The truth is, I loved it.  I loved the way scrunching up my cheeks felt when they had too much sun on them and the white color that my eyebrows turned.  I loved the T-shaped tan line across my back, the high ponytail, and the smell of chlorine that stuck to my skin.  I loved the kids that thought we were famous and the ones that spent more time on the side of the pool than in the water.  Most of all, I loved kicking off my worn flip flops at the door of the guard shack and walking barefoot on the deck.

I’d leave those shoes there and stroll around the pool before all the chaos started.  The concrete was warm and heated me from my toes up and I’d close my eyes and breathe it in.  Chlorine and concrete and Coppertone.

Those were the best few moments in my day.

I haven’t been in a red bathing suit since the summer a student told me, “Ew, Miss.  Teachers ain’t s’posed to wear no fwimsuits” but today as I watched a playground full of children at recess in Mississippi, I took off my worn flip flops.  I stood on the sun-baked concrete, closed my eyes, and breathed it in.

Children and concrete and coming home.

I stared in awe at the distance.

The sky was dark and ominous like the shadow of some growling monster ripped from a childhood nightmare  and I’m almost certain that I could see the rain falling in enormous, lethargic drops.  I stood bathed in mountain sunshine as I watched the storm rage in a part of the city that I couldn’t touch.

“I’ve been there,” I thought to myself.

And I have.

I was there naked, freezing, and alone in the downpour- alone at rock bottom- as the rains soaked me through.

I was there trying to convince myself that the rush of water was cleaning me, washing me, giving me a chance to start over without all of the dirt.  But all I felt was cold and beaten and worn as I stood shivering, staring longingly at the sunshine just across the sky and a million miles away.

And that one time I forgot that there was only one of me and that sometimes I get sleepy and moody and irritable and super emotional when I’m not by myself enough.

And I forgot that every so often I feel the need to run into oncoming traffic and wave with both hands as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to do when one is feeling the need to just be alone.

But in the moments between the madness (when I admit to myself that one time is actually now), I see the beautiful brown faces of children that are growing and learning not to roll their r’s when they say the word tomorrow and I smile at the knowledge that I taught them that.

And in the not-so-quiet of evening, I hear the uproar of Spanish swear words from the streets as Bolivia and Colombia battle in the South America futbol qualifier.

Then, I crawl beneath my covers and grin at the life I’ve made in coffee country for awhile and as sleep draws nearer the slightest hint of sadness takes me over.

It seems the end is closer than I ever thought it would be.

or wrote so much

or prayed so much

that all of your words were used up?

Like every word you had was gone.

And all there’s left to do

is be quiet for awhile.

My friends are perpetually late.  All of them, if you can believe it, but especially the Rossettis.  And the truth is, it may very well be my favorite thing about them.

There was a package on my desk this morning – one whose return address was stateside.  I tore it open like an anxious child and laughed out loud at the “Happy Birthday!” card that sat atop a bunch of goodies.  The card played “Brick House” when I opened it and I admit to shamelessly breaking it down in my classroom.

I dug through rice krispie treats, cheeze its, and cereal and I marveled at the way a finger painting by a four year old could rip me wide open.

At last, I picked up the only thing that remained – a compass.  The sting of tears almost overcame me as I watched the needle dance toward North.

North toward home, like Willy said. 

And I realized then as my tears fell like the Manizales rain, that Ben and Lindsay might have missed my birthday by the better part of four months, but their timing has never been more perfect.

After the longest day of my life, I drug a bowl out of the cabinet, poured some cereal for my dinner, and pulled my only box (yes, box) of milk from the fridge.

Then, I gracefully dropped said box of milk onto the floor.

I watched the thick, white liquid gurgle and spill and run like a lactose river across the tile.

And I sat right in the middle of it and cried.

A bus picks the teachers up early every morning and takes us down the mountain, through the valley, up the other side and to the little red schoolhouse.  I generally fire up the ole ipod and zone out for the trip.  Well, zone out while simultaneously trying desperately not to blow chunks.

I’m a multi-tasker and a true Southern belle (that’s why I can say blow chunks with such gentility).

Now, IF I survive the bus ride to school I have to survive the day with fifth graders.  Sounds easy enough, right?  Then you factor in the hormones and the flirting and the note passing and the hair fixing and the punch throwing and easy gets upgraded to hold-on-honey-and-just-try-not-to-hurt-anyone.  Violence isn’t the answer.

So, if by some miracle from our good Lord and Savior I see the end of the day, I get to crawl back onto the vomit wagon and start multi-tasking all over again.  Ah, the simple pleasures in life.

And the pleasures they just keep on a comin’.

See, on Friday, dear friends, it was hot on the bus and it was the kind of humid that wreaks havoc on even the straightest of hair and there were lots of people sitting in a small, cramped space and they were chatting it up like the holidays were already here and the brakes of that precious bus screeched like five hundred feral cats and I happened to have been doing Christmas crafts all day.

I admit it, I considered slaughtering my teddy bear reputation and adding to the chaos.  I was about two seconds from gnashing of teeth and slinging obscenities when I remembered that next Friday I won’t be anywhere near the Andes Mountains.  I’ll be home.

And the rest of the ride didn’t seem all that bad.

Now I know it’s not like that really.  It seems a broken heart is just another one of life’s aches.  An ache that is there within, but that goes unnoticed some days.  It’s a sort of hurt that hides beneath everyday activities and is covered by the glory of a sunrise or the sweeping of a breeze.

And though that isn’t as romantic as books or movies would have it seem, I think I like this version better.  After all, my heart wasn’t broken in the Hollywood sort of fashion.

My highschool love that married his college love isn’t to blame nor the man that came after him.  And I can’t give the credit to a masked stranger in a foreign land or some prince that fled when the clock struck twelve.  It wasn’t like that at all.

My best friend broke my heart instead.

He ripped it to pieces and spread them about in cities and states and countries abroad.  I looked at those shreds of me for a while and I let them dance there in the wind.  I let them fall to the earth and be trampled by strangers and I let the rains and tears soak them through.

For the briefest of moments, or months if you must, I thought I’d lost those bits of me forever, but morning broke as it always does. And in the sweetness of her glow, I started to gather those scattered pieces.  They aren’t the same at all and some are missing still, but they’ve put back together well.

There are scars and scratches to be sure, but the gaping wound is gone.  It’s painted over carefully by the colors of grace and the promise of tomorrows and the shadows and lights make it more beautiful than the original, I like to think.

It seems that a broken heart isn’t the greatest tragedy of all.

Maybe it’s like a keepsake instead.  Something you pick up along the way and cling to for a bit until life takes the novelty away.  Then you move it to some drawer in the depths of you, and though it’s still there, you think of it less often. It rattles once and again and bumps against the walls, but its presence doesn’t overwhelm you like it did at first.

Yes, a broken heart just sits there like a keepsake while the years fade its shine.

We called it a curriculum day in the hopes that we won’t have to extend the year once June rolls around.  (Heaven help me if they do that.  Heaven help THEM, too.  Y’all know I’d be a squalling mess if they tried to delay me seein’ my Momma.)

As part of the curriculum day schedule, we had a workshop on conflict resolution.  We each took surveys and tallied our little score sheets to find out which conflict animal we were. 

There are the foxes who are listening and polite, but always try and lead the way to their point of view.  The owls are optimistic and good listeners who believe that reaching a compromise is probable and possible.  The lions who won’t leave until they’ve won and the turtles who act like they’re listening and nod to make you believe it. 

Then, there are the teddy bears.  For Sisser’s sake, the Fuzzies of the world.  (Y’all have gotta ask her about Fuzzy because I would NEVER tell you that she still sleeps with him and gets furious if you lay him on the floor or cover his head with blankets.)

Now, let me say this before I move on.  I’m a lover not a fighter. 

But if I must fight, I’m doggone tough.  I promise I am.  I can do ten push ups without stopping – the boy kind- and that ain’t easy, folks!  Equipped with that knowledge would you believe that that silly survey had the nerve to tell me that I’m a teddy bear?  I’m a Fuzzy for cryin’ out loud!

Evidently, I avoid conflict at all costs.  I want to make people feel good so I agree with everything that they say.  I apologize for their feelings and don’t force my opinions on them.  I’m all cuddly and warm and my chief concern is that people like me and want to be my friend.

I briefly considered throwing that blasted survey at them and telling those moe-ron workshop leaders that they didn’t know diddley about me or the way that I handle conflict.  I thought about yelling and stomping my feet until they heard me out.  “I’m an owl!  I’m wise and reasonable and I can accept that we may have different opinions and I can make a valid argument!  I CAN!  DO. YOU. PEOPLE. HEAR. ME??! I am NOT a teddy bear!”

But I didn’t do that.

 I just hugged them both and thanked them for such a lovely and insightful presentation and told them to have a blessed day.