How are you going to spend your last days of summer? Do you have any special plans? These are the considerate questions of those who know that I am a teacher and that school is starting soon.
As it turns out, I do have something going on these final days of vacation. I plan to wrap up the summer with a colon that is as clean as a whistle. Because of family health history, I have had a colonoscopy every three years for the last twelve, and this is the magic year. Perhaps you have heard from those you know who have had this experience that it's not the procedure, it's the preparation. What they mean is this: twenty invasive minutes is minimal compared to the 36 hours one must spend ensuring that the scope will have a clear view of your lower digestive system. Solid food is prohibited, and laxatives and their consequences are the order of the day.
Each time I have had a different attitude. At first, I just wanted to do it right; I followed the directions exactly and continued through the whole experience with wide eyes. The next couple of times, I was full of ideas and all sorts of creative interpretations of "clear liquid diet," but this time I'm simply resigned to a day and a half of mild discomfort. A couple of hours at the hospital tomorrow, and then me and my clean colon will be on our way home to get ready for the first big meeting of the school year on Thursday. Nice.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Ready to Roll
Probably my most common anxiety dream is that I'm at the airport, ready to go on a trip, and I've forgotten my passport at home. I can't count the variations I've had of this nightmare. I'm forever desperately trying to retrieve my passport and meet my party before the plane departs. There are always parking garages, taxis, escalators, and security people that are either helping me or hindering me, and my father is always there, somewhere, waiting for me to get my shit together and make the flight. I always wake up before the final act, so I never know what happens.
Today I got my new passport in the mail. When my old passport expired in January, it was the first time since 1975 that I was without the credentials to leave the country. To be honest, I've only traveled abroad 3-4 times in the last ten years, and all but one of those trips was just across the border to Canada. My life is a lot different now than it was in the days when my family lived overseas and we all had airline passes that allowed us to standby for any open seat on any flight. I do miss the international travel, but on a teacher's salary the cost is prohibitive, and like many people, I get caught up in the details of leaving home-- who will care for my pets, water my plants, teach my students?
Even so, I was uneasy without a valid passport, and flipping through the blank pages of my brand new booklet today I felt optimistic, looking forward to all the trips I might take between now and August 18, 2019. I was also glad to be prepared to go almost anywhere, should I have the need or the desire to do so, assuming I remember to bring the darn thing along.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Ninth Month
The cicadas were screaming tonight as we pedaled the last leg of our bike ride. It was just after sunset, and there was the thinnest claw of a moon in the porcelain berry sky. It reminded me that the lunar month of Ramadan started yesterday, and I thought about how long these end-of-summer days will be for those who fast around here. When we lived in Saudi Arabia, the prevailing culture was Islamic, and so the pace of life there changed to accommodate Ramadan. As with most religious holidays, there are customs and traditions that mark the season, and at its heart, it is meant to be a month of celebration rather than self-deprivation.
Here in the U.S., my sixth grade students who are Muslim are on the cusp when it comes to observing this month of fasting. At their age fasting is not required, but for many of them it is a rite of passage just to attempt to abstain from eating and drinking from daybreak until dusk. Unlike the faithful who live in Islamic countries, these kids try to keep their fast among peers and teachers who may not be aware of, much less understand, their devotion, and so the temptations can be many. On the other hand, I've seen what a positive impact it can have simply to acknowledge Ramadan and encourage any students who are fasting.
Usually, the more significant the situation, the harder it is to be in the minority, and the actions of those in the majority can make all the difference. How we behave as a member of the dominant group is a good measure of any of us.
Here in the U.S., my sixth grade students who are Muslim are on the cusp when it comes to observing this month of fasting. At their age fasting is not required, but for many of them it is a rite of passage just to attempt to abstain from eating and drinking from daybreak until dusk. Unlike the faithful who live in Islamic countries, these kids try to keep their fast among peers and teachers who may not be aware of, much less understand, their devotion, and so the temptations can be many. On the other hand, I've seen what a positive impact it can have simply to acknowledge Ramadan and encourage any students who are fasting.
Usually, the more significant the situation, the harder it is to be in the minority, and the actions of those in the majority can make all the difference. How we behave as a member of the dominant group is a good measure of any of us.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Splat
Today was the first real rainy day of the summer around here, and so we divided our Saturday between killing time and canning tomatoes. Somehow, the National Geographic Channel ended up on continuous loop in the living room, while thirty pounds of tomatoes were being processed in the kitchen. Turns out The Exploding Whale and that bushel of tomatoes were quite the gory duo-- hematically linked by the sanguine puddles they left dripping at the scene.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Preservation
About twelve years ago, I had a little bit of a health scare. It turned out to be nothing, but for a few weeks I had the chance to do some serious thinking about my own mortality. When it was all over with, I didn't go sky diving or change careers or anything, but for a while I was really glad to be healthy.
Today I sat in a doctor's office with someone I love and heard the worst possible news: ...is back ...aggressive ...hospice ...make you comfortable. I was stunned, but not surprised; it had been a four year battle and clearly something was taking its toll on her. She accepted the information with grace and dignity. We asked a few questions and then headed home.
When I opened the rear hatch of the car to put her walker in, she spied the case of empty mason jars in the back. "Are you going to do some canning?" she asked, and for a moment her voice was a little stronger than before. I told her about my plans to put up tomatoes and peaches, but it was hard to look forward with much enthusiasm.
Today I sat in a doctor's office with someone I love and heard the worst possible news: ...is back ...aggressive ...hospice ...make you comfortable. I was stunned, but not surprised; it had been a four year battle and clearly something was taking its toll on her. She accepted the information with grace and dignity. We asked a few questions and then headed home.
When I opened the rear hatch of the car to put her walker in, she spied the case of empty mason jars in the back. "Are you going to do some canning?" she asked, and for a moment her voice was a little stronger than before. I told her about my plans to put up tomatoes and peaches, but it was hard to look forward with much enthusiasm.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Rules of the Road
The other day I came across an op/ed article about whether or not we should try to globalize traffic rules, particularly which side of the road we drive on. I read the piece with mild interest; the author did a quick, but fascinating, historical overview of why some nations chose to drive either on the right or the left, and he also ran down the details of some tragic accidents that occurred as the result of tourists driving on the wrong side of the road.
I remember years ago renting a car in England. The agent at the counter handed over the keys to this Yank with only the slightest of hesitation. "Mind the round abouts, and don't curb the tires," were her sensible parting words to me. I found that driving on the opposite side of the road than the one I was used to was not really that difficult. It was like looking at one of those optical illusion posters where there are two images: there was a switch in my brain, and once I saw the other perspective, I couldn't not see it. I was amazed by how easy it was; I drove all the way from London to Stonehenge and back, and I only curbed the tires twice.
That rental agent was right about another thing, too-- going to the left on the traffic circles was really hard. In navigating them, I found that it never hurts to consciously check to see that we are going the right way, keeping in mind that it's all about context and perspective. Of course there's a larger lesson here: when confronted with predicaments, that switch in my brain doesn't always work the way I want it to, and it's always sound to mind the roundabouts.
I remember years ago renting a car in England. The agent at the counter handed over the keys to this Yank with only the slightest of hesitation. "Mind the round abouts, and don't curb the tires," were her sensible parting words to me. I found that driving on the opposite side of the road than the one I was used to was not really that difficult. It was like looking at one of those optical illusion posters where there are two images: there was a switch in my brain, and once I saw the other perspective, I couldn't not see it. I was amazed by how easy it was; I drove all the way from London to Stonehenge and back, and I only curbed the tires twice.
That rental agent was right about another thing, too-- going to the left on the traffic circles was really hard. In navigating them, I found that it never hurts to consciously check to see that we are going the right way, keeping in mind that it's all about context and perspective. Of course there's a larger lesson here: when confronted with predicaments, that switch in my brain doesn't always work the way I want it to, and it's always sound to mind the roundabouts.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
ETA
There's a park called Gravelly Point on the Potomac River at the north end of the airport where, depending on the wind direction, you can watch the planes either take off or land. It's probably no farther than a hundred yards from the boundary fence to the end of the runway, so the planes are really close. The Mount Vernon Bike Trail, which runs 18 miles from Roosevelt Island to, you guessed it, Mount Vernon, goes through Gravelly Point, too, and for us, that's probably the easiest way to get there.
When the wind is from the south, which it usually is in the summer, the planes fly down the river and over your head as you stand there, and you never have to wait very long to see a lot of planes. From far away, they seem to be going so slowly, almost floating, until all of a sudden that whine becomes a deafening roar, and a hundred thousand pounds or more of shiny curved aluminum and rivets are impossibly suspended just a hundred a feet above you, and then they speed past, touch down with a slight skid and a little puff of smoke, reverse their engines, and slow down. Meanwhile, you can hear the air whistle and eddy above you, still spinning from the turbines. There's only the one runway, so they have to turn off right away, either because another plane is approaching or one is waiting to take off. Sometimes you can spot the next incoming flight while the next outgoing plane is still taxiing, and it seems like there couldn't possibly be enough time between them, but there always is.
When I watch the planes, I never imagine myself either coming or going, nor, as close as they are, do I ever see the people in them. Even so, had I nothing else to do, I could stand astride my bike and watch them land for hours, turning my head from north to south, following one after another, a witness to each as it safely reaches its final destination.
When the wind is from the south, which it usually is in the summer, the planes fly down the river and over your head as you stand there, and you never have to wait very long to see a lot of planes. From far away, they seem to be going so slowly, almost floating, until all of a sudden that whine becomes a deafening roar, and a hundred thousand pounds or more of shiny curved aluminum and rivets are impossibly suspended just a hundred a feet above you, and then they speed past, touch down with a slight skid and a little puff of smoke, reverse their engines, and slow down. Meanwhile, you can hear the air whistle and eddy above you, still spinning from the turbines. There's only the one runway, so they have to turn off right away, either because another plane is approaching or one is waiting to take off. Sometimes you can spot the next incoming flight while the next outgoing plane is still taxiing, and it seems like there couldn't possibly be enough time between them, but there always is.
When I watch the planes, I never imagine myself either coming or going, nor, as close as they are, do I ever see the people in them. Even so, had I nothing else to do, I could stand astride my bike and watch them land for hours, turning my head from north to south, following one after another, a witness to each as it safely reaches its final destination.
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