The author entered the library amidst the chaos of student broadcast prep and folks setting up kindergarten registration. He insisted I call him by his first name, and we chatted on our way to the cafeteria to set up his presentation.
"Your school is so clean," he said.
"We have a great custodial staff," I replied.
"Your library is wonderful, too."
"It's only eight years old; I inherited a young collection."
"Thank you for getting everything ready; you've done this before!"
"This is only my third year as a librarian, and I flubbed my first author visit...he had to tell me to introduce him! I hope I've gotten a little better since then."
(The children walk in. The author addresses me quietly.)
"It is wonderful to see children of all colors. I come from a very white area. This makes me happy."
I agree; we have a very diverse learning community, and that makes me happy, too.
After the first presentation:
"I'm sorry they were a bit chatty today," I said.
"Oh, no, it's okay; they were talking about the poetry and the books. I didn't mind; they were great!"
"I appreciate you talking a little about your difficulties as a child . Our students just participated in a refugee walk to gain empathy for those fleeing difficult situations."
"My wife worked with refugees," he said, "And I'm glad to hear about this. I'll share a little more with the older group."
After the second presentation:
"That group was wonderful!" the author exclaimed, "So engaged!"
His agent and I agreed.
"You can tell these kids have what they need; they are clean, well fed, well read. It was great to do this presentation with them."
I find out the author worked in the Peace Corps and has traveled quite a bit. He has a broad worldview, kind eyes, and a tender heart for his wife.
It was interesting to see my school through another's eyes, validated for what I notice, what others might overlook and take for granted. The author's visit was a good reminder of what shouldn't be a surprise in any school, anywhere.
My hotel retreat ended before eleven on Sunday morning, and five minutes later I was pulling into my driveway. I uncharacteristically took to unpacking right away, remembering that a friend says she does the same to avoid having suitcases in the way for a week.
And then, for better or worse, I fell into my usual Sunday routine, minus the laundry, which had been done by my wonderhubby while I was away.
I spent too much time on the computer, this time shopping to use the birthday coupons that had been sitting in my inbox. (That needs to end, after the stern lecture I gave myself in my birthday poem.) A short nap that turned into an hour-and-a-half, books left unread at my side. Grazing from the refrigerator instead of eating proper meals.
Not all my routines are indolent. I did make my son's lunches for the week, and planned out my outfits for work, taking care to note the weather forecast. Some of the computer time was spent deleting emails and commenting on blogs for the SOLSC. I even got ready for bed at a decent hour...only to be drawn into watching the final episode of "Downton Abbey".
Maybe it's the season that's prompting a need for change in my Sundays, my every-days, one that gets me away from activities that dull my senses, directing my attention instead to books and outdoors and improvement projects for self and home. Meditation, the act of sitting still and just being, would be more productive and soul-filling than my usual rut.
I'm hoping it's not just the season.
And looky-here, another day to try and get it right. If at first you don't succeed...
Forty-nine-year-old-me overscheduled this weekend-in-a-hotel-alone time. It's a bad habit of mine--planning too much, not getting it all done, then feeling incompetent and unaccomplished as a result.
With two hours left before checkout, I'm taking stock of what has transpired since Friday night, and figuring out what I can get done before I leave.
I've had two nights of great sleep and a rejuvenating afternoon nap. Took a three-mile walk in a park, in the sunshine. My family treated me to a tasty birthday restaurant dinner last night, topped off with a cake baked by my wonderful husband. I made two SoulCollage® cards, and popped back on Facebook for a little while to reconnect with friends and thank them for birthday greetings. I've written two blog posts, now working on this one, left comments on others' Slicing posts, replied to comments on my page.
What's left undone? I haven't started my fifty letters to fifty people yet. Didn't crack a book open to read {gasp}. Didn't do much in my self-improvement workbook. Didn't plan out my upcoming week. Didn't get to the two or three stores I wanted to visit. Haven't completed the three work-related tasks that have to be done this weekend.
Good thing I've got an hour-and-a-half left here.
Good thing there's a door on my bedroom at home.
And good thing this fifty-year-old is not going to feel the least bit unaccomplished, come bedtime tonight, regardless of what's been checked off the to-do list.
After posting my birthday Slice this morning, I took a break from my Lenten FB hiatus to connect with my friends and rejoice in birthday greetings.
But fresh air beckoned. With the free hotel breakfast giving me fuel, I laced up my walking shoes and drove to a nearby hike-n-bike for a walk in the sunshine.
On the way, I pulled up next to a homeless man at a red light. For once I had cash on me, so I rolled down my window and handed him a fiver. He smiled from his amazing, crystal-clear sea-green eyes to his chin, weathered wrinkles forming laugh lines.
"God bless you," he said. "God bless you, too!" I replied.
"It's a good day," he continued. "Every day, I get out of my tent, and look to the sky, and say 'Thank you, God. Here we go, one more day you've given me.' And I smile. It's a blessing."
"Yes, it is a great day," I answered, smiling back. And then the light turned green.
So I took his testament to heart, and I was sure to look up this morning. I noticed the shocking blue eyes of the mottled black-and-white dog sticking his head out of the window of a car next to me, sniffing the air in anticipation. I looked up at the sky as I walked the trail, thankful to the folks who kept it up so well that I didn't have to look down to keep my footing. I saw another dog, this one brown, his head atilt as he waited for his master to toss a tennis ball in the water.
There was a couple getting pictures taken as they each sat astride of their motorcycles by the lake. And a little boy, still flexible enough to bend himself in three planes as he examined a treasure found in the dirt, his dad watching from a bench nearby.
A Star Trek landing party was at the park, too. Really--one yellowshirt passed me, and then I saw a blueshirt waiting by a picnic table. Only in Austin, folks.
I had my first bluebonnet sighting of the season; I think it's the first time it's happened in person, and not through the windshield of my car as I sped by.
It's a beautiful spring day! I was glad for the chance to breathe the fresh air, absorb the sunshine, and most importantly--look up.
Hello, fifty.
You don't look much different than forty-nine.
A bit more rested, maybe, after seven-and-a-half hours of sleep.
(That forty-something had too many nights with less than six hours; fifty knows better!)
Good morning, fifty.
You've got a few more grays and wrinkles than forty.
Your morning glasses are different, too; are those bifocals now?
At least the contacts are the same. Snazzy reading glasses are fun, I think.
Your coffee's ready, fifty.
That hasn't changed much since your twenties.
I seem to remember your taste for coffee started even earlier than that,
Drinking from your father's leftover mug, cold and sweet and light with milk.
It's a day for remembering, fifty.
I know it's hard, thinking of mom.
Her fifty was so much different, lying in a hospital bed, dependent on machines.
You are in a hotel, sitting at a desk, typing on a laptop....breathing on your own.
It's okay to cry, fifty.
Maybe that's the real reason you asked for time alone this weekend.
You've never been one for public tears.
Why do you choose to navigate those waters by yourself?
Take a deep breath, fifty.
Be grateful that you can.
Don't let the possibility of not breathing overshadow today.
Unless it spurs you to take really, really good care of yourself--you should.
You've made mistakes, fifty.
God willing, you'll make many more.
I know that's not a problem for you; you're pretty good at admitting your foibles.
Life moves on, the sun always rises, the grass grows, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Spend less, save more, fifty.
You've been on a shopping binge lately.
Yes, birthdays are special, but they need to be less about the stuff.
More about the time--time for you, time to breathe, time with loved ones.
There are some regrets, fifty.
Mostly self-imposed challenges you haven't met...yet.
Give yourself space and time to work on them.
Ask for help--there's plenty to be had.
Make room for fun, fifty.
For a Pisces, you are sometimes waaayyy too serious.
Leave some holes in your schedule, stop over-planning your time.
There's more to life than ceiling fan dust and laundry.
Breathe more fresh air, fifty.
Yes, you've found your calling as a librarian.
But you know time outside makes you feel so much better.
Especially salty ocean air--give in to your Piscean fishy needs.
Enough introspection, fifty.
Get up, get moving, get out there.
Breakfast is waiting, there's a walk to be had.
Let's get this birthday weekend started.
Glad we talked, fifty.
You're doing just fine; goodbye, forty-nine. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
Do you ever just want to be left alone?
Two or three times a year, I start to crave solitude. Away-from-my-home, apart-from-people-I-know, wanting-to-get-lost-in-a-crowd alone time.
These cravings are not spurred by frustration or anger. I am as grateful as ever for my loving family and friends and fabulous job and colleagues. I think it's a matter of delayed sensory overload, or maybe performance exhaustion, the kind Broadway folks get after a hit show runs eight times a week for a year.
My wonderful, fellow Piscean husband gets this. So when I asked for some time alone in a hotel for a birthday gift (again), he not only granted it, he made the reservations. His first inclination was to put me up in a beautiful hotel in the middle of an upscale shopping center nearby, but I knew that locale would only lead to a binge purchase at Barnes and Noble and several other stores.
No, this time I didn't want my weekend sabbatical to be about shopping. It's a "big" birthday, and I have a lot of thinking and writing and reading to do. So I'm not going far--just around the corner from my neighborhood--but distanced enough from laundry piles and dirty dishes and others' comings and goings.
This would-be hermit still wants to celebrate the occasion. Singing "Happy Birthday" to oneself sounds glum, so my family will be joining me for dinner in the middle of my self-imposed retreat. Then it's back to the hotel, alone with my thoughts.
I wonder what my Slices will be like this weekend?
It was Dr. Seuss' birthday yesterday, and I wore a Cat-in-the-Hat hat all day at work to celebrate. I even wrapped my tongue around Seuss' Happy Birthday to You several times in the Book Nook, enunciating his genius mashup of syllables a bit better with each reading.
I wore the hat straight through the professional development that happened during the second half of our early release day. I think it was a subconscious effort to boost my own energy level, and perhaps the energy of those around me, by indulging in a little act of silliness.
Frazzled here, frazzled there,
Frazzled teachers everywhere.
Going strong since winter break
Resolve now turning to head-ache.
Wiggly students can't sit still since
Sunshine replaced our winter chill.
Testing season is coming up fast
Major projects must be passed.
Need for rest is all we speak...
But there's work to be done for one more week!
Teachers, I feel your pain; stop on by the circulation desk for a piece of chocolate. Or three pieces, if it's been that kind of day. No judgment here.
