Leaning Forward Into the New Year

Posted on January 2, 2013 by Jennifer Wolfe

I woke early the first day. Perhaps it was the thunderous thump that shook the walls of the snow covered house; convinced a bear had hurtled through the downstairs window, I sprang up and searched the house for disturbance. Finding none, I instinctively checked on my son; although 13, I still follow my maternal tug for ensuring he’s still breathing.

Uncovered and in 55 degrees, he must have thrown himself against the wall searching for warmth. I kissed his forehead, pulled the flannel-encased down comforter back over his long body, and quietly closed the door.

The downstairs was dark and quiet, the glow of the porch light hitting the snow providing the only illumination. Quietly, I began to greet the new year with candle and coffee, journal and thoughts.

It wasn’t enough. I”m approaching the fifth day of being stuck on the couch, felled with the teacher’s curse of sickness on vacation. Self-pity set in. Frustration. Disappointment. Lonliness. Blame. Pessimism. Despair.

This is not the way to spend New Year’s morning. Yet, I just couldn’t feel it-the optimism I knew everyone else was waking up with..

Mired in my thoughts, I glanced out the window for direction. The sun, beginning to glow through the trees, tempted me. I should walk to the lake, but it’s 5 degrees outside. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next weekend. There’s always another sunrise.

Turning to Facebook, I stumbled on Susan Tweit’s essay, Learning Forgiveness, and this quote about her dog, Isis:

“ Still, Isis was simply happy: to be in the world, to take walks and eat three meals a day, to snooze on her cozy bed. Her friendly good nature was so obvious that her beauty, not the scars she would carry for life, was the first thing people noticed when they met her.”

I need to be the person my dog thinks I am. I need to walk out the door.

Tahoe Park Blvd.

My snow boots crunched on the icy road as I cautiously made my way down to the lake. Simple tributes to children’s joy caught my eye, and reminded me of my own son, who had spent the dusk hours of New Years Eve tumbling around in the snow alone, creating his own happiness.

Commando Cam

I knew what I would see: the sun was up, the sky blue. I’d already missed the dawn, I chided myself. I’ve greeted nearly 27 new years here. The snow still kept the gate ajar. The path still offered entrance, although showed signs of many travelers in the last few days.

But I was wrong. As I crossed the slight knoll, the lake appeared unlike I’ve ever seen it-at first, I thought I was dreaming. The mist swirled over the buoys like a magical cauldron the waves lapped rhythmically, despite not a breath of wind. And it was silent.

To experience this with me, watch the video:

I was alone, but what beauty, what strength, what power was before me. No one else was witness to this spectacle, only me, only because I walked through the door.

I let go. Fresh energy pumped through me. I can start anew. Today. I leaned forward, let go of the past, and forgave myself in the image of the rising sun.

And it felt glorious.

Tahoe Park on Dwellable

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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A New Year, Another Voice

Posted on January 1, 2013 by Jennifer Wolfe

Sunrise over Alpine Meadows, California

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.”

-T.S. Eliot

Happy New Year!

I dream of a year full of peace, kindness, and joy with those you love.

Looking forward to sharing our voices together in 2013,

Jennifer

Jennifer Wolfe

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Always in Season

Posted on December 31, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

I always have a bit of a holiday let down. December is a big month for me: the start of ski season, my birthday, and of course, Christmas. Add in teaching junior high during this month full of expectation, and by the time Dec. 31 rolls around, I’m done.

In other words, I’m not a big New Year’s Eve fan.

I think the last time I actually went to a big New Year’s Eve party was in 1995 when I was pregnant with my first child.

I remember the millenium, taking down the Christmas decorations while the news blasted from my 9-inch black and white tv. I remember it well. Then, I had a three-year-old daughter AND a three-month old son. Fun times.

Needless to say, this New Year’s Eve I don’t anticipate much action, other than dinner with my now thirteen-year-old son, some quiet reflection time, maybe a cold beer, and, of course, some writing.

What I’ve also learned this year is that if I flip the holidays around, they don’t have to bring me down. In fact, I’ve learned that a few things about the holidays never go out of season, they instead are cultivated all year long:

Holiday Spirit

This year we simplified the holidays. We cut back to the most important and meaningful traditions, and enjoyed the spirit behind the season. My daughter noted that there wasn’t a day when we didn’t have holiday music playing in the background. We didn’t miss a chance to sing along with “Feliz Navidad” or Taylor Swift’s “Sounds of the Season”. I learned that holiday spirit alive doesn’t mean leaving up the Christmas tree until spring; rather, embracing the simple, the fun, and the merry all year long is the route to happiness.

Getting Back to Roots

As a parent, I feel obligated to put my children first. Always. The holiday season cements these feelings – isn’t Christmas ‘for the kids’ anyways? No, I don’t consider myself a martyr, but rather, I see parenting as a huge commitment. And in order to do it ‘right’, I need to take it seriously. However, in 2012, I realized that I can take myself seriously, too. I’ve wanted to write professionally since I can remember. I studied English during college, and once I graduated, my writing stayed hidden inside journals. This year I learned that getting back to my roots meant taking a chance and being vulnerable. Last year, writing brought passion back to my life, along with courage, happiness, sadness, and stories, too.

Generosity

This year I adored watching my children plan and purchase their gifts for others. With the innocence of children, they worked hard to find just the right gift for just the right person. Listening to them exclaim that they ‘cannot wait for me to open it’ made my heart beam. And despite all the tragedy of Sandy Hook, we learned that we can pay it forward. As my son and I participated in #26Acts, he declared it ‘awesome-just like a treasure hunt’ except in reverse. We didn’t finish all 26 by Christmas, but that’s more than ok; as we give freely in 2013, we hope others will be inspired to freely give.

Good Friends

I actually didn’t attend one holiday party this year. I prefer to keep it quiet, keep it simple, and keep it at home. So much of our lives is spent out in public that for me, the holiday season is a perfect time to spend with family. That’s not to say that good friends aren’t part of our equation, but simply, in a different, more personal way. I still send Christmas cards, and rejoice with each envelope that comes through our mailbox. In 2012 my list of friends grew in ways I could never have predicted; I met teachers from all over the country, new friends in Indonesia, and grew to know writers online from around the world. Good friends aren’t just honored during the holidays, they are nurtured all year long.

So I wish you all a happy and healthy 2013, the comfort of family and friends, and the courage to do what you never thought you could.

I’ll drink to that!

Jennifer Wolfe

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Spending Time in the Snow: Making Memories On the Way to Mammoth

Posted on December 30, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

I spend huge amounts of time in the snow. I mean HUGE. More than normal people; well, people who don’t actually LIVE in the snow.

Last weekend, my trip to the snow started like this: left work at lunch, loaded the car, started up some Taylor Swift on the iPod, and drove off in the early afternoon.

Lily Starbucks

Everything started off really well. Driving up the hill, leaving the valley fog behind, we were making progress. Only five hours to Mammoth-no problem before dark.

We even had time to pull off the road and load up on caffeine – it was BOGO Christmas drinks, after all!

This is what a trip to the snow should look like, right?

As we drove uphill, things went downhill. Fast.

Momentarily switching on the radio, we heard the news about Newtown. Tears. Shock. Horror.

Then it started to rain. Not good. The Prius is a lot of things, but it is definitely not a snow car.

We checked the weather channel app – if we hurried, we’d make it over the pass and into Nevada. It would be smooth sailing after that.

Looks pretty, right? It was. Lily quickly grabbed the camera while Taylor boomed through the speakers. So cheery. A white Christmas?

Not so fast. Chains ahead.

Highway 50 isn’t called the ‘loneliest highway in the US’ for nothing. There were NO services, so I had to suck it up and bundle up. My daughter was watching. There was no one else who could do it.

Don’t be fooled by the smile on my face. It was all for the camera. Inside, I was starting to panic. Prius in the snow is not my favorite mode of travel.

My spirits were elevated when the CalTrans chain inspectors, amazed that I did it all by myself, fist-bumped me and sent me over the pass. It was only 12 miles-we could do it. It was only 4:00, and with a three-hour drive in front of us, I wasn’t too worried.

Forgoing our usual shortcut, we opted for the pass over into the Nevada desert. I ditched the chains – again, all by myself, and as snow turned to rain, I thought we were clear.

Damn Weather Channel app.

What looked clear actually became snow. Lots and lots of snow. But it was flat, and as we passed through Bridgeport behind schedule, I felt nervous but confident we could make it.

Compared to 50, Highway 395 is desolate. Flat and decorated with gorgeous rock formations and rivers, I usually enjoy the drive. But at this point it was getting dark, I was tired, and there was snow hovering way too close to the six-inch clearance of the Prius.

Suddenly, we saw it: the one and only traffic alert sign, pronouncing our need for chains. Now.

And like a beacon in the night, the Big Sky Motel appeared, equipped with a large floodlight. It was the only light on the road besides mine, so I quickly pulled into the parking lot and prepared myself.

Like a scene from Psycho, the motel door opened and a grizzled, shaggy man sauntered out in his sweatpants, with an equally scraggly dog following behind him.

“Want a room? Only $69,” he croaked. I smelled something – he must have been enjoying himself in the motel lobby.

Although I desperately wanted to say yes, I declined, but when he offered to help with the chains I jumped on it.

Ten minutes later, we were off. Until the chains broke. In the dark.

At this point, I felt like Wonder Woman. Faster than she could spin into her costume, I jumped out and pulled those suckers off. I was muddy, exhausted, and determined to make it before dawn.

We did.

This is the next morning, enjoying coffee in our favorite funky coffee joint, Stellar Brew.

And this view…what a reward.

She didn’t even mind spending the afternoon in the motel room, studying for finals.

And despite the struggle, the frustrations, and the hours and hours of driving – not to mention the ski race that was canceled, we ended up with a white Christmas after all. And a whole bunch of memories, too.

Mammoth Lakes on Dwellable

Jennifer Wolfe

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Eulogy For The Children of Newtown

Posted on December 21, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

Mono Lake, considered one of the loneliest places on Earth.

I cannot imagine writing a eulogy for my child.

When I hesitantly turned on the news yesterday, that is what assaulted me: a mother’s last words to the six-year-old son she was leaving.

As the images of his life flashed on the screen, I quickly left the room. I would share her grief, her sorrow her tears. But I cannot imagine doing what she had to do.

The community of motherhood grieves in solidarity after the Newtown school shootings. Not one of us who has held our child, nursed them through illness, consoled them through sadness, beamed with them through happiness, or cradled them with love, can help but share the pain, the agony, and the devastation that twenty mothers in Connecticut are crawling through every day for the rest of their lives.

And we feel the guilt, too.

Each time my thirteen-year-old son hugs me, I feel it.

When my sixteen-year-old daughter kisses me goodnight, I feel it.

When I crack open their bedroom doors in the darkness, just to see if they’re breathing, I feel it.

My dear friend, writer Dawn Wink, expressed it this way on her blog, Dewdrops:

“ I immediately envisioned the intricate lace of a spider web, glistening with dew in the morning sun. I thought of the strength and tension of these gossamer strands and how the slightest movement or touch anywhere on the web sends waves of vibration through its entirety. How very like life. The web of each of our lives, interwoven and connected. I think of the web of my own life and relationships – of how often I have felt the vibrations of each movement on each strand. Whether they are vibrations of joy or pain, they affect the whole, ultimately collecting a lifetime of experiences.”

I will feel it on Christmas morning, on the last day of high school and the first day they go to college. I will feel it on their birthdays, on Halloween, and when they walk down the aisle. I will feel it when they win a race and lose a friend, when they sing along to the radio and when we savor a sweet chocolate chip cookie made together with love.

I will feel it because it didn’t just happen to them – it happened to all of us.

The fear of watching my children walk away is constant; there is never a time when they leave me that I don’t worry. Irrational? Maybe. But in today’s world, in my mind, it only takes an instant. There is no longer protection in the ‘it won’t happen to me’ world; there is simply randomness, the unexplainable, the irrational. It could happen to me. I’m not that special.

There’s a reason I’m called mamawolfe.

Protecting and nurturing my children flows through me with uncontrollable strength. It fills my days as a teacher and my nights as a mother, consuming any sense of relaxation into dedicating my life to make it better. Irrational? Maybe.

I have a clear understanding of the need to let my babies go, to trust they will come back. I clearly comprehend the need to stand next to them as they make their mistakes, take their chances, and find their dreams.

I whisper daily prayers to the darkness, hoping the universe is listening. I ask for protection, for comfort, for the universe to fold over our children and take them in. I breathe a ‘thank you’ as my words are answered, and take my gratitude for everyday life with me.

I have had eleven more years of gratitude than many of the mothers in our web. I get another day, another Christmas, another morning.

I feel the vibrations, their howls of anguish. I know the wetness of their tears and the firmness of the arms around us, holding on for fear of crumpling into the wet earth. I see the pain, the sorrow, and the fear.

I just cannot imagine writing it.

Jennifer Wolfe

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