April 7, 2008
I left school at 3:30 today for the first time ever in my life, I think. I practically skipped off of the bus and dashed upstairs for my running shoes and some much needed respite from a day of crazy kids. Out the door, past sweet Freddie pleasantly reminding me to “go with care” as always. I’m not sure what possessed me to run in the afternoon, really. A lack of caffeine induced craze, I suppose, but still I smiled at Freddie as I jogged off and assured him that I would be careful.
The sidewalks were crowded and the buses were angry giants battling for right of way. The sky was gray with fog and exhaust and I found myself running faster and faster as if I could run away from it all. But, inevitably it was still there. The bustling city, the noises, the people shouting and not even my heavy breathing could overcome it. And I was reminded of why I like my morning runs so much.
Sarah likes them, too. And I think that they might be growing on Lindsay as well. Thank you, God, for the peace of morning.
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April 3, 2008
There just never seems to be enough of it. I feel stretched and pulled at the seams and like I’ll never accomplish it all. The reports. The paper work. The stack of books on my nightstand. The before I’m thirty list that I started before I was twenty. And then there seems to be too much of it. Too much time between now and when I see my Momma again or when I touch Lexie’s or Kathryn’s growing tummies. Too much time between now and when I enjoy reading the news in Spanish.
Time. It moves on. Leaving memories to fade as it passes and encouraging the making of new ones as we are caught up in its current. Time is clever and deceptive and somewhere beyond my understanding. It’s hours and minutes and days and years and it’s hopes and dreams and finding the place for them all. Time. It can’t be stopped or held or turned back and it can be wasted away before we realize it’s gone. Time. It changes people and hearts and places and styles and time away is changing me.
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April 2, 2008
I’m a teacher and sometimes I loose my cool. It’s not pretty. I admit it and of course, there’s a story coming.
Last year, I’d had one of those days that I mentioned in yesterday’s post. Just no good. I didn’t love on my kids enough and I didn’t set an example. I was grumpy and irritable and my least favorite version of myself. The next day there was a fresh out of the fridge, perfect 12 oz. can of attitude adjustment sitting on my desk with a hand written note.
Dear Miss Witt,
This should help today be better. I think you forgot to drink one yesterday.
Love,
A student who knows your addiction
Okay, the letter didn’t end that way, but it should have.
My name is Emily and I’m addicted to Diet Coke. I know, it’s a sad state of affairs. It really is, but I NEED Diet Coke in my life. I do. At least I think I do or thought I did or hope I’ll thought I did soon. What? Yep, I think I’m giving it up. No, I AM giving it up. I AM. There are five cans of heaven left in my fridge and I’m not buying more. I’m not. I am stronger than Diet Coke. I am. I am. I am. Goodbye, my love.
But maybe you should check in on me this time next week to see how I’m holding up. (Linds is never gonna believe this!)
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April 1, 2008
I love Alexander. He’s helped me through some pretty tough days. Seriously. I read this book to my kids today for about the fifth time this year. We love it and it was one of those days. You know the kind.
At recess, (because I’m internet obsessed and not cool) I checked my email (for the umpteenth time) and my facebook (yep, again) and my friend Catherine’s status said, “Catherine is having a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day.” I’m all about teachable moments, so I showed it to my kids as they filed back in. Juan Miguel asked me deadpan, “Is your friend Barbie?” That’ll fix your day, right?
Extra little tidbit for your reading pleasure: I looked for this book on one of these kind of days when I was living in Australia. And you won’t believe this. In Australia, Alexander doesn’t want to move to Australia. He wants to move to Timbuktu. How funny is that? The grass is always greener, I guess.
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March 27, 2008
Martin (mar-teen) caught me lying on my tummy in our classroom reading center this morning. That little angel saw me when he snuck back into the room for his recess snack.
“Miss, what you are reading?”
“A story about a very special man,” I told him.
“It is beautiful?”
“Yes, Martin. It is beautiful.”
Who has believed our message
and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?
He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,
yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
each of us has turned to his own way;
and the LORD has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.
Isaiah 53:1-6
This video from the Good Friday service at Buckhead Church says it beautifully, too. Yes, it is beautiful. Thanks for sharing, Los.
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March 26, 2008
On Saturday mornings a young man comes into the city to sell his strawberries on the street. I usually stop by after my run and buy 5.000 pesos worth. These are no ordinary strawberries. They’re perfectly ripe, beautiful, and still warm from the morning sun. The man always carefully chooses the ones that are ” las fresas mas bonitas para mi monicita” before he adds them to the bag.
He wasn’t there this week because of the holiday and I admit that I was a bit let down, but yesterday my strawberry man outdid himself. As I walked toward my apartment, the portero (what’s that in English? what is that word in ENGLISH?! Spanish is ruining my little American life! argh!) sorry, the portero, was grinning at me. “Que pasó?” I asked him and he just giggled and handed me a little bag of perfect strawberries. “El hombre regala estas para ti.”
I think this place is growing on me.
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March 26, 2008
Brody offered up a challenge, remember? So, here’s my Tuesday.
I’m not sure how so much wisdom can be wrapped up in a 20 year old kid, but it’s there. Wisdom and truth and a grown up sensibility with a childlike longing for the reckless. He’s a dreamer and an artist and a musician and a poet. He’s terror on skis and easy laughs over ice cream. He’s a Mississippi boy that straddles the Continental Divide and writes down stories from times long past.
But that isn’t even the beginning. Joe reminds me that there’s a reason to dream and that letters should start with “dear” and end with meaningful farewells. He begs me to stand apart and leads by example. He’s a friend to many, a mystery to more and he embodies all things pure. He writes love letters to his Someday and doesn’t stumble on his yesterdays. He’s strong and good and he shares my Hope. He begs me to see Jesus in everyday things and in heartbreaks and to praise Him through it all. He leads me toward the King and reminds me of his promises. And I am thankful for this man that is my family, eternally and here on Earth for a while.
And I love you, dear cousin. So very, very much.
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March 24, 2008
A friend told me once that he knew the only way that I survived winter was dreaming about the summer. He knows me pretty well. I live for summertime, the smell of chlorine and the tightness of my skin after a day in the sun. I love runs on summer mornings and the way sweat comes so much more easily then and the way that tomato sandwiches taste in the heart of July. I love driving up to my parents’ place and seeing Mom’s flowers in bloom and seeing Dad beneath his mowing hat. And I love the way that I measure the length left in the season based on the height of Mamaw’s corn. Boy, does she have a pretty garden. Yeah, I love summer in Mississippi.
There isn’t a definitive summer here in Colombia, but I made my own summer this week. I packed a few necessities in a small backpack and went to Sangueda. It’s down the mountain a bit and warm and the promise of sunshine was one I couldn’t pass up. I layed in thick green grass and bathed in the sunshine. I ate fresh fruit from street vendors brought in from fincas just up the road. I read two books (Cold Tangerines and Into the Wild). I glided through cool water chlorinated to perfection and counted out the easy rhythms of stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. My summer ended in four short days, but the sting of sun is still on my shoulders and the smell of chlorine still lingering in my hair. It was no Mississippi summer, mind you, but maybe, just maybe it was enough to tide me over for a bit.
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March 20, 2008
I keep an envelope that says “mile money” in a super secret place. Every time that I do a long run I pay myself. Bribery, I know, but it works for me. Then, when I run more than 10 miles on my long run, I spend the money on something I’d never spend it on otherwise. And yesterday I got a pedicure and I let a Colombian woman choose the color. Um, wow. Think purple. Really, obscenely, totally not me purple. But I kinda like it.
But the point of this post isn’t my toenails. It’s this. It’s my version of almost famous. Just a guest blogging gig, but like I said in the beginning, it’s some sort of start. This former professor of mine also mentioned my lunch lady post here. His site is good stuff. Check Dr. Mims out.
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March 13, 2008
A little over a year ago I sat in the Lyric Theatre with a little girl that means more to me than I ever expected that she would. I see bits of myself in her and wish that the mistakes I’ve made in this life could be hers as well so that she wouldn’t have to relive them all, but that’s just not possible most of the time.
So, I watch her struggle and my heart breaks for her and I hold her when she cries and I storm into places that she shouldn’t be in and drag her out by her hair and I let her sleep in the bed with me when she’s scared and hurting and we let music heal us in our broken places. We let it fill the empty spots, the ones left gaping by loss and grown up hurts that we neither one understand.
It’s cold and raining today and A Long Way from Tupelo, but I’m not here. I’m in that old theatre in Mississippi, listening to Paul Thorn, tapping my feet to the easy rhythm, throwing my head back at his stories, shouting amens as his family joins in the music, watching my bff’s heart break all over again and mine is breaking, too.
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