The Days of Day

I am not made of glass.  I am made of guts and bones and lots of I-Dare-You-To.  I am made of spark and fire, of inner structures that bend and groan, but rarely shatter.  I am made of tender oases of welcoming kindness and verdant pastures of Leave-Me-Alone.   I am not made of glass.   Today these are the words that I write after a day of feeling bitterness toward another adult who bullied and pushed, who took care of business at my expense.  I spent a good deal of last night and another good gobble of today announcing my injury and licking my exposed cuts.   Then, I went to the bookstore, read books, and drank hot chocolate. I opened books by Wayne Dyer that reminded me that I am NOT my reputation.  I opened books by other artists and remembered that being me is not contingent on being well-received.  I came home and never answered the ringing phone.  I worked on my altered book, painted an old doll I found, and played with papier ...

I saw this poster advertising a Joan Crawford movie and thought, "I bet when this "Romance -- Tragedy and Jazz -- Mad Youth" movie was made it was absolutely SCANDALOUS!  The title alone brings to mind families sitting around formica-topped tables eating meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and canned green beans.  The father is sitting with his elbows on the table, completely unaware that his family already thinks he holds enough ground without the added rudeness.  The wife daintily wipes her mouth with her napkin, nodding to help punctuate her husband's edict, "No one in my house will see a movie about dancing daughters!" What he doesn't know is that just that very day the mother had driven two towns over to watch the movie with her very best friend, the one who in a week will be packing her car and her children and moving to San Francisco in search of a life far away from a husband whose edicts are accompanied by a growl and a flexing of muscle.  They went ...

 On the days when my pile of papers to grade and cards to write and parties to plan is small, the idea of living my life as though I only had 37 days left seems easy and joyful, a pleasure to be savored.  But today I struggle with the idea of CONSEQUENCES... Today what I'd do is drive down to Prince William National Forest with my family and dog and go for a hike.  We'd sit by a creek and listen to running water.  We'd lay in the sand with our arms over our eyes and hear no traffic.  But, the park is an hour away, the hike takes at least two hours, and who wants to go with a ringing bell looming on the horizon anyway?   Today is, instead, about doing things I already signed up to do, things I've committed myself to, expectations that need fulfilling if I'd like to have a job next year.  Today is about papers that need grading, parents that need calling, notebooks that need organizing, kindergarten homework that needs doing (with a smile).   The...

Tomorrow is my 39th birthday.  I have always loved my birthdays... always wanted to go up to complete strangers and announce how old I am that day.  I tell people days in advance that the day is coming so no one misses the opportunity to be a part of my walking party on October 15.  In fact, just now I made a birthday cake to take to school because that's what you're supposed to do, right? I've always loved to make announcements, birthday related and otherwise.  One day a few weeks ago I found a slip of paper that I'd written on when I was in the third grade.  It said, "Today felt like it was a special day, but it was not."  I remember the exact moment I wrote those words.  I was trying to communicate that I felt like there was a happy announcement coming and that it had something to do with me... that I was as happy as if I had a birthday party to go to.  And even now, I feel like that sometimes.  I must feel so happy because of some awesome...