Gimme Shelter

Well, nothing like sheltering in place and self-isolation to get a gal blogging again.

The last couple of weeks have not exactly been easy on the ole anxiety. If you know me, you know I have this weird ability to make huge changes, like moving to England to teach, but when it comes to my day-to-day routines, loss of continuity can be very, very difficult.

I've gone two weeks now without printing a weekly To Do List. This is unheard of for me, and it has caused some angst. The first week was because I was out of town for the weekend (more on that later), and when I got back, I had a sinus infection and ended up not only not updating the list, but also spending two sick days at home--making the list moot.

When I did go back to work, I was there two days before notice came from Sacramento County that all schools were to close.

That leads us to this week, in which nothing was exactly clear until Tuesday or Wednesday.

Teachers at my school district were to be called in for three days this week (eventually cut to two, and that second day was "leave when you feel you're ready"), and that caused some anxiety as we all wondered why we needed to be there after Monday--which was a school-wide day for planning online learning.

By Tuesday morning, I was sitting in my classroom with a racing heart and no idea exactly what to do as I lead class meetings with my equally confused students. Still, it was good to see their faces--even electronically--and I noticed right away that they seemed eager to connect with teachers. It reminded me that teachers are a big part of a kids's normal routine, and when "normal" goes out the window, I'm not the only person feeling anxious about it.

So here we are--it's Saturday, and it's taken me three days to write this post. Fortunately, things are looking up. Today I'm doing a big clean of Casa Meg, and I'll spend the rest of the weekend getting my To Do List back in order for the coming week. Working from home requires more focus, so I'll be creating a fairly regimented schedule for myself. It will include time for working out, and allow for plenty of time just relaxing with a book, some Netflix, or a craft project.

I am one of the most fortunate ones. I have health care, and I'm continuing to be paid through this. Working from home as a school teacher isn't ideal, but it's doable. My admin team and my fellow teachers are hugely supportive (we're all in this together). I stocked up my freezer with chicken, ground turkey, and lots of frozen veg before all this, so I'm capable of making healthy, filling meals without needing to go to the store too often. (Later today, chicken curry with cauliflower, carrots, and a jar of korma sauce.)

Most importantly, I bought an extra box of Tetley. I mean, priori-teas, right?

So I'm set. I worry about Dad, who has a very hard time not doing stuff for himself, but seems to be mostly convinced to stay at home and let me look for paper towels for him. But overall, I'm in a very good position, so in addition to curbing my anxiety, I'm trying to look outward. So far, I've bought some gift cards from two different independent book stores, and asked them to donate the cards to students in need. It's a win-win, for struggling business, and struggling kids.

We will get through this. It's weird as hell, and sometimes the anxiety flares up, but I know we all can do this.

In the mean time, I'll be locked up at home, marveling at just how much sleep cats can accomplish in a day.

A Week of Feeling

I woke up Wednesday morning after a busy evening the night before of watching election results pour in. These days I can often find the political situation of our country stressful and exhausting. I am a vocal non-supporter of the current occupant of the White House, and I have no shame in saying it out loud.

Wednesday would have been like any other day, except that after my shower, as I sat down to eat breakfast and peruse Facebook, I was immediately inundated with news of the devastating mass shooting in Thousand Oaks, California. I saw coverage of a father waiting for word of his son, whose phone was in the bar. And later, I saw the tragic news conference where this father tearfully informed all that his son was confirmed dead. His raw grief in that moment hit me right where my own still-raw grief sits.

Then there was the news of Ruth Bader Ginsberg (a personal hero) having a fall in her office and breaking three ribs. Being a non-supporter of the current administration, I don't want it having yet another Supreme Court pick. RBG needs to hold on until we can get this clown posse out of D.C.

So perhaps I went into Wednesday a little more anxious than usual. And it has persisted.

I'm not anxious to panic-attack levels. Fortunately, I haven't had a panic attack in a while now, thanks to medication, and, perhaps, my own self-awareness about how to fend them off. But I have been anxious this week, and it leaks out of me in the weirdest ways. It's being a little bit harsher with my students, a little bit less patient while driving, and, of course, a lot more introverted and hermit-like. Hard to be anxious when reading a book on the couch with a cat on my lap.

Then the fires started.

California is no stranger to wild fires these days. I follow all of them in the news when they happen, because it breaks my heart to see my beautiful home state burn. But the Camp Fire in Butte County is particularly terrible for me--Paradise, the town destroyed, is a short distance from Chico, where I attended university. I lived up that way for five very important years of my life. While I doubt I'd live there now, it holds a very special place in my heart, and my two dearest and longest-running adult friendships--Sarah and Summer--both began there.

So watching Paradise burn has been stressful. It has been painful to hear of the destruction of the historic Honey Run Covered Bridge, a point of local pride. I used to drive up Skyway to Paradise whenever I was feeling stressed. It was a gorgeous, relaxing drive, and knowing that Paradise is all but gone is heartbreaking.

To say I need a break right now is an understatement.

Fortunately, I'm getting one. I'm on Day One of a three-day weekend, and the coming week is not only shortened by a day, each day is a half-day for the kids. While I have to work full days (and two of those days are parent-teacher conferences for the first trimester), I also get a lot of non-contact time in which I can cross a lot of things off my to-do list. New seating plans. Print out a new set of grade book sheets for the new term. Organize some things around my classroom. I'll be able to play Keane through my Promethian Board and get down to work.

After that, I get a whole week for Thanksgiving. I'm not looking forward to the holiday itself this year--though Dad and I have plans to eat with some friends of his, we will both be feeling the loss of Mom especially keenly that day. They say the firsts without a loved one are the worst. They're absolutely right.

So I look for ways to take care of myself. Today, that was cleaning--scrubbing the shower, mopping the floors, bleaching down the kitchen counters. Casa Meg is sparkling after several hours of work, and tonight I've got candles lit and a comfy couch waiting for me. I have fun plans with Sarah tomorrow, and plans to see Dad on Monday. Little by little, I cut into the stress and anxiety, the best I can.

A Lot

I am a high-anxiety person. I always have been.

These days, I take two Lexapro a day to handle it, and it works--I don't have the crying and stress I used to. I can handle things. But no drug is a miracle...there's still work involved. There are still days where the worry takes over everything else.

A week ago today, Archie got out when I got home from work. I tried to catch him, but he got spooked and ran from me. I haven't seen him since.

A couple of days after that, my usual fall allergies started causing a slight soreness in my throat.

I'm handling it.

There has been no crying, just an effort at finding my cat and bringing him home. Signs posted, bushes searched. I bought a harness and leash for Popcorn and we've been on a few excursions trying to scent out his brother. I update friends on Facebook and reassure them that I'm okay. I'm fine. He'll come back.

He will.

Meanwhile, my allergies turn to a minor cold. My throat hurts, talking is more difficult each day. I cough a little to move everything around in there. But I'm a Good Employee, so I go to work. My kids need me. My bosses need me to be there for my kids. I don't want to burden the school by bringing a sub in. Besides, I have all of next week off to relax and rest. I can make it.

So I get up early and do my job. I'm tired and maybe a little cranky, and I sit at my desk more than usual. But I get through the day with no incident and when I get home I curl up on the couch with a book and an extra-clingy Popcorn.

Yesterday, shortly after starting my drive home, my car beeped at me--loudly--a few times. A warning light came on. I looked at the computer, and found it was low tire pressure. "No problem," I thought.

I needed an oil change anyway, so I called Mazda and set an appointment for this morning. "Make sure they check my tires," I said.

I'm so handling it.

This morning, I got up, showered, fixed my tea, packed my lunch, made my smoothie. I fed Popcorn, checked outside for Archie, put on my makeup. My eyes were a little bloodshot, and I was coughing a little, but I gathered everything up and walked down to the car. I was going to drop off my car and get the courtesy shuttle to school a few miles away.

But nothing went according to plan. That tire pressure? Turns out I drove over some sort of screw, and that tire was flat. 

Still, I handled it. I called to change my service appointment. I called USAA for my roadside assistance. I texted my vice principal, who lives a mile or two from me, asking for a ride to work.

I didn't hear back from her in time. Dad had to drive Mom to her chemo appointment and couldn't help me right away. I would be massively late for work. I sat here at my computer, and thought to myself that maybe this stupid flat tire is a sign. Rest, Meg.

But I'm a Good Employee. I don't take sick days lightly. I've taken one this year, and it was because I thought I had strep throat, which is very contagious. I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes. What if my boss gets mad at me for taking a sick day? What if I can't get a sub so last-minute? What will happen if I have the 8th grade class take one day off from working on The Nutcracker production we're doing next month??

These are the questions that run through my brain, on full volume.

The answers are: She won't. People will cover, and it will be okay. Not great, but okay.* The show will go on.

*Turns out the job was taken by a sub within a few minutes, so hooray. 

I'm so bloody anxious about handling everything, that it takes the universe literally forcing me into staying home to take care of myself.

As I stood by my car waiting for the service guy to arrive, coughing and ducking out of the rain under a metal parking cover, it hit me full in the face: it's okay. I am legitimately allowed to take a sick day when my throat feels like this, and I'm so bloody tired, and my cat is missing, and my tire is flat. It's okay to curl up on my couch with some hot chocolate and a book and a box of Kleenex (because my nose is running, too) and just breathe. 

It's okay. And yes, I'll need four new tires now, which will deplete my savings again, but that's why I have savings. Yes, my cat is still missing, but I'm confident he'll find his way home at some point. The Nutcracker will be okay if I miss one day.

I have to remind myself of this, and I will have to throughout the day. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

That's anxiety, and it's maddening.

S.O.S.

A few weeks ago, someone on Facebook posted a video about high-functioning anxiety.

I think I was at work, at about 7:00 in the morning, drinking my tea and gearing up to get some stuff done. As I watched it, I started to cry.

It's not exactly a secret around here that I deal with anxiety--and while most of the time my tone about it may seem joke-y or blasé, I'm not being cute. I truly do find myself feeling unaccountably and irrationally anxious over things that, in my mind anyway, I shouldn't. I think I try to joke it off a little, to keep people from worrying about me. Those who know me best see right through my jokes. 

It can be something as stupid as a leaf blower--a constant, loud, whining leaf blower--being used nearby--or, you know, a power saw in the condo below mine. Or it can be the non-stop feeling that I'm never going to get everything done, that each unchecked item on my To Do List is a small failure, and those small failures are adding up into Big Loser. 

My life is never exactly dull. Hey! I'm going to England! To Washington! To Antioch! To Stockton! To Lincoln! I'm buying a home!! I mostly roll with change pretty well and figure it's just part of the adventure. But now that I'm putting down roots, I have this near-constant fear that it's all going to be yanked out from under me. I have a home--a good one, despite it's worn-down parts--and a really great job. And since August, every day, I've lived in some form of terror that it's all going to be yanked away from me.

The boss comments on a behavior issue that happened in one of my classes, and I immediately go into fight-or-flight mode. I'm not aggressive, just quick to defend myself, to try to show that I'm on it, I've got this. I have enough clarity to realize I do this because my boss in Stockton blamed every pre-teen moment on me, even as every other teacher dealt with the same behaviors in their classes. A kid did something naughty, and it would be my fault. My current bosses are not like that. But old habits die hard.

If I'm not fighting to prove that I'm worthy of this job, I go into total flight mode, driving home with tears in my eyes thinking, "I'll just find another job. The kids will be better at another school." (They won't. Kids are kids are kids are...) Or I hunker down at home in a bubble of avoidance, figuring I'll deal with it tomorrow. Or the next day.

Fight or flight is an excellent survival adaptation. But it was never meant to be a 24/7 thing.

Several months ago, I sat sobbing in the doctor's office at Kaiser, having just behaved like an asshole to the physician's assistant over my blood pressure reading. I apologized to the doctor again and again, and cried, and grabbed more and more tissues from the box on the counter as she sat on her little rolling stool and looked up at me on the exam table with the kindest eyes, saying nothing until I had to pause to breathe.

Then, "I can see that you are having some very deep anxiety."

That simple observation, made in a soothing voice, stopped me in my tracks. She understood.

I told her how many changes I've been through in the last few years. Jobs coming and jobs going. A great new job, but still an adjustment. Losing two cats. Buying a new car. You know, life.

She asked if I wanted to take a low dose of anxiety medication. 

"Oh...no. I run. I work out. I think that helps me a lot."

And it does...to an extent. It certainly doesn't hurt, but I feel more and more like it's not enough to really help me at the deepest level. As my anxieties get bigger, there's only so much that a really great workout can do to help.

So for a couple of weeks now, I've been thinking that maybe it's time to go back to her and get some help. Start the anxiety meds again, maybe see if I can talk to a counselor once in a while. I want to take charge of my health so that I can enjoy the really great job I have...because the saddest thing of all is that I really haven't been enjoying it for the last couple of months. It's just been a job, instead of the career I love, and fought so hard to keep.

I made an appointment for this coming week. 

The best analogy I can come up with is that it's like being in a boat that's taking on water. I'm frantically bailing the water out by the bucketful, and mostly staying afloat. People sail by and offer help, but I paste a smile on my face and tell them, "Oh, I've got it! I'm totally fine!" 

I'm not fine. 

But I will be.

Self Care

The last six weeks or so, it's been building up, so slowly that I could almost convince myself that I was actually okay, that nothing could really be wrong with me.

I have a history of anxiety. It starts small. I worry a little here, worry a little there. When it starts to snowball, sometimes I don't notice at first, or, again, I write it off. "Oh, it's my hormones acting up. I'll be fine in a few days!" Or, "Haha, it's a full moon! That's why I'm so grouchy for no reason."

Then suddenly, it's not small. It's an elephant, stepping on my head and leaving me feeling exhausted, grumpy, and like I can't do anything right--even as I do things right. It starts with "Oh, I hope my boss likes what she sees when she observes me!" and morphs, without any sort of rationality, into, "If I'm not at work at 9:00 everyday, nothing will get done and I will lose my job." This is not true. Contractually, I'm obligated to be at work 15 minutes before my classes start. Choir starts at 11:05 (11:35 on Wednesdays). I'm there most days at 9:00 because I like having prep time to go through my email, make copies, write the agenda on the board, and do some score study and other relevant lesson planning. I enjoy being in my office and hearing the marching band next door. I will not get fired if I skip that pleasure in favor of getting something else done. But that's not always how my brain works.

Last Friday, I had a rather late start, which was then compounded by an oil change appointment for my car. The car was technically ready at the agreed-upon time of 9:00, but they took it over to give it a quick wash before giving it back to me. I waited an additional 15 minutes, which under normal circumstances would have been slightly annoying because hey, you said 9:00 and I've got to stuff to do...but last week, I started getting nervous almost to the point of being hyperactive because I was going to be "way late" for work. It's moments like that where I start to think about talking to the doctor.

When I lived in Antioch, my anxiety was at its absolute worst--I guess it was in 2007 that I called an advice nurse at Kaiser, hardly able to speak, I was crying so hard at the thought of going to work--and heard a kind, calm voice tell me, "You're having a panic attack." That might sound scary to some people, but for me, it was a revelation. Oh, my God, there is a legitimate reason I can't control the crying? And someone can help me? The nurse booked me in to see my doctor that morning. I called in sick. By the end of the day, I had a prescription for a generic form of Xanax.

I took the meds for a couple of years, eventually switching to having a medication I didn't have to take daily, but could take as needed. It worked, but in 2010, I lost my job, and with it, my health coverage. But in that time, I started working out with great regularity. I found that I could keep myself pretty even-keeled through nutrition and regular workouts, with occasional lapses that weren't nearly as bad as anything I experienced in Antioch.

It's pretty obvious, if you regularly read this blog, or are my friend, that I love my current job. The Large Suburban High School is a fantastic place to work, and I feel like I'm finally coming into my own as a teacher. I know there is a lot to learn yet, but I am comfortable and happy there. That said, this is the year I have to prove I'm worth their investment. My boss has given me no reason to think she dislikes what I'm doing in the classroom, but you have to understand that I have a little bit of observation-related PTSD from a couple of more recent bosses I've had. Add to that a life-long tendency to worry and imagine the worst possible outcome (I'm not a pessimist, I simply worry that things will go awry more than I should), and you've got a build-up of stress.

The last six weeks have been the hardest. I had my Come Fly With Me concert to prepare for and pull off, my first half marathon to run, observation lessons to prepare for. Life has been busy and fulfilling, but it's left less time for quiet than I might like. It's led to those moments where I nearly panic at the thought of getting to work at 9:30 instead of 9:00 because I was having my car serviced. I assure you, no one at that school cares if I arrive later than usual because of an oil change, as long as I'm there to teach my classes, and that I teach my classes well. But anxiety isn't rational, is it?

And so it goes. I put "talk to the doctor" on my weekly goal list, but it gets pushed aside in favor of work-related things. Then I wake up on a Friday morning with pink eye (today) and all hell breaks loose.

Having had pink eye before, I knew to immediately call Kaiser and talk to an advice nurse. The nurse got me an appointment at the Kaiser near my school (not my normal facility, because getting from there to school in time would not have worked). Only, I messed up. It wasn't the facility near my school, but the other one, slightly further away. I showed up at the wrong facility 10 minutes before my appointment time, only to find I would miss that time completely. I stood in the lobby, where a very kind receptionist told me how I could get there, shaking my head, with tears rolling down my face. "I'm going to miss my appointment. I've got pink eye," I said, hastily turning around and rushing out of there. I was humiliated. Who stands there in the lobby of a health care center, in tears over a missed appointment?

I got in my car, only to find that I had managed to break the clip-on sunglasses that go with my glasses, leaving me with two options: I could drive with my glasses but no sun protection, or I could wear my non-prescription sunglasses (normally worn with my contact lenses). I can drive somewhat comfortably without my glasses or lenses, so long as I'm not trying to read street signs, so I chose the sunglasses.

But first, I had to sit in my car and cry for a few minutes. I bit down on a finger and shouted at myself to calm down. It didn't help. I just sat there and cried, knowing there was no rational reason for me to cry over anything, but inconsolable nonetheless. Not knowing what else to do, I drove to school and started my day, somewhat messy and disheveled, but determined to do my job, not let my kids down.

My classes went well. I have great kids, and I love teaching them. So I got through the next several hours with minimal stress.

After school, I drove to my local Kaiser, thinking I'd pop into Urgent Care. Urgent Care is listed on the web site, so I figured I might have a bit of a wait, but it would be worth it to get my eye looked at, a prescription for eye drops, and on my way to a relaxing weekend. Only...there's no Urgent Care after all. At any Kaiser facility. I could swear there used to be. I stood in Member Services, tears threatening, and told the nice lady there, "The web site is misleading, then." She looked a little alarmed at my reaction--I suppose it's not every day you tell a reasonable-looking woman that she can try Adult Medicine upstairs and get met with angry tears. Believe me, I was alarmed, too.

For now, it's all's well that ends well. I spoke to a doctor on the phone, and tomorrow morning there's a prescription waiting for me to pick up at the Roseville Kaiser--a 12-15 mile drive for meds, but worth it to oust the pink eye (which is highly contagious). I feel calm now, but looking back at the day I had, I'm realizing it's time to practice a little self care. I'm going to make an appointment to see my doctor as soon as possible. I don't necessarily want meds, just options for dealing with the stress I build up--and it really is all about me in this case. No one is putting crazy expectations on me; I'm doing that to myself just fine.

Maybe the best solution is really just insisting that I take care of myself. I'm starting this weekend, by doing something I've never done in three years singing with Sac Choral: I'm sitting out a concert. I hate it, but I just cannot bear the thought of driving to Sacramento and back in the morning for rehearsal, then again in the evening for a concert. With the pink eye, and my recent tendency to get screaming-mad (literally) when I drive, I know it's in my best interest to stay home tomorrow. It took me a good 15 minutes to get the courage to send an email to my section leader today. The familiar thoughts roll in: I'm letting everyone down. I'm supposed to be there. One corner of my brain plays this broken record over and over, while the logical side thinks, "No one expects you to completely wear yourself out for a group you sing with for fun."

And I must ensure that I make time for running during the week. I've been getting my Sunday runs, but not my weekday runs, and this needs to come back. The simple truth is that spending that time on myself makes me healthier--physically and mentally.

I'm fortunate enough to have some self-awareness, to know that things are starting to boil over and that it's time for me to seek out some help. I'm also fortunate enough to know that half of the "cure" (if you can call it that) is simply forcing myself to take care of myself. A little less of that Do Everything mentality will go a long way.

Stress & Legos

So, I've been stressed the last few weeks.

Oh, it's nothing too horrible. It's just that in my infinite wisdom, I scheduled my first half marathon to be three days after my first concert of the school year, and to top it all off, I have to get a dental filling this week. And the 49ers have been losing. And it's evaluation time at work. And...life. Just life.

Several weeks ago, I bought a tiny Lego set so I could build a tiny airplane for my classroom. "Haha," I thought to myself. "An excuse to play with Legos!" Aaron had about a gazillion of them when we were growing up--enough to fill one of those boxes that copy paper comes in. We used to haul it to Grandma and Grandpa's house, dump it all over the living room floor, and entertain ourselves for hours. 

It had been years since I'd built anything with Legos. I imagine Aarons are either collecting dust in his attic in Idaho or long given to charity. Building that little airplane woke something in me, and I found myself perusing the Lego aisles every time I was at Target.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought three small "3 in one" sets so I could make the whole train.

Yesterday, I went to Target with the specific goal of buying more Legos. I bought a bigger set this time, and spent a good hour building an awesome tree house.

There's something relaxing about following the instructions in the book and watching it all come together. The familiar clicking as pieces go together brings back happy memories of childhood, and playing with my revered big brother. It's hard to feel stressed when sticking a tiny walkie-talkie in the hand of a Lego figure. 

Maybe it's silly and childish, but I don't care. At some point I'll carefully dismantle the set and put all the pieces in Ziploc bags to give to charity. Or I'll keep them all and build something different when life has me feeling a little overwhelmed. 

Thoughts

I have so many thoughts, and there have been many moments this week I've thought, "I really ought to blog this wonderful thought," or "This is a great foundation for a blog post."

And then it's gone.

It's been a busy week, and a bit of a headache--literally. I came home Wednesday afternoon with a headache that encompassed my whole head. I don't get a lot of headaches--I'm lucky like that--but this one was a double whammy because I tend to get headaches when I have my period (check) and I also get a brutal headache if I go too long without caffeine, which I did on Wednesday. Ibuprofen wouldn't touch it, so I left school as soon as I could get out of the parking lot, drove straight home, and downed two cups of tea. Cured.

The next two weeks promise to be insane. My show is two weeks from last night, I've got two field trips, and, oh yes--a half marathon in two weeks, two days. My running was dismal this week. I had a great run on Sunday, but exhaustion from being out late on Monday for Sac Choral had me skip Tuesday, and on Thursday, I had a mandatory 8:45 meeting.

So yeah, I suppose I'm feeling a bit nervous and anxious. It will pass.

Thoughts

It's been a rough week, if you follow the news.

Increasing violence between Israel and Hamas-ruled Palestine, resulting, this week, in the deaths of several children (seven that I've seen in recent articles, including the high-profile shelling of four boys who were playing on a beach). I can't claim to truly understand the long history in that region--what I do know from history classes and the media I do read is that it is long, and bloody, with no easy solution in sight.

A passenger airplane shot down--shot down--over Ukraine, with Ukrainian officials pointing at the Russians and Russians pointing at the Ukrainians. Meanwhile, armed men are keeping neutral crash site investigators from doing their job, and bodies are starting to decay on the ground. I won't describe a picture I inadvertently viewed on Twitter yesterday, taken by someone at the scene--a close-up of a victim. It was every bit as horrific as you are probably imagining, as the poor soul no longer looked human. I sincerely hope his/her family does not see that image. I would never have viewed it, except that there it was, on my Twitter feed, uncensored, as I opened the app on my phone.

I'm so tired of this "violence will solve our problems!" approach I keep seeing in the world. Scared of intruders? Get a gun and shoot that son-of-a-bitch. Passenger plane in your "air space?" (the plane was actually in a safe zone)? Shoot that fucker down. Throw some rockets at the problem in Gaza. Uh-oh, Iraq is deteriorating, let's go in and shoot 'em up!  (Gotta protect our oil reserves. To hell with environmentally friendly cars, right?)

Nearly 100 AIDS researchers were brutally shot out of the sky yesterday, for the grievous crime of flying at 33,000 feet over a rebel-held region of Ukraine. AIDS researchers who devoted their lives to solving the pandemic that kills so many--the strides they've made are remarkable, and worthy of praise. And they are gone because, on their way to a conference in Australia, they had the audacity to get a little too close to a world "hot spot."

Kids going on holiday, shot down. For what?

No, really. For what?

It's all so disheartening. We do our best to live, to make life good and happy for ourselves and those we love. We hope that love is strong enough to be a force greater than the hate and violence...some weeks it just feels like it's not enough.

But I have to continue holding out hope. I have to continue giving as much good as I can to the world, whether it's being the best teacher I can be, or the silly things, like showing 17 exchange students a picture of me and my lucky rubber duck meeting Donald Duck. I have to believe that the good outweighs the bad. So I search it out.

The death penalty in California has been ruled unconstitutional in a federal court. Three little girls from a photo that went viral in April are all now in remission from cancer. Weird Al Yankovic takes the rape-anthem "Blurred Lines" and schools the world on proper grammar with it. News may not be so bad for bumblebees (and therefore, our food supply, and, therefore, us). A dude in India helped me via Dell Support Chat tonight to reinstall my audio drivers, so after a week of no sound on my computer, I'm happily listening to music on iTunes, and finally able to view that above-mentioned Weird Al video.

I held a 9-month-old boy yesterday, and danced with him to some pop music during a break at school. (His dad, a friend of one of my co-teachers, was tossing a football around.) I marveled at how he took it all in, and giggled at the Italian and Spanish girls who approached to coo at him in their native tongues and pinch his cheeks and tickle his belly.

Life is so beautiful in so many ways, yet there's always that storm out there somewhere. When it's nature, you mourn, but you understand that nature always, always, wins in the end. When it's another human being causing the destruction...it's just so much harder to swallow.

So I do my best to spread the beauty. The silly. The happy. The love.

Thank you for reading this.

Things I Said This Week

I've just come off of one of those weeks where I barely spent any time at home, didn't get enough sleep any night, and had the added bonus of moving furniture out of my room, and then back in.

It's no wonder my brain turned to mush by Wednesday.

The upside to all of this exhaustion is that it gives me great blog fodder. Without further ado, here are some highlights, spoken by Yours Truly, in the week that was.

1. On Wednesday, I addressed a small problem I'd seen on Tuesday in choir--a lack of confidence among some of my students, who feel we'll never be prepared for our upcoming concert on time. One song, in particular, was of concern to a couple of them, and as I addressed them on Wednesday, I reminded them that while it is written in four parts (SATB), it is, essentially, a two-part song, because the tenor line doubles the soprano line, and the bass line doubles the alto line. I gazed out at my students, and told them, "This song is totally putable togetherable." I stopped, and my jaw dropped a little. A couple of small giggles erupted in the peanut gallery. "Wow," I said slowly. "That is a new level of gibberish, even for me." More giggles escaped, including from me. Really, who wouldn't laugh? I think I lost a good five minutes of teaching time for that one.
2. By Thursday, I was pretty much staring at the ceiling and making "bbbbbbbb" sounds with my lips. Tired doesn't even begin to cover it. Adding to my discomfort: a ripped contact lense in my dominant eye. Out came the lense, and bring on the lopsided vision. At the beginning of class, I stood at my conductor's podium, and let my kids know I felt a little loopy, wearing only one contact. Students who also wear them nodded understandingly, and a few supportive comments were made. So I sat at the piano to lead warm-ups, and found that looking out at my students was uncomfortable. Between exercises, I looked up and said, "I know I'm staring at my hands a lot today, but looking at you all is just painful." Again, my jaw dropped. I was met with silence. "Um. Yeah, that did not come out as I intended it to." A few giggles, a few eye rolls, an apology from the teacher, and, "Please, if you do tell your parents I said that in class today...can you also give them the context?" 
3. I lost track of how many times I told my kids to "have a seat" when they were already sitting, and to please stand up when they were already standing.
4. And then there was Thursday morning, as I got ready to leave for another long-ass day, and Mom said, "Have a good day!" and I responded by starting to cry.

The good news is that I'm sitting here in my bedroom. The floors are done, my furniture is all put back, and I have a nice new desk, which Dad and I put together today. It's 8:30 and I'm going to bed in a few minutes because finally, finally, I'm at home to go to bed at a decent hour (I haven't been home before 10:00 any night this week).

Buenos noches, my friends.

Overdoing It

I woke up on Sunday and promptly started sneezing. "Hay fever," I thought, before popping a Claritin and setting out for my six-mile run. These days, not even constant sneezing can keep me from my Sunday run. I simply tied a rag around my waist pouch (used to carry a house key and my phone) and breathed through my mouth.

As the day wore on, the allergies didn't let up, and in the couple of days since then, my head has felt stuffed with cotton, I've been a fountain of mucous, and I've also been stuck with a raging case of The Crankies. Just ask my students, used to a good-natured, humorous teacher, who yesterday snapped, "Look, I don't even want to be here. I want to be at home, in bed, with the covers over my head," and who today snapped, "Look, I know you're determined to hate this new song but we're doing it in May so get learning it."

Every week I print out a To Do List of things I want or need to accomplish that week. Some things are non-negotiable, like paying rent at my storage unit, a meeting at work, etc. Others can slide from this week's list onto next week's, like "working on the ongoing choral library clean-up" and other tasks along those lines. I list them more or less in order of priority, and I feel a lot of satisfaction as I tick them off my list. While it's rare I actually complete a whole list in a week, it gives me something to strive for. And this week, I have a pretty full list.

With our choir tour coming, and other craziness as the end of the school year approaches, there are more and more things that simply need to be accomplished, and this week, I find it hard to focus. My body is reminding me to rest for a few days, to allow it to get better, but my brain is screeching at me to GET STUFF DONE!! With as busy as my schedule is--the high school, the private lessons, SCSO, my regular workouts--I'm pretty set in the times I need to be out and the times I can be at home.

Yesterday, I had a few hours between school and SCSO to come home and relax. I read for a bit, dozed for a bit. Finally, after dinner, I got dressed and put my contacts back in...only to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and think, "I have no business driving a car."

I called my section rep to let her know I wouldn't be at rehearsal. As foggy as I felt, a 45-minute drive and two-and-a-half hours of singing just wouldn't be good for me. Then there's the drive back home. She was very understanding, as I rarely miss rehearsal, and I know my voice sounded terrible.

But here's how I roll--I felt guilty. I'm supposed to go to choir. I have to justify to myself staying home from an activity I pay to do, when the reality is I have no business being out and about when I feel this crummy. And take a sick day at work? You must be joking. I'm not contagious, and there's stuff needing doing. So I tough it out, and feel guilty when things fall by the wayside a little bit.

As I said to Mom this afternoon, "I really need to give myself permission to slow down a little." She gave me that timeless Mom Look and said, "Yes, you do."

That's easier said than done. I take my responsibilities very seriously, and I enjoy what I do. It's hard to feel like I'm letting myself and others down. Let's not even start on how I feel about missing a run this morning. But I am learning that in order to do my job well, sometimes I have to step back from it and let my body have a moment to rest when it's telling me, "Lady, slow down for a minute." Which is what it's telling me now, as "hay fever" seems to be moving more towards, "You've got a cold!"

So I soldier on, but I'm giving myself time to rest as I can grab it. Instead of staying at work this afternoon, I came home for some pajama time before my private lessons start. I'll go to the gym tomorrow, but do light duty. I'm making myself go to bed earlier, relax with a book a little more, drink a lot of water. I know, in another day or two, I'll be back to normal.

A Very Bad Week

When it comes to teaching, I suppose you could say I've had my share of ups and downs. The ups are what keep me in the career, and yes, there have been enough of them that I keep on fighting to do what I do because I know I'm meant to do it. The downs have included some hair-raising situations, like a principal in Stockton or a school owner at Brookfield who both felt I couldn't do anything right. The downs, of course, don't make me all that confident in my abilities.

I woke up last Monday with some dread. A last-minute call from transportation on Friday afternoon had me thinking I might have to cancel my April choir tour. How would I face my kids and tell them, "There are no buses. We can't go"? What would the bosses think? How incompetent does someone have to be to completely screw up planning a choir tour to Anaheim?

On top of that, I had my second formal observation happening this week, which entails two lesson observations and a post-evaluation meeting a couple of days later. So The Bossman would be in my room on Tuesday and Wednesday, and I'd be in his office on Friday, rehashing.

My fall eval went very, very well. He had basically no negative feedback and only a few small suggestions to help me grow as a teacher. But still, I have had those previously-mentioned downs, and I have a hard time--often--believing that any boss can find what I'm doing satisfactory.

So yes, on Monday, I was mentally putting on my suit of armor to face the week down, expecting drama, insanity, and endless stress. But I forgot one very important thing:

I'm not working in Stockton anymore, and I'm certainly not dealing with the owners of Brookfield.

After Friday's panic-inducing call from Transportation, I sent a Facebook message to my colleague, Lynn. Lynn is the band teacher, and we've developed a nice friendship over the last six months. I value her opinion and advice, as well as her humor and camaraderie. She immediately responded, talking me down from the ledge of cancellation and telling me, "We will put our heads together on Monday. Do NOT cancel your tour." And it was that--not the initial call from Transportation--that had me bursting into tears as I realized I'm surrounded by a lot of really awesome people these days.

So Monday dawned. I did my usual trip to the gym, hoping a blast of endorphins would keep me from bursting into messy sobs when I got to school.

Once there, I talked to a couple of people about options, then sought out one of the assistant principals who is in charge of the transportation stuff on our site. As I approached the desk of the A.P.s' secretary, tears were forming in my eyes. She took one look at me and practically threw her tissue box at me, so by the time the A.P. got back to his office, I was nearly in full-blown Hot Mess mode. Thankfully, not quite.

He took one look at me and ushered me into his office, where I told him what happened and how I was terrified I'd have to cancel my tour. I figured he'd just smile kindly and say, "Oh...I don't know what we can do..." but, again, I forget sometimes where I work these days.

Ten minutes later, I left his office, still sniffling but smiling hugely at his confidence that this is not the death of my choir tour, only a cause to rearrange our transportation options. "We will make this work," he told me. And we will.

With all of this going on, when Tuesday rolled around I was nearly hyperactive with nerves as The Bossman walked into my room to watch my lesson. I'm a (mostly) high-energy kind of teacher anyway, always moving, even when I am stuck at the piano teaching notes, talking rapidly, talking loudly, being funny. I never know if an administrator will love that or hate that about me, but it turns out that The Bossman loves it. Later in the day, I'd receive and email from him telling me that he absolutely loved what he saw in my lesson, how engaged my students were in the lesson, and that he looked forward to coming to Wednesday's class, though, "I won't stay the whole period." It turns out that playing a wrong note, rolling my eyes and saying, "Someone please remind me that there's a G-sharp in this song," then receiving half a dozen giggles and, "There's a G-sharp in this song, Ms. Cooper" in reply, doesn't count against a teacher at this school.

I love that.

I woke up on Monday thinking it would be A Very Bad Week, indeed, and it just...wasn't. It wasn't an easy week by any means--I still have to sort out transportation for my tour and I don't care how awesome The Bossman is, I'm still going to be nervous in a formal observation. It was a busy week, with a lot of stuff needing to get done, and a lot of piano lessons to teach. I don't have a lot of "me" time on weekdays, which can be exhausting to me.

But it simply wasn't anywhere near as trying as I feared it would be. And that's how I know I'm in the right place.

On Friday, I met with The Bossman for our post-eval meeting. His feedback was positive, encouraging. He recommends me for continued employment, and the formal paperwork that will go in my personnel file at the district office is glowing. He praised my rapport with my students, and the way I ask for their feedback.

"Some of their ideas are a little out there, but you always consider them, and that's good."

"Believe me, they come up with some ideas that I know will sound awful, but I always let them try it and learn that for themselves."

My status at GB is still temporary--the previous teacher never resigned her position, but rather took a leave of absence. She wants to continue it for one more year (she teaches at another school in the district), leaving me still on temporary status rather than the tenure track. It sucks, but there's not much I can do except keep growing the program and making it my own so that she won't want to come back.

As I stood up to leave The Bossman's office, we addressed a conversation we'd had about this a few days before. I told him, "You know, after we spoke on Tuesday, my immediate reaction was to feel stressed and a little upset."

"I know, and I'm sorry to throw that on you."

"No, I need to know, and I'm glad you are keeping me informed. Here's the thing. After I let myself get a little upset, I looked around that room, and I realized something. This program is mine."

The Bossman barked out a laugh. "I like your attitude."

I just smiled at him. "It's mine. I'm working so hard to build this, and give me another year, and if she tries to take it back, there will be drama from the community. I will fight for it."

And this, my friends, is exactly why The Bossman wants me to stay.

Thoughts

I've been wanting to write this blog post for days, but the words haven't been flowing out of my brain, through my fingers, onto the keyboard the way they normally do. They still aren't. I'm not entirely sure this post won't feel stilted and hard-to-follow. And then, there's the concern of worrying others, or looking like I'm begging for attention, etc. The fact is, my little inner demon reared it's ugly head a few days ago, in the form of a near panic-attack.

Saturday was just an off day to begin with. Instead of being a day in which I got to choose from a list of relaxing options, I found myself cleaning the bathroom and my bedroom all by 8:30 in the morning, and scooping the litter boxes for good measure. Then it was off to the races--that is, a morning choir rehearsal. I'm not going to lie, this concert is the first I've done with Sac Choral where I've been less than excited. I loved one piece we sang, the "Ave Maris Stella" by a modern English composer named Cecilia MacDowell, but our other selection, Haydn's Missa Cellensis, left me mostly uninspired. Here it is, this Great Choral Work of High Importance, and I just couldn't fall in love with it as I did Walton's Belshazzer's Feast or Bernstein's Chichester Psalms. What can I say? I'm a 20th Century kinda girl when it comes to choral music.

Anyway, as I drove around, thinking of my long To Do list, which included planning a field trip, a choir tour, getting certified to drive a school van, surviving the choir concert I really didn't want to do anyway, lesson planning, dealing with a complete lack of recent running, the list of grading I needed to do last week but didn't, and, to top it all off, the beginnings of a head cold, and you had Anxious Meg.

Anxious Meg is a far cry from Happy Meg, and from Capable Meg, and from the rarely-sighted Zen Meg. Anxious Meg lets her fear of failure gnaw on her, and her past failures weigh on her. Anxious Meg creates tension where none existed, purely because she has allowed her mind's inner demons to build large, ever-growing snowballs of angst and bad feeling.

Anxious Meg nearly bursts into tears on the freeway, and starts the deep breathing and positive self-talk as she cruises through downtown Sacramento. Does it help? Some. For a few minutes anyway--long enough to get my to my destination without mishap. But Anxious Meg is cranky and irritable. I wanted nothing to do with my fellow singers and felt removed from them most of the morning, where most of the time I love being around them.

I spent most of the rest of the weekend feeling jumpy and anxious. I think (hope) I hid it well enough, with my usual silly Instagram pictures of myself in the ugly choir dress, though some friends got the full force of Anxious Meg via anguished emails and Facebook correspondences about how stressed I felt. For their part, they talked me down a lot, and even more awesome, they let me just vent (you all are rock stars).

After a weekend of high anxiety alerts, Monday was both something to fear and to look forward to. I printed out a new To Do List for the week and geared up to get a good workout--cold or no. After the gym, I went to GB and settled in at my desk, where I doggedly made myself accomplish some of the stupid little things I've been letting myself stress over (when I really shouldn't). I finished some grading. I filed a few things. I accomplished three really important items on my list within the first hour, and felt my mind calming down. I've got this.

What it all boils down to is that I'm so afraid to fail, and so wanting this new job to be the one that sticks. I said to my friend Matt a few weeks ago, "It's like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. God, doesn't that sound awful?" He just smiled and said, "No. It's human." He's right. It's human, and it's okay--so long as I don't let that fear influence my brain. Sometimes it's too easy for the demons to take over.

I wrote it down today--sometimes it's best to just face your fears head-on, to acknowledge they exist, because you're human, you don't always feel like you've got a handle on it. The trick is to never just leave it at the fear, though.

In the end, it's about learning from the past mistakes, and realizing that you can do what you want to do, if you're willing to put in a lot of hard work.

I've got this.

Good In A Crisis

Today, I was wandering out of the kitchen with a couple of 'Nilla Wafers in my hand. The 49ers game had just started, and I was vaguely thinking about the food prep I needed to do for the week so that I don't go around eating 'Nilla Wafers instead of healthier options, when I heard Mom call out, "What happened out there?"

Dad was working in the yard. I glanced out the back door and saw him, face-down on the ground. "He's fallen!" I called out, and raced out the door, leaving the sliding screen wide open as Mom followed hot on my heels...and Millie (my indoor-only-but-not-by-her-choice cat) right behind her.

Mom set about checking Dad for vital injuries while I fluttered around wondering what to do. Millie, delighted to get some time outside, ran off to the side yard while I fluttered some more, saying inane things like, "What hurts? Millie, get back here! Are you okay? Millie!!! Do you want me to call for help? Stupid cat!!!" Dad, meanwhile, had blood dripping from a nasty cut on the bridge of his nose.

Finally, I fluttered back into the house and into Mom and Dad's bathroom, where I grabbed a handful of gauze. Then I realized how ineffectual this guaze would be without first cleaning Dad's wounds, so I set them down and fluttered back outside, where Mom had helped Dad into a sitting position (still on the ground) and sternly ordered him to sit and assess for injuries before getting up.

"Get a couple of cold, wet rags," Mom ordered in that unflappable way moms have of taking over a situation while someone who has twice had ambulances visit her classroom in her teaching career flutters around wondering if Dad will be offended by her running off to find the cat. So into the house I fluttered once more, where I slipped a pair of ballet flats on my feet and grabbed the rags, stopping to get one wet in the sink. I took them out to Dad, then fluttered off to chase my now-missing hellspawn cat. I found her by the shed, chased her down the side yard, and finally tackled her in the bark. She yowled in protest, but I had her. I fluttered back into the house, locked her in the bathroom so she could wash the bark off her fur, then fluttered back outside to help Mom get Dad up so he could sit in a chair.

By now, we had determined that he was fine, aside from being scraped up on his arms and nose. So of course, my next reaction after "endless fluttering" stepped in: laughter.

The more I tried not to laugh, the more I couldn't stop. Fortunately, Dad was able to see the humor by now, and after one comment about his nose, we were both giggling. Mom came back out to the patio with a handful of first aid stuff, muttering, "It's not funny..."

"I know!!" I chortled back at her. "It's not! It's not funny at all!" And still I laughed.

I offered Dad an extra-large band-aid for his nose, making him laugh and say, "That's not nice."

Finally, we got Dad in the house, where he changed out of the clothes he'd dripped blood on, and sat on the bed to watch some TV and rest. "I'll go finish my yard work in a few minutes," he said, to which Mom and I both snapped, "No, you won't!" We both then fluttered around, offering him tea, coffee, whatever. He accepted some coffee and settled in, surrounded by cats. Mom and I got back to watching the game.

A few minutes later, I looked down at the couch as I passed through the living room, and noticed two sad 'Nilla Wafers sitting there, where I'd left them. For some reason, this struck me as incredibly hilarious, and I'm still giggling about it several hours later.

All's well that ends well. Dad feels a little stiff, and his road rash isn't all that pleasant, but he's in good spirits. He gave Mom and I a good scare, for sure...and, being Dad, an hour later he was back outside, putting things away. But he came back in and had a nap, so it's all good.

Transitions

Warning--this post is really just me rambling and word dumping.

I measure my life in school years. As a kid, it was, "In my 7th grade year," or "in my junior year..." My college memories are all enfolded into neat little school years. I left college to become a teacher, so it makes sense that in the twelve years I've been out in the real world, I'd look back at my life and think of it in school years. For me, the New Year isn't really in January, it's in August, when all the stores put out sparkling packages of pencils and notebook paper, when back-to-school sales are all over.

This most recent school year, the one just drawing to a close with a lazy bit of summer vacation, has been one of the wildest and weirdest years of transition. I've had some incredibly wonderful things happen...but also some incredibly horrible things. As I look back on it, I sometimes feel a little dazed, but I wouldn't necessarily change anything that happened (except, you know, a few deaths).

Last August, just after beginning my new job at Petite School--and realizing that yes, indeed, I was born to teach music--I met a guy through online dating and we arranged to meet. I'll call him Jim--he's as much of a gymbo as I am. Jim and I have been good friends--never a couple, never a great romance. I think we both needed someone to talk to, to have a bit of fun with, and we had a lot of great conversations about politics and world events. Our friendship remained mostly text-based, though we got together here and there. I admit, perhaps I used him to help take my mind off someone else I'd been interested in--someone who had his own relationship.

Jim sent a text last night, and we happily chatted for a few minutes. He told me he's seeing someone new, and I'm honestly happy for him, though I admit I had a moment of shock. I knew, all along, that we were not a Great Romance, but I suppose I always held a soft spot for him and a little hope that we could maintain the status quo of flirtation for a while longer. The irony of the timing of this is not lost on me--he let me know he's moving on at exactly the same time as I start another school year, and a new adventure in my own life...perhaps the universe's way of telling me to walk into this free of old ideas about myself and open to new possibilities.

I'm ready for new possibilities. I've been in a holding pattern for a long time now--basically since I lost my job in 2010. From one school year to the next, I've waited to see what would happen--job? No job? This year, I broke out of the cycle of unemployment, step by tiny step. ESL Arts last summer. Petite School. Private lessons. All of this has led to the opportunity I'm about to begin, going back to being a high school choir director.

This school year was full of the craziest ups and downs. I made goal weight. I started dating a lot more--not just Jim, but quite a few "first dates" stuck in there, as well, that didn't go anywhere, but boosted my confidence. I even had a date--just last week--get cancelled by the guy because I wouldn't send him a picture of my breasts. No big loss, there.

I lost my sweet Harley Dude, and reeled in shock from that. I gained a couple of jobs, and started turning my finances around. A choir friend died suddenly from breast cancer. Then my niece, Echo, died suddenly on Easter/April Fool's Day.

I saw Keane in San Francisco and cried during "The Starting Line" and "Somewhere Only We Know." I even gained their drummer as a follower on Twitter. My weight loss story was published on Huffington Post...and then I stupidly read the comment section. I pulled off a very successful spring musical, and lived through the school owner telling me it wasn't good enough (whatever, the parents loved it, the kids loved it, and I loved it). I voted in my fifth presidential election, leg-pressed more than I weigh, and bought my first pair of knee-high boots. Actually, two pairs.

I sang my second season with Sac Choral, watched the moment Rosie Pro hit 100,000 miles, and even when my cat and then my niece died unexpectedly and far too young, and when my birth control made me a jerk all through January, and work stress left me feeling raw, my friends and my family resolutely stood next to me and supported me.

The last week or two, I've been feeling that scared-but-excited feeling I get when a new adventure is starting. It's a roller coaster of "I can do this!" and "What if I can't?" August is approaching and I'm looking at it as a beginning--my own personal New Year's celebration. The unknown is not easy to walk into.

But I've done this before, and I've come out of each adventure wiser and stronger for it. And I have a good feeling about this new one, that, with a lot of work and passion and positive attitude, I can make some really amazing things happen. You know me, I thrive on this stuff.

Happy New Year, friends. May it be Wild and Absolutely True.

And So It Goes

My weekend was a wild and wonderful mix of busyness, fun, choral fellowship, pride, and needing a nap. Sac Choral's concert went incredibly well, and all those hours of rehearsal, and all the time I was away from home, driving around, etc., were well worth it. Joining this group is one of the best moves I've ever made.

That said, I woke up on Sunday feeling hung-over. Even after a good rest, I was tired, headachy, and bleary-eyed. A hot shower, some ibuprofen, and a hot shower fixed me up, but I have to admit, in the days since, I've been running a wee bit behind my usual schedule.

Next week, of course, is production week at Petite School. I will be there all day on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The performance will be Thursday evening, and Friday is my normal teaching day there (I'm so showing a video, and I will so have earned it).

So this week is sort of the calm before the storm. Oh, next week won't be bad, just busy. I won't have a lot of time for myself, I'll be driving more, and I'll have the normal stress and nerves that happen when a music teacher is hoping her kids pull off a great performance. This week is my time to gear up for all of that, to order the sound system (done!), get enough sleep, get some good workouts in (if my left quadriceps would just stop being so whiny), and try, best as I can, to plan for the hectic week ahead. And it will be hectic. As awesome as my students at Petite School are, they are like any children anywhere in that they will have a gazillion questions and concerns that need to be addressed right now or huge panic might set in. I will be comforting fears and talking down the nerves and patting them on the heads to reassure them that they're going to be fine, etc. This, between setting up the stage, overseeing the delivery of our rented sound equipment, and finalizing details. It's the life of a music teacher--I'm not complaining, I've survived this before!

So next weekend, as May turns into June and my responsibilities at Petite School wind down for this school year, I will be sitting on the back patio, reading, possibly sipping a margarita. And the only sound you will hear from me is a satisfied sigh.

Being In the Present

I had just started writing a semi-whiny post about my stress over my upcoming Spring Musical at Petite School.

Then my friend Britni posted this on Facebook: How To Stop Anticipating the Worst By Focusing on the Present Moment. I read it. And it was absolutely right.

This musical is going to be awesome. And tonight, life is good.

Memorizing Latin and Ousting Demons...All In A Day's Work

Every once in a while, like anyone, I get a case of the Blahs and start to doubt myself. It started happening last night, as I sat at choir rehearsal sending our awesome conductor, Don, my particular brand of death-ray eyeballs. I was not pleased, you see, that he's making us memorize Festival Magnificat.

It was all I could do last year to memorize Personet Hodie, a Latin processional. The good news there was that we were singing in the dark, holding glow sticks, processing through the aisles of the theater towards the stage, so no one could see the short soprano matching vowels but almost ignoring the consonants because she couldn't recall half of the Latin words. The good news is, that for the return of that piece to this year's holiday performance, I have been able to memorize much more of it. This year, we added Betelehemu, a wonderful African song (obviously about Bethelehem and that one incident that happened there a couple thousand years ago). At first I thought I'd never memorize it but last night I found out I'm in really good shape with that, too.

But the Magnificat. Oy vey. The Magnificat.

For starters, it's a terrific piece--and it's brand-new. Our choir commissioned it to celebrate the 20th anniversary of our children's chorus, so the kids will be singing with us this beautiful, never-heard-before piece. It is joyous and full of crazy harmonies and rhythms (I love modern composers, they make everything so deliciously difficult for musicians). And it's in Latin.

And then Don told us to memorize it.

And I almost revolted.

You see, these Blahs had me believing last night that I simply could not memorize this piece. That Don was asking too much of me. They also extended to the upcoming winter performance that the students of Petite School will be putting on with me at the helm. Suddenly, I'm terrified that it won't be good enough, that everyone will regret hiring me, that the parents will riot in the streets because I'm teaching their kids sub-par songs or something.

Ridiculous? Totally. And yet, that's where my mind goes.

A lot of that goes back to the former boss, who criticized me at every turn. It angers me that I still sometimes let her words--a woman who left a principal job mid-contract to move in with her boyfriend and design cheerleader costumes--have any sort of effect on me. That I still sometimes, deep down, believe that I'm some kind of bad teacher because she said so.

She was wrong, damn it.

Every Friday, I watch my charges at Petite School learn more about music. They come to my class filled with excitement to be there, knowing they'll have fun. They love it! They listen! Sure, there are moments where they get a little silly and I have to stop and rein them in a bit--Old Principal would have told me this was bad classroom management. New Principal understands that this is how children are, and she likes that they are delighted enough by music class to get a little silly. And, of course, delighted that I can rein them in when they do.

So today, I decided to try a little exercise. It's time to exorcise the demon-voice of the ex-boss from my head once and for all. She has no place there, because she was so wrong. Years of good evaluations before she ever stepped into my classroom, glaring at me with her arms crossed, prove this. So I am going to type up a few of the nastier things she said, and some of the really stupid things she said (like the time she told the whole staff that our school would no longer let the kids play at the before-school recess. They could only stand on the playground and talk) and I'm going to burn that thing. Because the only value her words and opinions have in my life anymore are to allow me five minutes of being a silly pyro.

As for the Magnificat, well, I had a stern talking-to with myself this morning. Seems I have a music degree and years of experience memorizing choral music...so I'm pushing the negative thoughts aside and sitting down to do some serious memorization work on the piece. It's not a particularly long piece, and I know the rhythms and notes very well. I'm so-so on remembering dynamics and expressive devices, but Don is a fantastic conductor who gives them all to us so really, as soon as I memorize the Latin, I'm home free. That happens to be the hardest part to memorize, but some time spent this afternoon has been very beneficial in bringing me along.

If you'll excuse me, I have a burning ceremony to perform. Just don't expect me to utter any chants in Latin.

Smile!

I woke up at 4:00 this morning, after a very disturbing dream in which all of my teeth fell out. It started with one of my front teeth, and before I knew it, I was standing over a bathroom sink in some strange house I've never seen, with my teeth just falling out of my mouth. I was trying to save them all, in the hopes that a dentist might be able to put them back, but they were falling out of my hands and seeming to go all over the place.

Finally, still in this horrid dream, a voice said, "Megan, you're dreaming. Wake up, you're dreaming. This isn't real."

And I woke up.

Needless to say, I was wide awake and rubbing my tongue over my pearly whites.

I have a great smile (so I'm told, often). My teeth are healthy, and they're pretty straight, aside from the slightest gap in my front teeth (which was there when the braces came off and no, I don't plan to fix it, ever). I've had my share of wear and tear but my mouth is healthy, and I know my smile is one of the best parts of my face.

I was awake, but not ready to get up by any means, so at about 5:30, I reached for my Kindle and logged on to the internet to Google "dream interpretations." The first two sites I came across told me that because I had dreamed about losing all of my teeth, I would soon have a huge disaster in my life.

What?

At 5:30 in the morning, with the brain cells still moving in slow-motion, I was a little freaked out. Then, finally, I remembered one crucial point: dreams are not premonitions, they're our brain's way of sorting out our thoughts, our insecurities, our worries and everything else.

Just now, I went back to Google and found the following, from Dream Doctor:

Losing one's teeth is a common dream reflecting concerns about one's physical and social appearances, and effectiveness in a competitive environment. If you think about it, your pearly whites are a big part of your smile, and your smile is a big part of your attractiveness and appearance. A smile can be an indication to a potential mate to continue his or her seduction. A smile lets other people know whether you're happy or sad. Is it any surprise then that dreams about losing, crooked or unsightly teeth - losing your smile - usually come when you're not feeling attractive or desirable?

This is timely; the last few days I've been feeling a little bloated, as the affects of some poor food choices late last week catching up to me. And it's all very true--our smiles are sort of our gateway when meeting new people. We use them to build trust and good feeling with everyone from family to friends to potential employers. With all of the job searching I'm doing these days, and the potentials for interviews, my smile is one of the most important features I have.

This is why I'm glad I floss every night.

Dominoes

Push just one...and down they go. Opportunity abounds.

I slept like a baby last night. I hadn't been sleeping well, the last couple of weeks, being plagued by brief 3 a.m. wake-ups and various other issues. It's been a stressful time, you see.

Several weeks ago, I made the decision to work for a company. In the time since then, I have gone back and forth--wildly--between "Yes, I can!" and "Oh, my God, what the hell am I doing?" More and more, I began to believe that this was absolutely not the right move. But I passed my insurance exam last week (by the skin of my teeth) and because I was already up to my eyeballs in all of this, I knew I needed to go for it.

I started on Monday. My gut was telling me that this path was not right, but I went to the office and started the training. When my team leader was in a brief meeting with his boss, I escaped to the ladies room and watched my hands shake. But I gave him my time and attention that morning and vowed I would give this career a fair shake...even when it started to become apparent that it would be longer than expected before I saw any money come in, despite all of this time spent training.

Financially, I just can't accept that. I have bills to pay, and obligations to fulfill. I can't wait 'til May to start making money. And I also could not escape that feeling, deep in my gut, that Meg the People Person is not Meg the Salesperson. And much as it pains me to admit it, I am not savvy enough to manage a business of my own, which is what I would have been doing. The thought of the tax obligations, and putting more money into this before I had any return...it was just too much.

My unsuitability for this career was proven yesterday, when my team leader and I went out "in the field" for some of his business. I was so uncomfortable "cold calling" businesses, walking in and opening conversations about insurance.

Finally, I voiced my doubts to my team leader, and my financial concerns. We had a candid discussion and it ended with him giving me an option to think about things and let him know. But I think he knew which direction I was going. I apologized for wasting his time--he said, "You didn't. I'd rather you figure this out two days in, rather than two months in. Then I'd feel like I'd wasted my time."

Why did I go so far into this? Even knowing I was stressed and miserable and unhappy? The first word that comes to mind is desperation. It is not easy being an unemployed American in this economy. And this particular company talks a good talk about the earning potential and how great it is. It's a fantastic company, but it's not a company for everyone.

The next word is duty. On my own, I decided that I had some sort of duty to my family to do this. For the record, my parents are awesome at acknowledging that I am an adult, capable of making decisions and knowing what is best for myself. It was not their fault that I got it in my head that not proceeding with this would be letting them down...and I admit that as I continued to feel miserable, I almost blamed them, and felt that they saw me as a child. That's not fair. I have to own that I got myself into this without their assistance. Now that I have some clarity, I own it completely, and I am incredibly grateful that my parents accept my decision.

So...I walked away. I was not under contract. Various conversations with a few close friends on Monday helped me find some clarity. Nothing is worth the anxiety, the lack of sleep, the stress I was feeling about my finances and my future. In the immediate future, I need a job in which I can earn money for the work I put in. So I walked away.

It was one of the hardest decisions I've made in a long time. While I absolutely knew it was the best decision I could make, it was still very, very difficult to do. I felt like I might be letting my parents down. I worried they'd be mad (they're not. Confused, perhaps, but they trust me to know what is right for me). I worried that their friend, who works for this company and who has been quite supportive of me, would think I'm a complete flake or moron or both. The good news is that no one thinks I'm a moron. Even the friend, when I called her today, said, "I understand completely."

Yesterday, after I left the office, I wrote to my friends Shae and Nicki about what I'd done. They congratulated me for following my gut and then Shae said, "Things are about to change." I asked her what she meant.

"You have certain moments where you stand up for yourself or make a tough decision and its the first domino."

She was absolutely right. Within a few minutes, I had an interview set up with another company--selling insurance, but more to existing clients or to people who walk into the office. The job has a base salary, with opportunities to earn commission. It's not a sure thing--I got an interview because the man knows my friend Summer (connections matter!). But it's something. The first domino fell.

I went to teach my weekly piano lesson--I have one student currently--and towards the end, my student's best friend came to the door with her mother. The mother saw that I was teaching and immediately asked, "Are you taking any more students?" They live across the street and she wants piano lessons for her two children.

Another domino.

I have spent a lot of time yesterday and today applying for jobs at places like Raley's, Safeway, Home Depot, Whole Foods. I'm going to wear this town out with my job applications and find something to make money. There are careers to be had at some of these places. Careers I can do, and even find satisfaction in.

So there you have it. My financial stress is not over yet--I owe money on my taxes this year, etc. etc. But I know that I can find something and make this work. If anything, this whole debacle has lit a fire under my butt to get serious about finding a job, rather than wistfully staring at Ed-Join every day, wishing for music jobs to open up.

I'm going to knock the dominoes over and watch my life resume the course it was on before I lost my Stockton job.

Grandpa Bean

Today would have been my grandfather's 97th birthday, had he lived this long. Grandma and Grandpa Bean were a huge part of my earliest years; very few childhood memories don't include them. They were of that Greatest Generation that has been dying off in the last twenty years; the generation that rolled up their sleeves and fought a massive world war simply because it needed to be done.

Grandpa Bean was not a particularly educated man. He wasn't destined to be a shiny politician or a rich mogul. He was simply a hard-working, honest man who saved and spent wisely his whole life. The grandfather I knew was quiet, but he loved Aaron and I and seemed to enjoy our antics. He was able to enjoy his retirement because he had worked hard all of his life, even doing jobs he may not particularly have wanted to do.

A couple of evenings ago, Mom, Dad and I got into a discussion about a couple of books I read recently, both set in World War Two. The conversation moved on to a discussion about how fascinating that time in history is; how incredible that so many atrocities and shameful historical incidents like the Holocaust and the many atrocities of that time could occur (even, yes, in the United States, with the Japanese Internment) and yet, so many regular people could stand up and fight for others.

Grandpa Bean, and my Grandpa Cooper, as well, were both too old to go off to war, but both joined the military effort here at home. I'm sure neither particularly wanted to be soldiers--they had wives and families to think about--but the need was there, and they just rolled up their sleeves and did what needed to be done.

I started thinking about this last night. I have, of course, been self-absorbed of late about my own career prospects the last few weeks. For whatever reason, I am stubbornly clinging to this attitude that I will not like my new gig, selling insurance. My gut has been telling me it's all wrong, it's not a "good fit," and I'm honestly and truly terrified to go for it. But something occurred to me last night. What would Grandpa Bean have done in my situation? If faced with very few job prospects in his usual field, and an opportunity to start making a living in a new field he didn't particularly want anything to do with, what would he have done?

Simple: He would have taken the job, and done his best at it. He would have been glad to have something to pay the bills and keep food on the table.

And I am, too. Deep down, the thought of having an income, not to mention a purpose, again, is satisfying. I can't necessarily help that twisty feeling inside that I won't be happy doing it, but I can go in with the attitude of, "I will do this because I must. And something that is even better for me may come along soon." As one very wise friend pointed out last night, just having a job will make me appear more employable to the rest of the world than being unemployed does. So maybe taking on this job I don't really want will be the catalyst towards moving me out of two years of stagnation and unemployment to something that is even better for me.

I have very little hope that education will be a door that is open to me this year. Every day, I hopefully check Ed-Join, and there are so few jobs, and I know there are so many unemployed teachers in this state. But perhaps, as I get out in the community selling for my new job, a more reliable career path will be opened to me. I'm hopeful that opportunities will start appearing so that I can grab hold of them.

In the mean time, I need to take a lesson out of Grandpa Bean's book. I need to roll up my sleeves and do what needs to be done.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa. Thanks for being a great example.

Grandma Bean, my Aunt Donna holding my mom, and Grandpa Bean.
Circa 1946-47

This must have been taken in the 1960s.

This would have been sometime between 1987 and 1991, in our home
in Folsom.

August 1978