The Time Change

Give me blizzards and frozen pipes, but not this nothing time.
Not this waiting room of the world.
                ~ Sir Anthony Hopkins as C. S. Lewis in “Shadowlands”

I walked the loop last Saturday morning at 5:00a.m. It was a great walk. Here is an excerpt from my journal:

Standing on the front porch in the dark, I can smell the rain coming, feel the negative ions in the air, against my skin. I drink them in with my breath, along with the scent of sweet wood smoke. I use the headlamp until I’m down the private road, then switch it off as I reach the highway, content to walk in the dark as long as I can follow the white lines in the road.

The wind thrums in the treetops. And then the sound changes. I hear thousands of tiny crystals falling through the leaves. I’ll never forget it. I’ll never truly remember how it sounds. I don’t feel damp, but I know by this sound that it’s hailing.

As I reach the turn in San Antonio Falls Road, I look down to the valley but see only huge dark clouds lowering over the east ridge. My face is freezing with the onslaught of the tiny ice crystals. My hands ache when I remove my gloves to switch the lamp on, then off, so I can see in certain sections of the road.

On the way back to the cabin, I hurry, almost jogging, as the hail turns to fat drops of rain which soaks through my sweatshirt and jeans. But I stop when I hear rocks falling on the opposite side of the canyon. I know there are Big Horn Sheep there, making their way back up the slope. I stand on the edge of the road, listening. When I realize they are waiting to see if the noise they heard, this intruder in their habitat will move on, I do.

At home, there is much to record as this walk proves to be, like many, a walking meditation.
And this is what I thought about as I walked:
I thought about how hard I work to keep to a regular routine--which holds the sadness at bay. That thought led to this: What am I sad about? And so much emotion rolled in it was like standing on a beach one moment, contemplating the ocean, then being toppled by a knee-buckling wave. I started to cry as I walked, then pushed it all back--with my super-hero powers--and laughed at myself for crying. I lose perspective when I'm sad, forget to smell the scent of the rain in the air, to see the glow of the moon through the clouds, the light from my headlamp refracting off the thousands of tiny ice shards falling around me. I forget that when I get home, I will drink an incredible cup of tea and enjoy the privilege of eating a seemingly inexhaustible supply of food. I forget that I have two strong legs that are carrying me through the forest, eyes that see the beauty, hands that will later skip across a keyboard and maybe, just maybe, compose a paragraph that will touch the heart of someone I've never met.

I'm trying hard--knowing that we are in this time, this waiting room of the world again, when we watch the light wane and the darkness creep in on us--to follow my routine, to eat well but not gluttonously, to give my body all the sleep it needs, to exercise every day, to stop the onslaught of negative energy from the world outside with my super-hero shield (which is energized, by the way, by the love of my friends).

I hate the time change because it signals the coming darkness. I’m counting the days till the Solstice, as I do every year, trying to be centered on what is good and present, not what is absent in my life.

You Heard it Here First

Yesterday morning in the hours before dawn there was a huge storm just off shore, between our south facing beaches and Catalina island. I know because I watched it—from up here on the mountain.

I went out to walk at 5:00a.m. with many, many things on my mind. I was carrying my headlamp, but it wasn’t on. That’s how I saw the flashes. Big flashes of light in the sky behind the cloud cover. Overhead, the night sky was clear, and I could see the stars. But over the valley lay a thick marine layer, and above it hung thick clouds.

I hurried around the loop, up to Falls road, so I could see the entire valley below and farther, out to sea. (On a clear day, one can see the entire island of Catalina from here, though it’s 100 miles away.) From a spot on the road just above my cabin, I could look out in the direction of the island, though it was too dark to see. I only had to wait a moment before the heavens over the ocean lit up as a huge lightning bolt sliced through the dark sky. To call the sight amazing might be an understatement. Once before in my life, while on vacation in Morro Bay in 1989, I witnessed a storm at sea from the window of my hotel (which was located on a bluff overlooking the ocean). I’ve never forgotten it. As I watched yesterday morning, I realized I was privy to something that most folks never see. How blessed I am….

I stood in the dark watching for a quarter of an hour or so, until I heard the baby raccoons cooing in the forest. Three days ago, they showed up without their mother. We’ve had something big in around the neighborhood in recent weeks—could be Bob Kitty all grown up, could be the lion that’s been seen by my neighbors. I don’t want to consider that Little Mama has been taken… but I did feel compelled to go home and check on the babies. By the time I got back to the cabin, they’d gone. But I stood on the front porch in the still dark morning, looking down toward the valley, seeing occasional flashes of light as the storm moved on. As I did I listened… to the sound of the waterfall up the canyon, and the stream running past below, and the owl hooting from the ridge above the campground, and a nighthawk calling from the trees overhead.

As I did I wondered if I will ever live in a place quite as wonderful as this ever again in my life.

It has been a year and a half since I blogged about putting my cabin on the market. As I write this, my real estate agent, Liz Dills, is on her way up the mountain to present an offer. It’s a good one; a really nice man has been in contact with me for months, asking questions, making plans. He will love the life here, too. As much as I have? Who’s to say?

With great sadness and some excitement for the adventures that lie ahead, I am now looking forward to becoming a flatlander again. Doing so will mean more time with my kids and grandkids, which is worth it all. It will also allow me to retire sooner than say, age 65… which will allow me, at long last, to be simply a writer. Full time. (I’ve only been working toward that goal for the past 47 years. But who’s counting?) Needless to say, though, leaving the mountain, and all the gifts it has given me, will be difficult.

So there you have it. Now that I’ve told my readers, I can tell the rest of the world.

The Big Pay-off

Last week, three of my students made me cry.
The first was Matthew, one of my freshmen. We do silent reading at the beginning of every class period. Studies show that if a student reads for pleasure, he is far more likely to improve his writing skills; seeing the structure of the language on the page over and over does far more to ingrain grammar than any lesson I could ever come up with. So we read for twelve minutes—a period of sheer bliss for the young bibliophiles. Absolute torture for the non-readers. Matthew was a member of the latter group, so I called his mom for some advice.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Murphy,” she sighed. “Matthew has never liked to read. Teachers have been telling us this for years.” She agreed to take him to a bookstore over the weekend to try to find something he might like.

On Monday he showed up with one of S.E. Hinton’s books, Rumblefish. Hinton began writing as a young girl in high school. She’s the author of The Outsiders. Her novels are short and gritty, starring teen punks who get in trouble but overall have good hearts. Matthew told me he’d started Rumblefish over the weekend and it was “OK.” Whew. At least he’d be reading now instead of fidgeting at his desk for twelve minutes.

A day or so later, the kids were working on a written assignment in class, and I was walking around helping them. I noticed Matthew wasn’t writing. He was reading.

“Matthew, are you finished?” I checked his work. Yep, done, and done well.

“I’m on the last chapter,” he said, barely looking up.

A few minutes later, I gave the stragglers a five-minute warning.

“The bell’s gonna ring in five minutes, guys, let’s get this thing finished.”

“Nooooo!” Matthew cried, looking up at the clock. “Ms. Murphy, can I just stay in your class next period? I want to finish this book!”

If you could have seen the look on his face, if you understand how a book can transport a reader to another place and time, so much so that he becomes unaware of the place he’s in…. Well, you would have gotten teary-eyed, too.

The next day a former student stopped by to visit. I didn’t think I’d ever see Miguel after graduation. He hated my class, hated me for awhile. He was tardy often, truant occasionally, and would never read during the silent reading period. He was tall, surly and absolutely belligerent every time I spoke with him. When I called home, I discovered he was living in foster care… because he’d been abused by his parents. His only reason for showing up to school was to appease his probation officer. I decided at that point that I would simply treat him with kindness every day from that day forward, regardless of how he performed in my class.

Some time later a student finished A Child Called It and told me I could keep it for my classroom library. This book isn’t literary, to say the least; it’s a stark memoir about a boy who was abused as a child. On yet another day when Miguel showed up without a book, I placed it on his desk. He picked it up. I watched him read the front, then the back, then slowly open it. At the end of that school year, he told me he was still reading it. I told him he could have the book. He was incredulous.

“Just have it?” he asked.

“Sure,” I told him. “Enjoy it!” He made a noise and I realized how stupid that sounded. How does one “enjoy” a book about suffering, especially when it hits so close to the bone?
When Miguel showed up this week, I hadn’t seen him in four years, not since that last day of school when he was a sophomore. He walked into my class after school accompanied by a heavily tattooed young woman. Another student was in the room, taking a test. After I greeted him and he uttered some grunting noise, Miguel walked around, looking at the room, commenting sparsely on how it looked the same. Finally, he approached my desk.

“I still have your book,” he said quietly. “I read it.”

I nodded. “And what are you doing these days?”

“I’m working,” he said, smiling.

“Like a grown-up?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, chuckling, “like a grown-up. Anyways, I just wanted to say hello.”

“Stop in any time,” I told him. He and the girl meandered out.

I doubt that I’ll see Miguel again. But I understood his tacit message, and that’s what brought the tears I had to disguise quickly so my test-taking student wouldn’t be alarmed.

And the next day John stopped by. This goofy, tow-headed boy had been a freshman in my class four years before. I’d called his mom repeatedly that year because John just couldn’t keep from getting into mischief. I usually characterize freshmen as puppies—mostly squirmy, exuberant creatures with very short attention spans. John was more of a young raccoon because he had the masked, ninja factor—always sneaking around and up to no good, though not in a malicious way. I loved his Tom Sawyer approach to life, and he had the freckled, honest face to go along with the character. Now he towered over me, a grown man.

“John!” I exclaimed as I hugged him. “What are you up to?!?”

“I just finished boot camp,” he said quietly.

After graduation in June, he’d joined the army. In some months, after completing his training, he’ll be going either to Afghanistan or Korea. We talked for a few minutes about boot camp, how he’d questioned his decision during the first two weeks, then been proud of himself by the end of it all.

“I lost thirty-five pounds,” he said, grinning.

“I’m proud of you, too,” I told him.

He was on campus to pick up his younger sister, and he had to leave. My “Take care of yourself” as he departed seem wholly inadequate. The tears came a few minutes later, as I tried to resume grading papers. He will make us all proud, I know, and I hope and pray that, in a few years, he’ll stop by again to say hello.

The Stoning of Soraya M.

Some weeks ago fellow blogger Glenn (“glnroz” at “Differences with the Same Likeness”) suggested to his readers that they see “The Stoning of Soraya M.” The film is adapted from a book by Freidoune Sahebjam, a French-Iranian journalist. Both are based on Sahebjam’s experience of being made aware, while he was in Iran, of the story of a woman whose husband accused her of adultery so that he could be rid of her to marry another. The shamed wife was stoned to death. If you’re thinking this was something that occurred long ago, you’re mistaken. The stoning took place in recent years. Stoning. As in pelting a woman with stones until she dies of her injuries.

There’s no enjoyable evening of movie watching and popcorn to be had here. Only the naked truth of a culture which continues, in modern times, to brutalize and oppress women.

I knew well what the film was about before I watched it, having heard it reviewed. And yes, I knew it would be difficult to watch. But some things are necessary. I said as much after the release of “Hotel Rwanda,” and I encouraged my friends to see it. Most didn’t, and those who did see it let me know, for the most part, that they didn’t appreciate the experience. Still….

I think at times our own sense of privilege causes us to take for granted the suffering in the rest of the world. It’s difficult to appreciate the fight for freedom and justice if we don’t allow ourselves to become enraged at the injustices practiced daily outside our borders.

For that reason, Dear Reader, I would suggest that you take the hand of someone beloved and try, if you can, to appreciate a form of art that offers not beauty or entertainment, but simply truth.

Stairway to Heaven

“I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least… sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields….” ~Henry David Thoreau in “Walking”

As I drove up the mountain on Saturday evening, returning from Seattle, I put my arm out the window of the truck to feel the cool, fresh air. It was 88 degrees at the airport in Ontario when we landed. It was about 74 at home. I shut off the truck when I pulled up to the cabin, got out, and listened. Yes. The water was still running in the stream. Here is my reward for all the snow I shoveled and dug out of and drove through this past winter; the stream has not gone underground this summer as it usually does. Water still spills over rocks, and I fall asleep at night directly under an open window, hearing the music it makes as it dances down the canyon.
The morning after my return home, I climbed down into the canyon and hiked up the stream. This is where I find tranquility. Rarely does anyone else hike the stream bed. This summer, because the stream is still running, I simply walk up the rocks—a natural staircase to heaven, if you will—letting the water flow over my feet and legs, stooping to splash water on my arms if the temperature soars too high. You would think the water would be ice cold, but not so. The effect of shallow water running along over hot rocks is sort of the reverse of pouring your tea over ice cubes; the snowmelt loses its biting edge and becomes just cool, like water from the garden hose.

As I walk on this particular morning, I stop to watch a hummingbird feed from wild red columbine. Overheard, a red shafted flicker lets me know he is wary of my presence, though the hummer doesn’t seem to mind. A huge yellow and black butterfly drifts by—papilionidae—the “swallowtail” butterfly that was a magical creature to me in my childhood… and still is. Farther up the stream, I stop for a drink of water, setting the backpack beside the stream, and I nearly tread on an alligator lizard as I step back into the water. He is magnificent as he suns himself, and I watch him until he becomes self-conscious and scuttles under a rock.
Finally, I reach The Flat Rock, a huge boulder that I climb up on to rest and eat lunch. The stream runs over half of it, so I sit on the smooth dry side, the water flowing just inches from me. As I sit, I can look down to the valley. I hear nothing but birdsong over the sound of the stream on this brilliant day. There is nothing jarring or grating or frightening or distracting, nothing to dismay or sadden me. Just the sunshine on my shoulders, the scent of pine and wildflowers, a soft mountain breeze… and my cool, wet feet.

Where Eagles Fly

Many of you sent kind thoughts before I left for Seattle, and I want to thank you for your words and your support. My brother Dan passed away last September, and, though we had a memorial service here, he had requested that his ashes be scattered at sea. It took us awhile to coordinate that, but, thanks to his friends in the Seattle area, we were finally able to fulfill his wishes on Friday evening.
Dan’s love-for-a-lifetime Andrea had arranged with two boat captains to pick us up from the dock at her home on Bainbridge Island. My sister, my brother and his wife, myself and a few of Dan’s lifelong friends climbed aboard the boats and headed out onto the water. It was a gorgeous evening with still warm sun and calm waters.
Just as I heard the captains saying they’d found a spot, I saw a bald eagle leave his perch atop a tall pine on the island and fly across the water in front of the boats. We were all stunned. I’ve never seen a bald eagle in the wild before. It was late evening; the bird should have been roosting. But it simply took what seemed to be one more flight for the day, winging its way across the sky, then returning to the same tree.
By then the captains had powered down their boats and tied up together. We drank a toast to Dan—Irish whiskey, of course—then sang a long sad rendition of “Danny Boy.” Very few words were spoken as his ashes were given over to the sea and flowers were cast upon the spot. Quietly we watched them drift atop gentle swells.

The captains powered up the boats, and as we began to move slowly away, the same eagle left his perch one last time, flying across the water once more, this time behind us, as if to bid us farewell.
Rest in peace where you so loved to be, wild boy… beloved brother…. Thanks for reminding us that you have gone where eagles fly.

Roubian

Eight years ago, toward the end of a horrible year teaching for a horrible principal, I got a call from former colleague Martha Srisamai (now Martha Hall).

"Kay, come to Upland!  You'll love it here!"

Martha had been an Upland High School grad and had gone on to teach mathematics.  When UHS had a place for her, they called, and she left the high school where we taught together.  She'd been there a year when she called to let me know that administrators needed to hire five new English teachers.  I made a few phone calls, and the next thing I knew I was scheduled for an interview.

Principal Guy Roubian interviewed me (along with the teacher I knew would have to eventually become my BFT--Best Friend Teacher--Kelli Hogan-Flowers).  I've never felt so comfortable in an interview, and by the end of it I began to imagine what it would be like to work for someone who was so laid back and seemed to have a sincere love of teenagers.  Fortunately for me, I had the privilege to find out.  The next fall, I became an Upland Highlander.

I'll never forget the first faculty meeting before school started.  It was unlike anything I'd experienced previously.  At some point, Roubian and several other administrators presented themselves before the faculty dressed as pirates.  (The next year, Roubian would don a full body suit to impersonate Arnold Schwarzenegger.  It was hilarious.)  The point was to inspire the spirit of fun and creativity in teachers, to remind them that yes, teaching is serious business, but we need to include the element of fun as much as we can so that students will be engaged and enthusiastic about learning.  As always, Guy Roubian practiced what he preached.

I had previously taught English and Journalism, and when a Journalism class opened up at UHS, Guy remembered that discussion in our interview.  He asked me to take over the school newspaper, and I did so happily.  The issue we looked forward to the most each year was the April Fool's issue, in which we would include both true and contrived stories, often making outrageous claims about Oprah visiting our campus or teachers moonlighting as rock musicians.  In my second year doing the paper, Walter--a great kid--asked if he could write a story for the April 1 issue claiming that Principal Guy Roubian had been a teletubby while working his way through college.  To fully appreciate Walter's vision, you'd have to have seen Roubian; he's a man of short stature.  Walter's plan was to photoshop Guy's face onto a teletubby body.

"Absolutely not," I told him.  "He's your principal and you need to respect him."

"I do respect him," he argued.  "I respect his sense of humor.  That's what makes him so cool."

We argued for twenty minutes.  Finally Walter pleaded, "If I ask him and he gives his permission, can I do it?"  I relented, sure that Guy would tell him no.  Of course he said yes, allowing the article (which was brilliant) and the photo, and providing quotes from his "acting experience."  It was hilarious.  And Walter was right; this is why kids liked him so much.  He was the principal who never hesitated to jump into the trenches along with them and be involved in their learning and their fun.  In the final pep rally of this past school year, Roubian performed a cheer with the cheerleaders, allowing them to lift him up in a 'tower.'

Alas for all of us, that pep rally was the last for Guy Roubian as a Highlander.  For his own personal reasons, he has taken a job as personnel director for a neighboring school district.  Needless to say, faculty members are devastated.  I can't imagine returning to work next month without him there.  Through all the sadness of this past year, losing my brother, losing my mom, I was grateful for Guy's constant support and encouragement.  His new district is fortunate to have him, but oh what a loss to Upland High School.  Yesterday, when news of his move began to spread, Facebook pages were filled with comments on how much he'd meant to individual staff members.

To say he will be missed is an understatement.  We can only hope that he is happy in his new position, that he enjoys his work, and that we remember the lessons he left behind as our best role model.