December 14, 2008
Getting to school is no easy task.
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.
Posted in colombia, my emotional state 
5 Comments »
December 11, 2008
There is a little girl
who lives among the hills.
She runs and plays beneath the sun
and in the poppy fields.
Her feet are bare and brown.
Her hair is the finest gold.
She talks to the sky and laughs at the rain
and looks for hands to hold.
She dances with the dandelions.
Dew drops are in her eyes.
And when she grows weary late in the day,
her daddy sings her lullabies.
*picture from trudette’s etsy shop.
Posted in writing 3 Comments »
December 10, 2008
I would read books all day long every day if there was someone to keep bringing new titles. Now, if that someone happened to be remarkably good looking and had an inexhaustable supply of diet coke, I might just read my life away.
I did a pretty good job of keeping track of all the books I read during the last school year (36 in all, I think). I admit it. I’m a nerd, but I’m embracing it. It helps to pass the time.
Like the day all the newbies had to get our visas at the Venezualan consulate. We got there at a smothering 5:00 a.m. where we proceeded to wait for 557 hours while we each excreted 362 gallons of sweat. (I never exaggerate. EVER.) But at least I had a book.
Then there was the time that I went to a finca with a family from school and it rained for three solid days. In a house where there was no television, no radio, and zero English conversation. But there was Edward and he was enchanting.
So, what should I read next?
Posted in books 6 Comments »
December 8, 2008
There was a time when I thought a broken heart was the greatest tragedy of all.
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.
Posted in my emotional state, rambling 6 Comments »
December 7, 2008
I love music, especially the live kind. So, when two fifth graders that are in a rock band asked me to come see them play, I couldn’t say no.
The truth is, those kids brought the house down and when they played “Smells Like Teen Spirit” I nearly lost it. They were hysterical and fanflippin’tastic, I tell ya.
When the show was over the drummer and I had a chat about rock n roll. We talked about our favorite U2 albums and Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix. We discussed The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and the fact that in another life I would have married Jim Morrison.
And then I asked him why he wanted to be a rockstar.
“That’s easy,” he said, “I wanna rock out for the lights and the smoke and the women, Mees.”
Posted in colombia, music 5 Comments »
December 3, 2008
“There the rose of joy bloomed immortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweet bells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded. The knowledge of that land’s geography… east o’ the sun and west o’ the moon… is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. It must be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can never deface it or take it away. It is better to possess it, living in a garrett, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it.”
from Anne of Avonlea
Posted in books, quotes 4 Comments »
December 2, 2008
There’s a bakery up the street from where I live that’s called La Suiza. It has shiny metal chairs and good lighting and all of the pastries have fancy swirls of color in their centers. It’s always crowded with people talking about writing and politics and art and I heard a rumor that the owner actually lived in France for a while. That’s why he wears those skinny jeans and talks about art while he sells his swirly centered pastries.
Just around the corner from La Suiza is Suzette’s. I don’t have any idea who Suzette is or where she learned to bake although I’d venture that France had nothing to do with it. The chairs are plastic and squeak when you sit in them and when it rains there are puddles in the floor. It’s a simple sort of place. Nothing extravagant about it at all, but I like it.
I wandered in yesterday afternoon as I often do.
The smell of baking bread danced through the air and I heard the oven ding gently as the waitress with the curly hair rushed to open its doors. She smiled at me as she turned around and then started the rushing again, this time toward my table.
“Buenas, monita. Que quieres, mi amor?” Good afternoon, little blonde. What would you like, my love?
I can’t recall when exactly she and I crossed the imaginary line that divides server from aquaitance and aquaitance from friend, but we must have crossed it at some point and I like the idea of that.
She’s no tie clad server at La Suiza and my bread doesn’t come with a sprig of something unidentified and green carefully placed beside it. The tables are wobbly and the bathrooms don’t always work, but the bread is warm and the juice is fresh and the waitress calls me monita.
And I’ll take that over skinny jeans and color swirled centers any day.
Posted in colombia 9 Comments »
December 1, 2008
When Lyle and I lived in Australia we spent every dime we earned (and there weren’t many dimes) to meet in Sydney on Saturdays. He’d come down from the Blue Mountains and I’d come up from the Royal National Park just so we could hear a familiar accent, so we could see a familiar face.
We’d wander around the Harbour and the city streets or lay in the grass talking about whatever came to mind. Home. Camp. Kids. Books. Music. Ice Cream. It didn’t matter.
Inevitably by afternoon we’d end up in a movie theatre somewhere. I asked Lyle once why we always went to movies and he said, “When it’s dark and you’re eating popcorn and Kit Kat bars it’s easy to pretend you’re at home.”
I went to the theatre in Manizales yesterday. No Lyle. No Sisser. Just some popcorn, a diet coke, and pretending I was home.
Posted in travel 5 Comments »
November 28, 2008
This post was inspired by this guy.
Even if he doesn’t update his blog or leave his real name in the comments.
Y’all should go leave him sweet, encouraging messages.
He’d like that.
Posted in Uncategorized Comments Off on not exactly e.e. cummings gets the credit
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