gift carded

Some grouse about the impersonality of being given gift cards for any occasion; I?  Think they're genius.  Especially when they are what I call 'generic', i.e.  for Amazon or Visa and I can use them for anything.  I had a nice stash from Christmas, so after I attended to the outer me (grey hair coverage), I decided to have a mini-break in San Antonio, having not been there yet!

As it's only an hour away, it was high time.  I googled 'MLK weekend getaway bargain' and found the most charming hotel!  I would go back, just to stay in this converted factory.  Loved the high ceilings, brick walls and wooden flooring and furniture.

Although being smack downtown/convention section, Riverwalk Vista had so many charming touches--including Fred the fish....more on him in a bit.

Checked in around 3ish and after inspecting the room, hit the streets to visit the Mexican Market.

By happy coincidence, my window looked directly out upon The Torch of Friendship--installed in 2002 as a gift from the Mexican Consolate to represent the American/Mexican history and ties in this city.  

Just another shot of the room--am looking at furniture styles in the hopes that I may have a furnished home again, some day.  Like the style of the chair, but it was hard, narrow and slippery to sit in.

There was a journal in the room and it was delightful to read the past several years' worth of visitors from all over the world.  The sentiments ranged from poignant--such as the entry above--to restaurant recommendations and various anniversary celebrations and road trippers.  It was fun to add my own page as the 49er's are on their way to the Superbowl and I woke to MLK Day AND the Inauguration.   

San Fernando Cathedral in which the remains of the warriors from the Alamo are interred.

And I know it's wrong, but I started humming 'Davy.  DAvvvvvy Crockett, king of the wild frontier'.  Wrong, yes.  So wrong.

Always gain perspective at memorials or grave sites -is what I'm angsting about today, really that important in the universal scheme of things?  Not so much.  Go have an ice cream is generally the wisdom I hear in these sorts of places.

And of course, I had to meander a bit on the famed Riverwalk.  Think perhaps, it is one of those places that is better in the photos.  Yes, it's lovely and there are many places to eat/drink along the water, but I'd rather go to Venice.  At least there, it would be exotic urine I would be stepping in....

Friendly little Teddy hangin' out in the room.

And a rubber ducky in the shower!

Factory ceiling.

There were three journal entries which mentioned the fish and they all called him Fred as well!  Thought this was funny as 'sleeping with the fishes' is not usually something one aspires to.

The Alamo is on the menu tomorrow....

bits of happy

Nice to know it's confirmed after 7 months at this address....

One of my favorite metal stars--while waiting to meet one of my former Moreau student for brunch.

One of the best bits to teaching is becoming part of a student's life--not just for the term or that campus, but if you're lucky--for years and/or a lifetime.  This particular student just got engaged and is flourishing in her career; it was a delight to see things going well for her.    We became so busy chatting that we completely forgot to get someone to take our photo.  I'll see her again in March, as she's part of a huge arts festival in San Antonio and we'll do photos then.

I've set up a competition among my class sections to see who earns the 'Most Respectful' and 'Best Rehearsal'--prizes are fun--especially when there are leftovers and the teacher gets one! Figuring out what to do with my glitter glue, besides write DIVA on my car door...ideas?

Cashed in some holiday gift cards to get my greys covered up.

Headed towards a blonde summer!

psssst

Once during the war
on a bus going to Portsmouth
a navy yard worker
told me the secret of life.

The secret of life, he said,
can never be passed down
one generation to the other.

The secret of life, he said,
is hunger. It makes an open hand.

The secret of life is money.
But only the small coins.

The secret of life, he said,
is love. You become what you lose. 

The secret of life, he said,
is water. The world will end
in flood.

The secret of life, he said,
is circumstance.

If you catch the right bus
at the right time
you will sit next
to the secret teller

who will whisper it
in your ear.

~"Secret of Life" by Diana Der-Hovanessian, from Selected Poems of Diana Der-Hovanessian. © Sheep Meadow Press, 1994.

humour

I remember a college supervisor telling my 19-year-old self that some day my sense of humour would save me.  Pretty sure I just blinked at her, as I had no idea what she meant.

I do now.  Deeply.  And while I'm grateful for the genuine bits of joy that glitter through each day, it's my skewed humour that I relish and which carries me through idiotic committee meetings and allows me to smile politically & politely instead of kicking stupid people's shins.

V. good thing that it's a nice long weekend ahead, full of delights and adventures.

from the rising of the sun

While it must be typed that I loathe mornings, the sunrise this morning was well worth being pseudo awake to admire.

And the sunset was equally lovely. Some say winter trees are stark; that may be true, but they have a simplicity of beauty.

And speaking of beauty....we had tried to visit a cupcake shop during the Christmas break, but it was closed the day we were in Leesburg.  'Phew J finally got his hands on this first cupcake box today!  Love the look of incredulity of holding a magical pastry box.

He's already learning to bargain!  

may you write what needs to be written

I thought last night was an excellent faculty inservice...tonight was one of those nights that inspires one to tears.    We all got workbooks/teacher's guide to accompany the book "Freedom Writers".  There was a marvelous facilitator AND one of the original students from the Woodrow Wilson High School in Long Beach came to speak with us.  

We saw some clips from the actual documentary that will be released this spring (do NOT go and see the Hollywood version of this true story, it's dreadful) and we did all kinds of activities from the teacher's guide and we left--inspired by the original story and from what we learned about our table mate's lives.  

And completely re-inspired to the call to teach.

And yes, I did get an autograph--I collect so few, but this was worth receiving.

Masters & Johnson

(not sure why these people are flipping off the camera.) 

Attended the first session of Spring Inservice for Austin Community College tonight.  Our ice breaker consisted of drawing one part of a famous pair and wandering through the group to find the other name.  Then, we were to discuss what we thought our pairs' particular goal or life-focus was and present it to the group.

Did I draw Cher?  Or Romeo?  Or Orville?  Oh no.  I drew Masters.

Yes.  As in Masters & Johnson.

And to make things more fun, my partner for this exercise was a deaf gentleman.  (is that un-pc to say?)  Between my rusty ASL, from an ancient Pathfinder honor badge (my childhood church's equivalent to Girl Scouts) and this man's ability to read lips, our conversation was fine.

However, I was on my own for the group presentation.  Pretty sure it's going to be a semester or two before I live this down.  Fortunately, teachers are scattered over seven campuses, so other than tomorrow night's session, I hopefully won't see them.

One never know how the day will unfold when that alarm clock rings; and sometimes?  It's in most amusing ways.

impossible things

Saw an incredible film this weekend.  True story of the Alvarez Belón family spending their 2004 holiday in Thailand during the tsunami.

Take tissues; it was nice to be awed by the magnificence of the human spirit.

deets

It really is all in the details.

Indulged in a new set of linens and a new pillow for the new year.  The elastic was so taut on the fitted sheet that it curled my mattress for the first couple of nights.  It was like sleeping in a puce/purple cocoon!

And on a happy whim, bought some dark chocolate cream cheese which transformed my weekend waffles!

longing to be named

Time and Life have been wandering around the brain cells recently.  Between my upcoming milestone reunion, trying to make plans for this semester and the future and yet, more school shootings--the brevity of time has been underscored lately.  This poem showed up from the lovely peeps at The Writer's Almanac; it captures well what I've been trying to articulate this week.

Eventually the future shows up everywhere: 

those burly summers and unslept nights

in deep lines and dark splotches, thinning skin.

Here's the corner store grown to a condo, 

the bike reduced to one spinning wheel, 

the ghost of a dog that used to be, 

her trail no longer trodden, just a dip in the weeds. 

The clear water we drank as thirsty children 

still runs through our veins. 

Stars we saw then we still see now, 

only fewer, dimmer, less often. 

The old tunes play and continue to move us

in spite of our learning, the wraith of romance, 

lost innocence, literature, the death of the poets. 

We continue to speak, if only in whispers, 

to something inside us that longs to be named. 

We name it the past and drag it behind us, 

bag like a lung filled with shadow and song, 

dreams of running, the keys to lost names. 

 "Dark Charms" by Dorianne Laux, from The Book of Men. © Norton, 2011.

bits of happy

Another sparkly bill o' dental health from this week's check-up.

After several (gasp) gloomy and rainy days, the sun has returned to the 'hood.

And it's six working days until a long weekend & 40 working days until Spring Break!  And mere hours until the weekend.

fresh & delectable moments

 

 from Anne Lamott's recent article in Sunset: 

 'I sometimes teach classes on writing, during which I tell my students every single thing I know about the craft and habit. This takes approximately 45 minutes. I begin with my core belief—and the foundation of almost all wisdom traditions—that there is nothing you can buy, achieve, own, or rent that can fill up that hunger inside for a sense of fulfillment and wonder. But the good news is that creative expression, whether that means writing, dancing, bird-watching, or cooking, can give a person almost everything that he or she has been searching for: enlivenment, peace, meaning, and the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty. 

 Then I bring up the bad news: You have to make time to do this. This means you have to grasp that your manic forms of connectivity—cell phone, email, text, Twitter—steal most chances of lasting connection or amazement. That multitasking can argue a wasted life. That a close friendship is worth more than material success. Needless to say, this is very distressing for my writing students. They start to explain that they have two kids at home, or five, a stable of horses or a hive of bees, and 40-hour workweeks. Or, on the other hand, sometimes they are climbing the walls with boredom, own nearly nothing, and are looking for work full-time, which is why they can’t make time now to pursue their hearts’ desires. They often add that as soon as they retire, or their last child moves out, or they move to the country, or to the city, or sell the horses, they will. They are absolutely sincere, and they are delusional.

(I'd like to find one of these trillion $ coins on the ground.)

I often remember the story from India of a beggar who sat outside a temple, begging for just enough every day to keep body and soul alive, until the temple elders convinced him to move across the street and sit under a tree. Years of begging and bare subsistence followed until he died. The temple elders decided to bury him beneath his cherished tree, where, after shoveling away a couple of feet of earth, they found a stash of gold coins that he had unknowingly sat on, all those hand-to-mouth years. You already have the gold coins beneath you, of presence, creativity, intimacy, time for wonder, and nature, and life. Oh, yeah, you say? And where would those rascally coins be?

This is what I say: First of all, no one needs to watch the news every night, unless one is married to the anchor. Otherwise, you are mostly going to learn more than you need to know about where the local fires are, and how rainy it has been: so rainy! That is half an hour, a few days a week, I tell my students. You could commit to writing one page a night, which, over a year, is most of a book.If they have to get up early for work and can’t stay up late, I ask them if they are willing NOT to do one thing every day, that otherwise they were going to try and cram into their schedule.They may explain that they have to go to the gym four days a week or they get crazy, to which I reply that that’s fine—no one else really cares if anyone else finally starts to write or volunteers with marine mammals. But how can they not care and let life slip away? Can’t they give up the gym once a week and buy two hours’ worth of fresh, delectable moments? (Here they glance at my butt.)

Can they commit to meeting one close friend for two hours every week, in bookstores, to compare notes? Or at an Audubon sanctuary? Or a winery? They look at me bitterly now—they don’t think I understand. But I do—I know how addictive busyness and mania are. But I ask them whether, if their children grow up to become adults who spend this one precious life in a spin of multitasking, stress, and achievement, and then work out four times a week, will they be pleased that their kids also pursued this kind of whirlwind life? If not, if they want much more for their kids, lives well spent in hard work and savoring all that is lovely, why are they living this manic way? I ask them, is there a eucalyptus grove at the end of their street, or a new exhibit at the art museum? An upcoming minus tide at the beach where the agates and tidepools are, or a great poet coming to the library soon? A pond where you can see so many turtles? A journal to fill?

  

  (Sunday turtles at Lady Bird Lake, January 2013)

 If so, what manic or compulsive hours will they give up in trade for the equivalent time to write, or meander? Time is not free—that’s why it’s so precious and worth fighting for. Will they give me one hour of housecleaning in exchange for the poetry reading? Or wash the car just one time a month, for the turtles? No? I understand. But at 80, will they be proud that they spent their lives keeping their houses cleaner than anyone else in the family did, except for mad Aunt Beth, who had the vapors? Or that they kept their car polished to a high sheen that made the neighbors quiver with jealousy? Or worked their fingers to the bone providing a high quality of life, but maybe accidentally forgot to be deeply and truly present for their kids, and now their grandchildren? I think it’s going to hurt. What fills us is real, sweet, dopey, funny life. I’ve heard it said that every day you need half an hour of quiet time for yourself, or your Self, unless you’re incredibly busy and stressed, in which case you need an hour. I promise you, it is there. Fight tooth and nail to find time, to make it. It is our true wealth, this moment, this hour,  this day.'