Report cards

Another Harvest festival come and gone. It's starting to be one of those things where I don't measure how long I've lived here by events anymore because three/four of each one seems like high enough numbers to count. It's been one of those weeks that I've been buoyed by the spirit of my surrounding city- the giants winning the world series, election day, and a parade commemorating the giants' victory. A dinner party cooked by a good friend whose food I've never tasted and the saying "this group will never be together ever again" said twice. Emotional talks when I've cried and realized that teaching is hard, that I can stare at the screen trying to do report cards but not get any closer to figuring out how to actually fill them out.

But the joys in all of it- meeting the co-founder of 826 Valencia in the copy room last week when I was at my wits' end, taking photos in a photo booth with my favorite four and thirteen-year-olds, taking a yoga class in French, arranging books by color on shelves in a new friends' apartments, writing report cards by candlelight at Mojo on a Friday night. This is what got me through the week.

Bittersweet

One of those words you hear often- it refers to chocolate, Project Runway contestants use it to describe their experiences on the show, and paradoxically, it's two different meanings wrapped up in one word.

Reading Shauna Niequist's newest book, Bittersweet, I realized how much life echoes this sentiment. Things are bitter- nothing will ever always be going the way that we want it to- but things will also be sweet- better than we could have imagined or beyond our wildest dreams. It's the bitter sip of coffee with the hyped rush of caffeine afterwards. I'll have more schoolwork than I can ever complete but that will be the moment when I feel the most creative and into whatever I'm creating at the moment.

It's a matter of expectation, what we think should happen when. It reminds me of Caitlin's and my jaunt to the beach yesterday, a holiday from our lives that lasted a Sunday afternoon. How we talked about writing a children's book together that will actually give the message that life is hard, but how you have to find the things that will make you give you life (a Bittersweet version for kids, if you will). How I need to create in order to feel like me again- the day that I spent going to SCRAP and working on my science fair project and my Ms. Frizzle costume last week (I know Kate, I'm actually 13 years old) was my favorite day of vacation. It was life-giving in the midst of getting everything done that I needed to do. It made me think that I'm in a different season of life now- one that I don't need to be the social coordinator or know what's going on when- that is not going to give me peace. What is will be creating something. That's why I'm applying to an arts and arts education program at Columbia.

And that's why this particular passage from the "love song for fall" chapter in Shauna's book resonates with me.

We create because we were made to create, having been made in the image of God, whose first role was Creator. He was and is a million different things, but in the beginning, he was a creator. That means something for us, I think. We were made to be the things that he is: forgivers, redeemers, second chance-givers, truth-tellers, hope-bringers. And we were certainly, absolutely, made to be creators.

If you were made to create, you won't feel whole and healthy and alive until you do. My husband is a pianist and songwriter, and you can set a timer by his need to play and create. If it's been too long, I can feel it in our house, like something gone bad in the refrigerator or a dead mouse in the walls. He was made to play, to sing, to create with sounds and notes and words, and when he doesn't, he's not himself.

I know there are some artists who create around the clock, who feel art coursing through their very veins, who can go without sleep and food and human interaction for days while they revel in the rich universe of their own minds. But I think those artists are very rare, or maybe that they're fibbing. I think for most of us, it's hard work, fraught with fear and self-consciousness, and that it's much easier to make dinner or mow the lawn or reply to emails...

And we do it (create) because it makes us feel aware and alive and created for a purpose more than almost anything else in our lives. There are a zillion things I don't do well, a thousand things I do just because I'm human and I have to, and when I do them I certainly don't feel any spark of having been created for something very specific and tender. I don't feel anything when I do the dishes or when I drive or when I buy groceries.

But every once in a while, when I write, I feel that feeling of a thousand slender threads coming together, strands of who I've been and who I'm becoming, the long moments at the computer and the tiny bits of courage, the middle of the night prayers and the exact way God made me, not wrong or right, just me. I feel like I'm doing what I came to do, in the biggest sense. That's why I write, because sometimes every once in a while, I feel entirely at home in the universe, a welcome and wonderful feeling. I could cry at that feeling, because it happens so rarely. Doing the hard work of writing makes me feel like I'm paying my rent on a cosmic level, doing the thing that I can do to make the world a little better decorated. Writing wakes me up, lights me on fire, opens my eyes to the things that I can never see and feel when I'm hiding under the covers, cowering and consumed with my own failures and fears...

Get up. Create like you're training for a marathon, methodically, day by day. Learn your tricks, find a friend, leave the dirty dishes in the sink for a while. This is your chance to become what you believe deep in your secret heart you might be. You are an artist, a guide, a prophet. You are a storyteller, a visionary, the Pied Piper himself. Do the work, learn the skills, and make art, because of what the act of creation will create in you.

So, you made it this far. Read Shauna's book, which will further ignite the spark of creativity that you've been hiding dormant. Tell me what your creative work you hope to undertake in the comments section of the blog (within the next week by midnight, 11/8) and I'll consider your entry for a giveaway of the book (signed too!). Hope to hear from you soon!

Neon lights

Yesterday was a day that I'd been waiting for a really long time. One that I knew could overcome me with emotion and faith in God's provision.

I spent the whole day, with an anxious pit in my stomach, allowing my expectations to get the better of me. Arriving at the venue with my friends, a wave of doubt washed over me. Walking down the long runway to the front of the stage by myself, I wondered what am I doing? I'm sitting alone at a concert, 5th row on the end. I was restless at first, in anticipation.

Then, Sufjan came on and his feelings deeply resonated with me. His mounting of the volcano Vesuvius only to realize it was filled with hot lava at the top. The influence of artist Roy Robinson on his work. His fear in being alone and not letting himself be distracted. His interest in things spiritual, his thinking on another wavelength. His profession of the songs as therapy, his desire to dance and move and work things out via sound.

His creativity still occupies most of my headspace a day later. Opening with Seven Swans, I knew that the concert would be one that would profoundly affect me.

I'm still profoundly affected. My head is spinning with song lyrics- such that I don't want to listen to the actual album because it might be different from what's playing in my head.

All I can say is this- I don't want to doubt God's existence or presence in my life again after last night. A God who gives me a song like "To Be Alone With You" to listen to everyday in France 4 years ago, then somehow transports me to another place entirely, where the song still has breadth, meaning, and relevance to my life.

At no other show this tour has Sufjan played that song for an audience. My friend Emily told me ahead of time to lower my expectations, as to what he would and wouldn't play and that most likely it would be his newer stuff. I checked set lists from the tour regularly before the show, holding on to a glimmer of hope.

He came out for an encore, and it was the second song he played, alone on stage with his guitar. He wore a Baltimore Orioles cap- the team I rooted for and went to games to each week growing up. I lost it, tears poured out of my eyes, I still have chills right now thinking about my surprise in that moment.

It was a gift from God, as Caitlin says- a reminder that, "Meg, you are loved." I feel overcome with knowing this truth right now. I want to hold onto it, not letting it go.

It makes me think of my birthday this year, when my friend Matt led that song around the campfire and Robin printed out the lyrics for everyone to sing along. Or how Matt sang that to me one of my first weeks here in the city, scared and alone.

Sufjan's vulnerability and creativity were revolutionary. I think I witnessed history last night. I'm going to write him a letter and tell him how much he's been a part of my spiritual journey as I've climbed the volcano only to find lava at the top.

Connecting to his sentiments makes me want to paint again. And God showed me again today- I mean, ten of my favorite artist's paintings imported from France at the DeYoung museum this morning? He couldn't have been clearer. I've got to work through things through painting, just as Sufjan is doing through music and movement.

God's been showing up in neon lights along the way.

B-rad

I'm reminded of how rad my brother is as I write this post.

Not only because he rescheduled visiting his girlfriend and celebrating her birthday for my visit to Boston, but because he...

Waited for me patiently at TJ Maxx as I tried on an outrageously-Meg faux fur vest and subsequently purchased it

Graciously hosted me as the best of hosts do- making sure I was okay getting to the airport, had pumpkin beer to drink, and got what food I wanted to eat

Hung out with my friends all weekend, enjoying himself

Was tired and had schoolwork to do, but didn't let me know that he did

Quizzed me about Giants players after accusing me that I was a "turncoat" for rooting for them during Saturday's riveting game

Washed dishes by hands after breakfast at my friend Maggie's house

Called me Marge as only brothers and close friends can do

I'm thankful for B-rad, his loving his new city and his dedication to a new field of study.

I made it

Through the marathon week,

The day in which I learned how to fill out report cards, gave a presentation to my classmates, hitched a ride to class and the airport, turned in a paper, took a redeye, apologized to the kids in my class about not dressing up for Halloween. Ms. Frizzle will just have to wait until next year or next week.

I've made it through the first 6 weeks of school. That in itself, is an accomplishment.

Also noteworthy this week- my pledge to step out of self-pity and embrace the life that I've got, to laugh and enjoy when I'm pulled in many directions in the hallway at school by students who love me, to trust that I know the right thing to say and do. Inaugurating the second annual Meg-Mag reunion of 2011 and the first Meg-Brad reunion on Boston's hallowed ground. Seeing urban farming become a reality- in a place where I remember when it used to be an abandoned field. Taking a pilates class and having sore abs for the rest of the week. Sitting in the SFO airport blogging on a Wednesday night. Realizing I won't have all of my ducks in a row before I leave- that the semester's train is soon going to be coming into the station and I am going to feel overwhelmed. Especially when the third grade class that I'm going to be taking over keeps telling me that I don't tell them to highlight their spelling words the right way. But this is the calm before the storm, at least I hope.

A Bad Case of Stripes

I read this book aloud to a class of 2nd graders yesterday... 2nd graders that I had loved on all of last year and now hang off of me like monkeys and I am their tree every time I see them in the hallway. Imagine their surprise when I showed up as their former English teacher masquerading as their French teacher for the afternoon.
Picking up the book standing in front of the rows of the library books on a Friday afternoon and recognizing the author, I figured it would be a good read-aloud to end our day together. It ended up being one of those stories that probably resonated more with me than with the kids. Here I am, 26 years old, trying to teach 7 and 8-year-olds about how not to let what other people think of them affect them. The same lesson that I've been trying to learn myself lately- I want to be respected and affirmed by the teachers at my school, the students in my class, the kids in youth group, my professors, my friends and roommates. It's like Pavlov's theory of conditioned responses- I've become conditioned to responding that way. But in trying so hard to please others, I, like Camilla, am losing a part of myself and blending into whatever the people around me want me to be. Camilla doesn't return to her normal self until she realizes that she likes lima beans and is confident in her decision to eat them, despite getting teased and made fun of. I've got to figure out what my lima beans are.

T4sj

“Cowardice asks the question, 'Is it safe?' Expediency asks the question, 'Is it politic?' But conscience asks the question, 'Is it right?' And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular but because conscience tells one it is right.”

So today I joined other San Francisco, state and nationwide educators in the fight for social justice, a so-called labor of love. My head is spinning- everytime I examine my beliefs, I feel like I went to therapy. It's figuring out me before I get into the classroom. I've been trying to do this for the last four years, maybe even longer. I feel like I'm getting closer, but then, I'll lose momentum and crumble under the pressure. I will wake up one day feeling self-confident, the next deflated.

I have all of these big ideas- I don't know how to take them all on I have so many. My vision for a school is exactly the one that Linda Darling Hammond advocated for in her presentation today, in order for the construction of education, not destruction to begin. I want to have a community and school integrated together, with a school connected to a community center- where people can access health care, take parenting classes, learn how to feed their families, train for careers. But, I keep hearing the keynote speaker in my head, who said that all you can do is think "You can't save the kids you teach- all you can do is join your students in the process in which the kids are saving themselves."

I can't do it all. I'm not superwoman, I want to be, but all I can do is continue to care about what I'm doing and try and help the students who are victims needing healing. I'm one of them too.