After 7 years, I moved. You're invited. (schmoments.blogspot.com)

building stairs @ deep ellum

Well, I guess this is goodbye.  And hello.

I began this blog in 2004 as a way to track my fitness.  You guys surprised the shit out of me by becoming, instead, one of the most important tools in my spiritual development.  We became for reals friends.  We rode out illnesses, marriages, divorces, babies, deaths and spiritual awakenings.  We became friends outside of the blogging world.  We sent each other real live mail.  Texts.  Calls.  Facebook messages.  I wrote for you sometimes.  And I know that sometimes, you wrote for me.

I was like a hungry caterpillar who didn't know she was hungry, and you spiritually fed me.  I ate.  I grew.  You fed me.  I grew.  I fully believed I was on my way to become the best caterpillar I could be.

In something like 2009, though if I really consider it, probably years earlier, a cocoon began to form around me.  Instead of comforting and safe, it felt terrifying and bleak.

I became very ill for about two years.  From lab work and MRI's, dr's could see some stuff was really wrong, but no one seemed to know why or how to make it better.  Most of the details so took over my existence that I never want to discuss them again; the worst of it was that for awhile, I I couldn't even take my students on field trips, drive or stay alone.   B was my rock.  He took care of me when I could not take care of myself, which was most of the time.  I was so dependent on him that I would have nightmares of something happening to him.

When I happened to be at my worst physically, his sweet mom called us to say she had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.  And it was Stage 4.  It was time for B to take care of someone else.

When he went to KC to care for his mom during her first treatment, we flew my own mom in to help take care of me.  She complained of abdominal pains.

About six weeks later, she appears to be 7 months pregnant.  A cancerous tumor has rapidly grown on her ovary, they tell us.  Turns out, it is also non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.  Two moms in two months. They feel it is inoperable.

I email my truly amazing therapist of seven years to draw support.  So much of my life had been changed because of her, but like my relationship to B, I suspected I was probably overly dependent.  In fact, when I moved to Dallas, I panicked about my inability to leave her.  I begged her to continue our sessions via Skype, which we did. This time,  return correspondence includes that she has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and will no longer be seeing patients.  "I'm sorry that you are being hit with three cancers," she said.  "I want you to know that you're very special to me."  

I always thought there was something secretly spiritual lingering beneath the professional relationship between a therapist and client.  

She later died.

My caterpillar body, life as I knew it, seemed to be dissolving.

Desperate, I bought an 800 dollar juicer and began pretty religiously following Gerson Therapy.  I began to finally gain strength physically as I watched other parts of my life slip away.

Reaching for any access to inner strength, I paid what felt like a gazillion dollars to learn Transcendental Meditation.  B went as well.

Many amazing things happened after this.  Both of our moms went into remission.  I got better, physically, little by little.  I even lost about sixty pounds.  I seemed to find my body's recipe for happiness; most importantly, I learned that what she says goes, no questions.  Oddly, for Bruce and I, meditating was the beginning of the end.  Maybe the old us' didn't have the sense of infinity to let go of what needed to be released?

The relationship was easy to release at first; the unbearable parts came later, when I realized how long he had been miserable, waiting for me to push the Eject button.  B and I had been like two friends who picked one another from the Catalog Of Intellectually Defendable Decisions to be life partners.  We realized that as far as love goes, that catalog sucks.

Another version of me, shed.  Am I the same person, I wondered?  Am I who I planned to be at all?  Am I the same chick who had a soon-to-be doctor husband and a baby plan? 

broken open @ deep ellum

I have no plan.

I'm a chick who busted out of a cocoon. I don't know what's next, but I know it will be perfect for whatever it is.  I'll be here: schmoments.blogspot.com

Namaste,
Faye

the very little I know.

I still have not wrapped my brain around this, which is why I haven't mentioned it. It is also why this will probably be short. A boy from my school died a highly publicized death last week. I did not teach him; we are a small urban middle school, though (an old building, built when middle schools were kept smaller), so everyone seems to know everyone somehow and the effects of tradgedy permeate. He died in a flood, and according to the news, as his parents and siblings watched helplessly. When my husband told me the news, the area of town where a boy had lost his life, my heart began to race. I signed into my work email for the first time this summer, selfishly pleading that it not be from my school, and especially not one of mine. Selfish, yes, but this was my auto reaction. And, when it sunk in that the child wasn't mine, I of course felt no better. Maybe because he his mine; we are all eachother's. I cannot imagine the loss felt by his family, his friends and even his teachers. Teachers love their kids fiercely; I wasn't always even aware of how strongly I felt about my students until something tapped into that well. The humbling moments. The moments that were sweet from the beginning. I remember the last day of classes, the dark cloud that floated over my lonely, child-less room...it hit me, quite suddenly, all of the times that I was not really "there," that my eyes didn't light up, that I didn't get how lucky I was (am). I guess that is what I have to offer now, which seems trite in comparison to what a family in my school community is going through...Of the little control I have, may I renew my view, my appreciation, my compassion for my students. For all people. May I see them in their best light. That is all I know for now. Peace.

Que Sarah, Sarah (link)

I've been following Sarah for about a year. Melanoma recently took her life, and I haven't really known what to say. I didn't know her well, but read her devoutely and with emotion.

If you read the comments on her blog from her husband's last post, you'll see that many people have a similar angle; it's amazing how we can be touched by someone we don't really know.

Today is her funeral, or better, a celebration of her life. If you haven't already, stop by her blog and read it start to finish. She is an inspiration. Obituary below.


Sarah Lynne Toller, age 30, beloved wife of Derek Kaskiw, lived her life to the full until Tuesday, June 12, 2007. Sarah is lovingly missed by her mother Pat Best and her husband Dave Best of Kingston; her father John Toller and brother Bryan Toller, both of London; grandparents Hall Snell of Kingston and Norah Toller of Ottawa; uncle Tony Snell and family of Richmond Hill, aunts Lynne Greene of Toronto and Cindy Snell of Montreal and their families. Sarah is also fondly remembered by her in-laws Garry and Elke Kaskiw and their entire family. Friends may call on Friday, June 22 from 7-9 p.m. at the James A. Harris Funeral Home, 220 St. James St. at Richmond, where a celebration of Sarah’s life will be held on Saturday, June 23 at 2:00 p.m. Visitation will also take place on Saturday, June 23 from 1:00 p.m. until 2:00 p.m. Cremation with interment later in London. A memorial donation to any of the following will be greatly appreciated: Canadian Melanoma Foundation, Canadian Cancer Society, Wellspring (London). Many thanks to Drs. Logan, Engel, Moulin and Gilchrist at LRCP, and Drs Schreier and Shetty and the Palliative Care team at Victoria Hospital for their honest and compassionate care. Thanks also to Kelly Stocks, RN, at ComCare for her kind and gentle home care. Special thanks to Tina Plat-Dekoter, Social Worker, LRCP, who journeyed with Sarah and Derek from the beginning and was always there to help when and where needed most.

Que Sera Sera, Que Sarah Sarah

karma.

I used to cut friendships off left and right, dismissing current friends and looking for new, more perfect friends for me. I'm one of those people who took the "Toxic Relationships" episode of Oprah WAY too seriously. Let's just say that I think karma may have found me....My picture album includes a lot of people who I thought of as a near best friend at once, who I eventually cut off, at least to some degree....The book could be titled, "My half-a## Attempts." More on that later.

Page one: The Needy-A## Takers

Everyone has met a needy-a## taker. Maybe you are on. Historically, I am a needy-a##-taker magnet. Now, if you think that says something about me, you're probably right. Needy-a## takers are frequently photographed next to "I-need-to-help-others-to-feel-worthy-ers." Needy-a##-takers, be aware, I will no longer enable yo' needy a##. Anyways, what usually happened here is that I ended up in some therapist-esque role in which things weren't at all reciprocal. A lot of talk about them and their ruminations, and very little talk about me and mine. Enter late night phone calls. Enter a new crisis. Enter another new crisis. And another...and I gave...and gave...and gave..and then I was absolutely exausted, and I mean beat, and I would disappear.

Page two: "No connection." (Translation: usually morally or politically inferior in some way)

I ran into a lot of "no connection" friends after I started avoiding needy-a##-takers like the plague. I have a lot of pictures with these friends, because it often seemed like we did have a connection, sometimes even for a long time. Soon, it was easy to find others morally and politically unsatisifying. I didn't see myself as judgemental; I just saw myself as not wanting to be around people who did not have similar values. I remember sharing 300 sq foot with a person and two animals, buying all my clothes at thrift stores...judging my friends for their weaknesses (the ones I didn't share), for their materialism, for their microderm abrasion when I knew they couldn't afford it, for caring too much about makeup, for not being into buying thrift store clothes, not recycling, not voting. I thought of myself as all-supporting, all-loving because of my minimalism and my politics, but I was hiding behind some sort of self-righteousness, I think. Why?

I believe that we are ALL connected, and that we need to see these connections, even in those who seem different. Do I still know needy-a##-takers? Yes. But, now I know boundaries, too, and there are people who I have rewarding friendships with now that I could not have managed being friends with before. Not that I would spend lots of time with people who I don't have fun with or who don't want to talk about what I want to talk about. And, I'm sure there are times when cutting off truly is necessary.

So, I'd like to ceremoniously shut the cover of my photo album of "Half A## Attempts," and start a new book, the book of "Namaste," maybe..."The divine in me acknowledges the divine that is in you."

when ure hero falls

Posted in dedication to two boys who I teach (middle school English/Reading). Names changed & details altered...you know, just in case.

Juan has a sibling who was shot and killed several years ago in a gang related incident. He works a night job to help his mother with the bills. Half-awake, he sits in my class scribbling precocious lines of poetry onto my assignments (which he sometimes finishes). Clearly an old soul, murky from the hazy confusion of adolesence along with the oppression of poverty and it's angry mirror of violence. He wants nothing to do with gangs or violence, he tells me on one of the mornings that he has wondered into my classroom before school. It has hurt his family enough. He just got off of work. He says he's tired, he will try to pay attention.

The other boy, Miguel (a gang member; a kid who has been in a lot of trouble), tells me with heavy eyes that his father has begun drinking again after two years of sobriety. It is my planning period. I don't know where he is supposed to be, but he is not there. His mind is at home anyways. His eye is on the bottle that has stolen his dad away. His body is in my classroom, looking for an answer that I've been looking for for years. I share an anecdote about my own trip down this road, and I think back to my grade school counselor, Mrs. Johnson. When I was young, she shared with me a version a piece of her life story that was similar to mine; in a breath she handed to me my discarded, crumpled potential -wrapped carefully in a tiny box, tied with strings of hope. She was my proof that it was possible to make it through something through which I didn't feel I had the strength to withstand. By virtue of existence, she was the hope that remained in my Pandora's box. "God must be preparing you to help another child through this," she said.

I grasped the box of my fragile potential with knuckles whiter than winter; I tucked it deep in my soul. Sometimes I forgot it was there. And, sometimes I forget it is there. And sometimes it sings the songs it knew all along. The songs that all of our souls have always known. I believe life is about clearing a way to our souls, which have always known "the answers"...Clearing the distractions of life...the crippling oppression of poverty, the paralyzing oppression of wealth.

I do not know if I will make a difference as a teacher, but I know that the difference is already in me. At times, I am blinded by the endless distraction of beauracracy and expectations I do not know how to meet. Overall, it gives me clarity...Not clarity in my own life, but a clearer picture of the world as it really is. At night, I drive home to my comfortable, if not fancy neighborhood where most people pretend that poverty does not exist. It would be comforting to believe that, but in the morning I go back to the school that is 95% poor and minority, tucked away between used car lots and gang signs painted on overpasses. This is reality.

As for middle school...I never thought I would teach middle school; it was the worst time of my life. Adolesence in itself is pandora's box. By definition, it is a time of trauma. Add poverty. Add violence. May my kids recognize the elusive hope that hides in the corner; some never find it. Pandora found it. Mrs. Johnson found it, and she showed it to me.

I believe that Tupac found it, be it with slippery fingers. He wrote about it time and again.

Tupac wrote this poem after his seemingly untouchable mother became addicted to cocaine. She was/is an activist for social justice, a vigilante. A liver of life who gave up on living for a while.

When Ure Hero Falls
4 My Hero (My Mother)
by Tupac Shakur

When your hero falls from grace
all fairy tales R uncovered
myths exposed and pain magnified
the greatest pain discovered
u taught me 2 be strong
but I'm confused 2 c u so weak
u said never 2 give up
and it hurts 2 c u welcome defeat
when ure Hero falls so do the stars
and so does the perception of tomorrow
without my Hero there is only
me alone 2 deal with my sorrow.
your Heart ceases 2 work
and your soul is not happy at all
what R u expected 2 do
when ure only Hero falls