I am sitting here in the middle of
my room, clothes strewn
bed unkempt, presents flewn
extra mugs and books and bibles
stacked on desk and heart
in my hands.
From here in my room with my heart in my hands,
I’m not moving.
not today.
waiting for the library to open
I could sit here hungry for hours.
Iced air slipping up wool coat sleeves.
One foot a little sore in my cowboy boots.
No secret cigarettes while people gather in the concrete lobby. [i smell it]
Waiting. I think all a little hungry yet from breakfast.
Ready for some work to be done inside.
Hearts just pumping in neutral until some bit of newness comes. A green light to go in. To seek. To learn. To grasp.
Every minute another set of eyes
Walks in to watch the rest
Waiting.
In hand:
Books on plumbing, teenage novellas, manuals, spiral bound books, backpacks, briefcases, sharp suits, and ratted coats.
We all value the library enough to wait for it to open.
Not for Hard Days
Some days are just hard
so much so that at the end
I just want to write about them.
To write through my fret, the things
that fraught me through the day.
But really, I don’t want to Etch
those words into a page that
I’ll look back and read only
to think, what was I thinking?
I’d rather not write about it.
In the end, in the long run, the haul,
it’s nothing.
Often, I don’t even know why the day was hard.
I once thought I knew these words.
Trust in the Lord, and do good: dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.
Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.
Psalm 37:3-4
Oh, I see, as I open up this passage in the middle of the night before I try to sleep, before I try to fight with the fitfulness that is waiting for dawn. Oh, I see. My attention is thrown firmly upon these words: trust, dwell, land, befriend, delight in the Lord, give, desires. I am fixated.
I once thought I knew these words. Now they seem a strange and awkward seed. What fruit might they bear? I must pull them apart, dissect them, test them. And beyond making hypothesis and predictions, I see that I must give effort to dig these words right out of their book and plant them in my heart again. One tree of understanding is no longer enough, it is time to try for a forest.
And I see. As the days are filled with newness, the earth of my heart changes its composition. My heart takes in the seeds and though they mean the same truth as ever, they grow a new tree of life. One of different shaped leaves, different thickness of bark, different strength of branches.
To myself I say: These woods are growing. The terrain is changing. Where else is there but here to dwell? Each day tend the paths and the seeds and the trees that are full and not yet full. Sing to your heart in joy and the trees of this field will clap their hands. What other desire might there be but this?
Parachute
Play, repeat.
Music Is My Nature
Sometimes I forget, in the business of teacher life, that music really is my home base. I find myself centered after singing, playing, or writing. It could be a performance or even a long rehearsal, but as long as I’m in the music, my self becomes balanced again.
The Cross centers me, likewise communion and reading God’s word. But when there is no room to weep, no wine around, and no Bible in my hands, there is music. It becomes my direct input, built in from the start, from my Creator to my Creator. It’s God saying, “I’ve got this; you’re good to go,” which is often just what I need to hear, feel, know.
120 students depending on my leadership, my open arms, my positivity, my knowledge, my precision, my support, is a real feeling to me. In this, it is easy to feel like I have to be intense and driving hard for excellence 100% of the days. This is stressful. How can I be so on point so often? I certainly can never be perfect. I can’t say all the right things at all the right times. Or plan a world-changing lesson. All I can do is step into the music around me and let everything else, including all my pieces, fall into place.
I am dumfounded that I can forget such a simple truth.
Today, I had a moment of doubt just before picking up my baton. I doubted myself. Could I really conduct this group, completely new to me, through a successful and profitable rehearsal? Would I be enough for them as a leader? I was succumbing to the pressure of my work and even my heart’s desire to be good. And not good in the sense of accomplished in my tasks, but good in the sense of worthy and worthwhile to have in the room. Good in the sense of good-natured and inviting. I took a breath and decided that no matter what the outcome, I was in it for real and for good, for there simply had to be good at the double bar line.
Beat 1 was enough. I clicked into my true nature. Musician, interpreter, believer.
Tarzan Becomes Me
Not once in all my 29 years of femininity did I consider reading Tarzan of the Apes. Jane Austen, Toni Morrison, Sandra Cisneros, and a bit of Jodi Piccoult made their way easily into my reading library. No Tarzan, no Edgar Rice Burroughs. Six weeks ago, that changed. Very slyly, I’d say, Tarzan was perked upon my ears and I found myself wandering the public library hunting for Burrough’s classic tale of ape-man.
It did not take me six weeks to read Tarzan. It did take me 5 weeks and 5 days to crack past chapter one and finally I was off on a two-day romp through wild, untamed jungles, and more impressively the open and pure heart of a man quickly becoming my new favorite hero. Step aside, Knightly, Tarzan is on an incoming.
Let it be known that Tarzan and his apes are gross. There is a lot of eating of raw flesh. There is also a lot of screaming in this book. But it should also be known that there is a great deal of purity and complexity in this book–not to mention a relatable, complete story. As a girl versed in Austen, I couldn’t help but seeing the whole story as one of seeking place, home, self, and love. Yes, it’s also about nature verses nurture, but once you get on board with Burrough’s philosophy that nature takes precedence, all you see are hearts. (Literally and figuratively–the figurative being my obvious preference.)
At this point, I don’t want to say too much about how Tarzan stole my love because I know that some of you dear friends will actually go grab the book on your next trip to the PL. I’m sure there will not be a wait list, like there was for the Tina Fey book. You’ll have good joojoo just walking in the building. And when you come to the part when Tarzan sees Jane and knows without a doubt he was created to protect her, you won’t be surprised at my present state of infatuation.
So for the time being, I’d like to share another exceptional aspect of the book with you. The vocabulary!
I am a sucker for good vocab and this book rivals any other classic on your shelf. Here is a list of some of my favorite words from Edgar Rice Burrough’s Tarzan of the Apes:
devil of capriciousness (devil making crapriciousness even more enjoyable)
paean
conciliate
efficacious
trucculence
palisade
incursion
redoubtable
convalescence
laborious
eventualities (because I like most any word that is a noun, but feels like an adjective)
appraisement (a word so nice, my spell-check thinks I am in error–I am not)
sultry (because that’s my language, anyway)
I stopped taking notes after that. I also found it interesting that the vocabulary lost interest once Professor Porter arrived on the island with Clayton and Jane in tow. It must have been the necessity of dialogue to tone it down a bit. Oh, those civilized brutes, always hashing away at their language. Nevertheless, Burroughs blazed such an excellent vocabularial* trail I am struck with the idea that this book should be placed on regular high school reading lists. (gasp and excluding certain awful representations of certain people groups) Having trouble getting those kids to read Dickens’ dizzying descriptions? Try Tarzan. Same compelling vocab, more action.
Now I will admit that while I was reading, I continually thought of an old Italian friend of mine, Felice. Felice is about the closest thing, I imagine, to Tarzan in real life when it comes to stature and an uncanny ability to sweep you off your feet. All that summer (that one I spent with teaching triplet 3-year-olds English), he would regal us with his imitation of Tarzan. “Io Tarzan,” he would say and the only acceptable response was, “Ho capito!/I understand!” This he would say to me or Fabiola when we did things obviously stupid, like put the wine in the wrong place on the table, or God forbid, take the pasta out of the pot at the wrong time.
I highly doubt Feli ever read the original Tarzan. Then again, that’s the beauty of Tarzan. He’s surprising. Truly, it is his pleasant surprises that become me and that is bit of growth for me.
*denotes a word I made up
While Washing The Dishes
A few days ago, one of my students asked me, “Ms. Robles, do you sing all the time? Like in your car and everything?” (She asked me this because I had just sung the next instructions to the class instead of speaking them.) “Oh, yes. I sing constantly.”
I sing while driving, while showering, while curling my hair, while reading a book, and certainly while cleaning my home. Could there be anything nicer than humming a tune while working? Hearing the melody go by makes the work more pleasant. Feeling the vibration of my voice in my chest makes the experience more rewarding. A song in a work makes a work a piece of art, and we all need art daily.
Since being asked about my singing habits, I’ve noticed that I have acute tendencies. I tend to sing certain sets of songs while doing certain work.
For instance, these are the Top Five songs I find myself singing while washing the dishes:
6. Desperado, by The Eagles–I began this one in rotation after I watched In America because that little girl just melted me. I had to include it even though it makes 6 top 5’s.
5. Oh, the Deep, Deep, Love of Jesus, that classic hymn.
4. Poughkeepsie, a lovely piece by Over the Rhine, which I discovered in college–a definite benefit of befriending my chapel buddy, K.A.
3. Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child, that excellent haunt brought to my heart by Dr.M.H. of the Wheaton faculty.
2. Someone To Watch Over Me, from the creative mind of George Gershwin; this was the first song I ever studied in voice lessons.
1. ‘Till There Was You, which is likely my favorite song from a musical, in this case The Music Man.
I can’t say exactly why these are my dish-washing songs, but they are. They sneak up on me, so that around 7 each night, you can find me with a pot of sudsy water and a languorous melody.
I sing. All the time. Especially while washing the dishes.
Sighing Bread
Stir a pot of berry wine
on stove stoked full and high.
Rise a loaf of breaking bread
so baked full of our sigh.
Humble, come to table
sure of nothing but this: that
when we eat our sighs together
we then dance around our flat.
Oops, Vacation
All of that work I meant to complete this weekend at home–that stack of music to go through and tests to correct–did not get done. I guess I accidentally took a vacation this weekend. I really had high hopes and figured this weekend would be perfect for school work being that I lost my voice Friday and wasn’t supposed to be talking anyway.
Oops, again. I had five lengthy conversations with friends and family this weekend via skype, phone, and face. I read a batch of books to my niece, played keyboard at church despite nearly falling over in exhaustion (post-week-long cold), and went shopping multiple times.
I also took long walks, listened to the Lord of the Rings Soundtrack, read Tarzan, ate at Noodles, and had a meeting with a choreographer. Yep. Sounds like vacation. That school work will get done in the morning I suppose. Good thing I volunteer half days at my own office. (Monday might be a mocha day.)
Naphtalia 