I wrote something there, but it just wasn't what I should have been writing. It's what I've written before. What I should have been writing is this:

I like kittens and apple pie. I need a beer and I need to stop worrying about what happens tomorrow. I'm not back in my groove yet, but I'll get there after a couple of days. In 3 more weeks I'll be back in Colorado, and in 6 more months I'll be free. So self-pity and loneliness are not allowed here. Only kittens, apple pie, and beer.

My First Pie

Walking on the beach with your best friend

can help with a lot of things.

It gives you perspective on joy and pain. You know you have had them both, and you know they will both come again, but you also know they will pass. And you also know your friend will be there for both those things.

The repetitive motion of the waves and of one foot following the other stops the mind from spiraling out of control. Every time a wave comes in it seems to whisper, "Stop thinking. Everything is okay. The world will keep on going and the waves will keep on coming. Don't believe me? Here comes another one..."

Most importantly, it gives you hope. Hope that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that the bad things will end and good things will begin. It gives you hope to start planning and looking to the future again. Enough to pull you up from where you've been, and hopefully enough to keep you going.

A Seaside Thanksgiving

When you have to take yourself out on a date first,

why even bother?

There are some things that you look forward to, but you know deep down that the reality of the experience is never going to be as good as what you are building it up to be.

This is not one of those things.

There are certain parts of my leg that I still cannot feel. I haven't told anyone yet because these places are small and they do not seem to limit my ability or my motion. Plus I think I am holding out hope that someday soon my senses will wake up. For now, it's easy to ignore these small places and pretend like everything is normal again. But the truth is that about once a week I lay in bed, take out a pen or paper clip and start stabbing myself in hopes of eliciting some sort of sensory recognition. My hand recognizes that it has hit something and cannot move anymore, but that is the only reason I know I am being poked or stabbed.

During my post-op recovery, when doctors were always taking bandages off my leg, they would apologize for having to cause me pain by ripping off the tape. I just smiled and told them it was okay, but they had to do it fast. I didn't tell them I wouldn't have been able to feel it no matter how quickly or slowly they pulled.

When I went out on my date last night, he put his hand on one of those places that I cannot feel. Maybe that's why my heart didn't beat quickly at his touch.

I was at work for 16 hours today, from 6:30 am to 10:30 pm. In that time I taught math for 300 minutes, had a parent conference for 60 minutes, made copies of math worksheets for 45 minutes, made copies of girls physicals for 30 minutes, passed out uniforms for 45 minutes, sold tickets to the basketball game for 45 minutes (while I tutored some of my students), kept the book/clock for 2 basketball games that lasted 210 minutes, and then coached my own game, which lasted 90 minutes. During my basketball game I had to play 18 girls, 2 of which I'd never met before. The game went to overtime and we lost by a free throw. The final score? 5-6.

Now I am sitting in my bed drinking beer and eating a loaf of cheese bread, which is the only thing I have had to eat since I had a turkey sandwich about 12 hours ago.

I am feeling a little off-balance. I need a vacation.

I have also found a new child I want to adopt. Sometimes I feel like leaving me in a school is as dangerous as leaving me in an animal shelter; I will always find someone else who needs saving.

Doesn't Take Much

But we are fragile, aren't we? It doesn't take much to rip us up, and it's even worse when it's more than a lot.

I remember once I was standing in the living room and I had broken a piece of my mom's china. I don't know where she got it from, but she put it on the bookshelf for safekeeping and I accidentally nudged it enough that it came falling down. Even though it fell on carpet I guess it was fragile enough to break into several different pieces. And I just remember standing there trying to put all the pieces back together, but I didn't have enough hands to hold them all together. And even if I had more hands it wouldn't have mattered because that china wasn't going to grow back together. I never told my mom and I wonder if she ever noticed it was missing. If she did, she never said anything.

This past year or two has been a lesson in human fragility. At school I see misbehavior in students and I immediately start to wonder what must be happening to them outside of school to make them act like that inside school. It could just be that some kids would be messed up no matter what, but I think a lot of it has to be cause and effect.

In my own life I can see myself trying to hold all the pieces together, just as if they were pieces of broken china. But I don't have enough hands, and I don't know if I can get them to stick back together, anyway. When I look up, though, I see lots of people around me trying to do the exact same thing. Maybe what we all need is an extra set of hands, but everyone's got theirs full already.

Yellow bird flying gets shot in the wing
Good year for hunters and Christmas parties...