s sensory language described the insidious practice of holding the hogs in cages with no room to turn around, squealing sows barely able to birth their litters in these confined spaces, and their waste dropping through the holes in the steel floors, which in turn flow into acres of pig excrement lagoons.

 

His prose conjured a stench enough to induce vomiting. His word pictures were enough for me. Because of his essay, there is a part of me that chooses not to eat pork mainly because of the practices of industrialized farms. I was teaching high school English at the time I first read Kennedy’s essay, and I gave my students the assignment to read, discuss and then write a response to it. The experience of reading, talking and then writing about industrialized pig farming was not enough to make my sophomores give up their BLTs or to stop eating sausage, but that was not my goal.

 

As critical thinkers, we must examine the many sides of an issue. Could my students open their eyes and minds to the evils of industrialized farming? Or at the very least give some thought to how much farming practices have changed over the last century? Are some practices better than others? Whatever happened to the family farm? What are the experts saying? It seems that there are a lot of people wondering about these important issues. And while I am no authority on this topic, it seems that since the time of his essay in Newsweek, Kennedy has become quite the authority.

 

Many more people are whooping and hollering about the evils of industrial pig farming because they are listening to the many who are authorities on the subject. Maybe you want to know what they are saying. If so, watch the documentary, Pig Business. Go ahead. Put down your ham sandwich and watch it. Or go online and read about the big business of pig business. Look at the pictures. I dare you. Familiarizing yourself about this issue might just make you squeal like a pig.

Read more:   http://nationalhogfarmer.com/mag/farming_waterkeeper_lawsuits_target

Six Words Can Say a Lot

It’s your life. Make it work.

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The road is long. Get going.

I had three sons. No daughter. (a six-word memoir)

Time out, time in, time out.

Have fun, give hugs, get love.

 Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on. (Jimmy Buffet)

Take a shower and get clean. (good advice)

Um, six words can’t encapsulate me.

I only live for the moment.

He said, she said, who cares?

Too little and far too late.

And eventually we all will die.

The mailman brings me bills. Damn.

Wherever he goes, black clouds follow.

It’s the summer of my life.

It’s hard now, but easy later.

Where should we go? To Mars?

Let them eat cake. Me too.

Baja dreams

Birds, flowers, pots, turtles, skulls, pomegranet.

I found happiness in my heart.

pattern 2

Who put sand dollars on the beach?

When will I ever learn? Tomorrow?

“Life’s a bitch, get over it.”

“I’m not very good at this.”

“I don’t know, do you know?”

I dance like I am invisible.

Six words are not nearly enough.

Time’s change, People change, That’s life.

silk sunflower

Sunflowers brighten our lives, don’t they?

 

I was a teacher. Not now.

Always create, have fun, die later. (philosophy)

Work hard. Take chances. Can’t hurt.

 

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It pays to get up early!