Musings From a Idle Educator

Due to Hurricane Isaac that blew through here a week ago, my school has been "on vacation" for a full week and going into its second. Most would welcome a break such as this, but, for me, it's been tedious to say the least. We spent the better part of the week without power in the New Orleans late-August heat, and when we finally did get it back on, spent the latter part of that time trying to clean the mess we discovered we had made. Still, though, it was a time for me to stop for a little while and be still. (I had no choice.) Truth be told, I came to enjoy no power. The windows were open and, though it was humid as could be, there was something in that which brought me back to childhood and warm breezes blowing in my bedroom window, as the scent of peonies drifted in and lulled me to sleep. There were no peonies, but the hint of something simpler was indeed. I couldn't help but imagine what it must have been like for people in this area before the days of air conditioning and tvs and computers. Stripped of all that, what was left to do? And I relished it. The time also gave me time to reflect on life lately. We still have no church that we are attending, but slowly we are beginning to heal, though I doubt we will ever look at "church" the same way. I did realize, though, that the things that connected me most to my lovely Jesus had gotten buried under a layer of busyness and being "plugged in." When was the last time that I simply sat down to write and let my imagination create a tapestry of word meanderings? When was the last time I slowed down enough to let my thoughts carry me away into a world of talking trees and dancing grasses? When was the last time I prayed? "Uh oh" was pretty much all that came to mind. So here I am, taking a few minutes before I have to go in to another school in order to have a meeting to find out what the plan is for the week and getting our school year back after this Isaac train wreck. I've got my Civil Wars album on (always conjures up something fun in the back of my mind). I've got a view of the empty lot across the street, which is about as close to nature as I'm going to get any where near our house. And I've got legitimate mosquito bites that create an annoyance every 5 seconds, but are evidence that I have actually spent time outside in the recent past. And still, I have trouble developing a though. I have determined that I am several creative types, without the skills developed to actually call myself any of those things. I'm a musician, without the time to hone the skills or buddy with which to play. I'm a writer without a developing thought. I'm an artist without a steady hand. I'm a seamstress who can't seem to figure out how to keep the bobbin on the machine. What do you do when everything creative is screaming inside of you and there is no way to release it? Apparently, I give up, only to end up huddled into a ball, crying on my floor. When I grow up, I want to do something well.

The Hauntings of the Trees

I've been sucked into dreams of running through trees, hearing the insects buzz in their melodious choruses. Dreams that have haunted me in the day time, stirring a desire for these specters to become reality. My stomach pulls itself into knots, as if it, too, is demanding to be pulled back into the dreams that have caused me to resent falling asleep, only because when I wake, I awaken to where I really am.
It could be that I've given myself time to delve into my imagination through fiction books again. Or that it's Spring. It could be the smell of my laundry after it's been on the clothesline. Or the feeling of dirt under my fingernails and the smell of mud after the rain. It might even been the mountain air songs that have been dancing around in my head, lullabies that haven't taken a true form yet, but offer their silvery harmonies.
I've even become obsessed with words again.

I ache for these things that are out of my reach. Things that distance has taken me from, or ability and talent. In any situation, the things that I ache for are currently not in my grasp and keep elusively skipping away from me.

I feel constantly claustrophobic in the city. The air stifling and musty, receiving my only relief when I enter into the closed darkness of our cool, airconditioned home. And even then, I know that I am sacrificing the true remedy--the fresh air and cool breezes found only away from the black topped roads and sunnily painted houses, as if they are compensating for something, blackness lurking in their hallways.

I bounce between loving this place and despising it. Loving it, only because it is where I am and where I am to be. Hating it because it pulls me away from where I feel I am made to be. Hating it because I can't ever seem to fully love it, so what is the alternative? I am not a creature of luke-warm attachments.