Posted on December 18, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe
The week before winter break is never easy for a middle school teacher. The combination of high energy and anticipation levels of the students juxtaposed with the need to finish units, projects and assessments makes for an exhausting experience. Add to that the needs of my own children at home, the cards, gifts and holiday cheer and I am not sure if I am coming or going.
Late last night as Leno wrapped up his monologue, I catch myself in an unsettling space between gearing up and winding down. A kaleidoscope of ‘to-dos’ spins through my mind. Fortunately, sleep kicks in, and eight short hours later, I have a flash of clarity.
After driving through the mountains in the predawn hours, my son and I pass Donner Lake, and in that moment, as the water and sky met and steam hissed from its surface, I quickly stop the car. My brain pauses and we drink in the tranquility of the water before us. Silently I breathe deeply, wait, and shift back into gear with a new sense of calm.
Try it. Breathe. Pause. Wait. Shift.
Posted on November 17, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe
His laugh, low and husky, always makes me smile. Not a man to rush, he enjoys the moments of his life, no matter how big or small. ‘Things have a way of working themselves out,” he always tells me.
For a little northern California girl, Los Angeles is a city of magic. PSA shuttles me to Burbank during the summer, never disappointing my expectations. The burgundy Buick feels slow and safe, just what a small granddaughter needs to feel welcomed in the big city. The short drive to Sherman Oaks holds the anticipation of Christmas morning at the end of the road. Down one endless avenue to the next, right up to the little yellow house. His strong hand reaches for mine across the beige upholstery.
The radio in the front bedroom quietly broadcasts the latest news as Nanook the Husky softly nuzzles my welcome. Push up pops appear from the freezer. The bullfighter still graces the bedroom wall. Joan of Arc gazes from her perch. The bean bag offers a nest to sink into.
He slows down with time, his feet shuffling down the street and heavy on the pedal. My turn to drive now. Eyeglasses no longer slip from their case tucked into his breast pocket. My turn to read aloud the news. Clarence Thomas on the front page evokes his sense of morality, long honed through years in the legal profession. His hands strong, skin thin, grasp mine gently across the kitchen table. I settle into the moss green upholstery, trying to plant myself in the moments I know are few to come. The clock talks to him now, announcing the loss of minutes left to spend together. “Go, Abuela, I’ll stay here,” I urge, clamoring for another precious moment.
Later that night, strains of ‘Gone With The Wind’ float through the apartment. The phone rings in the dark. ‘Please come,’ the voice pleads. ‘He’s gone.’
We arrive in the darkness. More stoic unsettled, she draws the long silver Cartagena scissors to tenderly snip a lock of his hair. So still. The tears flow silently, slowly.
His hands clasp in tranquility. I slump to his side, tenderly kiss his cheek. No rush now. He has enjoyed the moments of his life. I savor this last one we spend together. Somehow, I know things have a way of working themselves out.
Posted on September 7, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe
There she goes again. That chatter. That voice in my head that directs me like a traffic cop. That sound of my non-existent older sister or nagging mother-in-law that won’t stop offering advice about what to do, how to act, where to be, and when to sleep. She just won’t shut up. From the moment I rise to the moment I rest she is there, nestling on my shoulder, whispering in my ear. Do. More. Better.
And yes, she is a figment of my imagination. I’m not experiencing any psychological disorder or seeing things that aren’t real. But she feels real, and she makes me feel things I don’t always want to think about. Or shouldn’t really think about. She’s my monkey mind, and she just won’t shut up. And she whispers…Be. More. Faster.
Thoughts spin around my brain when I’m alone and when no children are needing me, no husband is nearby, and for that one split second it appears no outside demands are asking to suck me dry. But that’s where Miss Monkey fits in. She reminds me of the to do list, the to don’t list, and everything in between. She moves me from the kitchen to the laundry room to the bedrooms and back. She sits me down at the computer to write, then nudges me up to move the clothes to the dryer-oh wait-don’t forget to change the air filter and water the plants. The dog needs a walk-gotta do that. Maybe I can stop at the bank…ACK! The tomato sauce is boiling over and now sticks solid on the bottom of the pan. Another tick on the to do list gets added. Back to the computer-DING! The dryer is finished and as I walk to the laundry room she reminds me that the packages need mailing and the garbage cans are still on the curb. Then grade the papers. Kids have homework. Practice. Lessons. Would that telephone please ring at a more convenient time; I don’t need to talk to a telemarketer EVER again. The dog barks for his walk. And she yells…Do. More. Now.
Seriously? I’m so young! I’m just a mom, a wife, a worker, a writer, a….woman. Why won’t Miss Monkey just shut up and let me think? I could get it done if she. just. would. stop. that. incessant. chatter. that. reminds. me. I. am. human? And she screams…Do. It. NOW!
She makes me think. She makes me think I should trust her, not my gut. Wait-who is she? How dare she leave me thinking like this. Making me feel upset, and vulnerable, and sometimes very alone. She makes me forget where I started, and where I’m going. She spins me around until I f.a.l.l.
But I’m not really, alone, am I? You hear her too…don’t you?
Posted on July 11, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe
Sometimes, taking a walk with my son Cameron and my dog Cola is just the best thing to do.
We’re lucky in
Davis to have a multitude of options for our journey-from our place in central
Davis we can really head in any direction and find something to see.
After discovering geocaching a few years ago, our walks have turned into moments of discovery.
Geocaching is a game of high tech hide and seek. It’s kind of like treasure hunting, except typical cache treasures aren’t worth much in monetary value-it’s all about the hunt. “Cachers” find the thrill is in trying to solve the mystery and find the box, can, or whatever creative container has been hidden using coordinates from a GPS. Personally, I like the geocaching app I downloaded on my iPhone-it has allowed us to hunt and seek for treasures everywhere we go, in any city or state.
As Cameron, Cola and I stroll along on our hunts we start to notice things we haven’t before-even in our own neighborhood.
We pay attention to the little details around us as we search for clues to the mystery.
We talk and walk, and when we think we’re close we check for ‘muggles’-(cache-speak for those who aren’t part of the caching community).
After we log our find it’s on to the next, and the next, and pretty soon it’s dark, and we head home.
We’ve cached all over Davis- the Arboretum, old North Davis,
CommunityPark, Covell, Northstar and Stonegate.
We’ve climbed bridges, dug around in dirt and spiderwebs, and even stumbled across a large roosting bird of some sort out by the freeway.
There have been moments when I was ready to give up, and suddenly Cameron would pop up with a huge grin on his face and the cache in his hand.
What I’ve learned is that stuff is hidden everywhere. For me, geocaching isn’t about finding the capsule, or logging the visit. It’s the journey we take to get there. It’s the wild turkeys roosting in the trees, or the geese in the bird sanctuary. It’s the turtles and peacocks at the Arboretum and the yellow roses blooming along the Toomey Field fence. And mostly, it’s the stuff that my son and I discover about each other along the way.
What I’m still learning is that it’s ok to get lost in the moment, and to slow down and notice the stuff. The memories I log in my mind are the most valuable treasure of all.
Posted on June 30, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe
“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away” – Anonymous
One of those moments for me is seeing a double rainbow. Now, I’m not a science teacher, and I would be hard pressed to give an accurate description as to the reasons for this phenomenon. Something about refraction and reflection I think, but what I do know is that no matter what I’m doing, a double rainbow stops me in my tracks. The sense of unpredictability, fragility, and instability hits me, and I can’t take my eyes off it. I’ve given up trying to snap a photo-it never seems to capture the intensity of color or splendor. It is a moment that could be gone in an instant, best savored in ‘real-time’.
A friend of mine passed away last month. He was exactly my age, was a teacher, married, and had two young kids, a boy and a girl-just like me. Also like me, all he had really ever wanted to do and had done for a career is teach junior high. He was a really, really nice guy-one of those people who everyone likes and is just happy all the time. Now, he’s gone. He passed away as the school year was winding down, causing all of us who knew him to stop what we were doing and just grieve.
A few weeks ago his family held a celebration of his life. Hawaiian shirts and baseball gear were the requested attire. Although he didn’t live in Davis, he made an enormous impact on our community, especially noted by the numbers of former students who turned up at the memorial. Teaching is one of those professions that doesn’t always allow us to see the impact we have on our students in the moment. We move from day to day, month to month, and when we hit the 180 day mark our ‘term’ is over. We say goodbye, sign yearbooks, give hugs and best wishes and they leave the classroom. For me, it often seems like our time together was too short and I’ve still got more to teach.
What I’ve learned lately is that moments with people are unpredictable, fragile, and when looked at from the right perspective we can see everything in living color-ROYGBIV. What I’m still learning is that moments and people may be gone in an instant, but the imprint they leave on us is what’s memorable. And like the double rainbow I saw on the way home from the memorial, meant to be savored right now.
