Shopping Carts

When I think of shopping carts these days, the focus is usually on (a) whether I need one...surely I can carry toilet paper, toothpaste, a gallon of milk, and a carton of ice cream, right? OR (b) if I do need a cart, can I choose one with working wheels that don't squeak?  But a while back one of the grocery stores back home replaced all their carts with fancy new blue shopping carts, complete with cup holders.  That change got me thinking about the value of the shopping cart to our process of maturing. 

When you're little, the shopping cart is either a source of joy or frustration.  If you're forced to sit in the seat and you just don't want to be there, it's cause for a major melt-down.  Then there's the transition to the back of the cart.  You're a little too big to ride in the front, but Mom doesn't want to have to run herd on you, so to keep you contained, you ride in the back--in being the operative word. This particular stage can either be a source of joy or frustration, depending on the day and the contents of the cart.  How many times have you seen the kid who wanted to hold everything Mom or Dad was putting in the cart?  And in the logic of a four-year-old, it was vitally important that the items be handed to you to place in the cart.  You had become the keeper of the groceries.  Of course if you got over-crowded, that wasn't so pleasant, but in your newly acquired post, you had the amazing ability to hold more in your lap than seems humanly possible for a four-year-old sized body. 

On special occasions when Mom was in a particularly permissive mood, or when an older sibling had control of the cart, you had the best position possible related to the cart--hanging on to the outside of the cart, usually at the back, with your feet resting on the bar just above the wheels, and with someone pushing you around the store.  If you were really, REALLY lucky, that someone would run and send you on the closest thing to a roller-coaster ride you could get without actually going to Six Flags (or for those of us from back home, Holiday World or King's Island). Of course some children actually got to ride under the cart on that special shelf for dog food, potting soil, cartons of canned soft drinks or bulk items like paper towels.  I was never one of those children.  Mom said it was too dangerous, even on her permissive days.  This seems to me a good spot for those days when you wanted to hide from grown-ups, but I still don't see it bringing the thrill of the hanging-on-for-your-life position. 

The next transition was to life outside the cart.  Sometimes you held on to the side of the cart as Mom pushed, and sometimes you walked between Mom and the cart, your back to her front, with your hands resting just inside of hers as you pushed together.  This was a trial stage, but the next stage might not come for quite some time--the day you pushed the cart all by yourself.  For some people, I'm convinced this stage doesn't happen until college.  You've moved past the runs to the grocery store just for junk food, and even though you're still buying junk food, you're also thinking about the other things you'll need to survive college.  Of course I'm still convinced I can hold the toilet paper, toothpaste, gallon of milk, and carton of ice cream without that cart.

  

Back to School, College Edition

My friend Kristen recently blogged about kids going back to school, and the joys of sending kids off to Kindergarten.  Today, I experienced another kind of first day of school--the first day of the fall semester at OU.  I teach English Composition, and I have to say there's not much that I enjoy more than the energy that freshmen bring to the classroom.

Those who've been teaching for a while might say that teaching is a kind of performance, and like all live performances, the performer feeds off the energy of the audience (in this case, the students).  One of the things I really love about my job is the chance to connect with my students, even if it's something as simple as finding a little silliness to make them laugh.  Telling them the only joke my mother can remember was one such bit of silliness.  That the joke is slightly off-color only adds to the humor because that is SO NOT my mom.  But it worked because my students laughed...and I laughed with them.  I can try to connect with them by sharing a bit of me, and in return, they bless me with sharing a bit of themselves. 

I gave my students their first homework assignment today (stop judging me!  it was easy!), and already I have 18 e-mails in my inbox.  So yes, I'm impressed--right now they're eager and they're fresh.  I asked what they expected out of the course, how they feel about writing, and if there was anything else they wanted me to know.  This is where some of the reward comes--the girl who's looking forward to this class because she thinks the teacher is funny (which may not last, but it was the impression I was going for today, so I'm glad I succeeded); the shy student who was glad we spent time learning each others' names today--these tell me I'm on the right track.

I've been thinking a lot about joy lately and what brings joy to different people, so maybe the most interesting question I asked was for my students to describe to me something that brings them joy.  The answers varied from family to a brother with Downs' syndrome whose smile brightens his sister's day to the young lady who appreciated the architecure on campus to the student who was joyful he didn't lose his toenail after falling down in front of the bookstore.  From the simple to the profound, my students' joy was contagious--their answers were good reminders.  And I hope to keep those reminders for that time later in the semester when my students are no longer eager but overwhelmed, no longer fresh but exhausted.  And in those moments, I hope to remind them about the joy in life.  Yes, I want them to write well, and I want them to learn new things about writing and arguments, but I don't want them to lose sight of the more important things in life. 

As Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet, "Work is love made visible.  And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy."

Good friends and Norah Jones

So my friend Megan is a Norah Jones junkie.  Back in March, for her one year anniversary, she and her husband traveled to Indianapolis to see Norah (as she familarily calls her) in concert.  Being from Indiana, I know just how long that drive is, so all I can say is that Megan is a dedicated fan, and her husband is a loving husband (not that he's not a Norah fan, but I wonder if would have driven to Indiana without Megan's desire to do so).  Anyway, about a month ago, Megan asked me if I was interested in going to the Norah Jones concert in OKC.  I said I'd think about it and get back to her.

As so often happens, life intervened, and thinking about the concert was pushed to the far recesses of my mind.  Last week, Megan asked me if I'd like to go, and at that time, money was too tight to spend any on a concert.  Megan understood, and knew that Ben would go with her.  Fast forward a day, and Megan, one of the kindest and sweetest people I know (she's a 1st grade teacher with a personality to match--you know, the sweet, young, pretty teacher you always wanted), well Megan says she's already paid for two tickets, and Ben saw the concert in March, so she's willing to give me his ticket if I'm interested.  Yep, that's the kind of sweet, giving person she is.  I'm no fool (most of the time), so I accepted.

Last night we made our way, thanks to Megan's Garmin and no thanks to the closed roads in OKC, to the OKC Civic Center Music hall.  There's something about a performance hall that makes me excited.  I feel like I'm surrounded by culture and that maybe some of it will brush off on me.  There's also the pressure, combined with a small thrill, of being surrounded by what I call "swanky" people.  At first I felt underdressed, but soon saw folks in their shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops, and then I felt safely middle-of-the-road. 

We were seated next to a man and a woman I assumed was his wife.  He was one of those arm-rest hogs, and was also a commentator until he wore himself out with his head-bobbing and toe-tapping.  I'm pretty sure he fell asleep toward the end of Norah's set, and he and his wife (?) made their way out before the encore (silly people!).  I started the night a little tense (having to cross my arms or else sit arm to arm with a stranger) and a little annoyed (doesn't he know that there's an unseen plane--you know, like the one Dwight marked with pencils between his desk and Jim's desk in the first season of "The Office).  But then I got over myself.  It's hard sometimes, but necessary.  When I made the Dwight connection in my head, I knew I had to let it go, so sometimes I'd let my arms down and thus touch this total stranger.  It struck me how odd social dynamics at a venue like a concert can be. 

What can I say about the concert except that Norah Jones is amazing.  She played a lot from her new album, and I like that she's mixed it up a bit.  There was more of a rockin' vibe than I'd anticipated.  I was expecting a more laid back evening, and while she eventually got there, she started with lots of spunk.  I expect that Norah Jones would meet Mr. Bingley's (Jane Austen's version, not mine) expectation of an accomplished lady--she sings, she plays, and does I know not what.  Now if only she can embroider a cushion, she's got it made.

So thanks, Megan, for a great night, and more importantly, for your friendship.

Nature, part two...or butterflies and happiness

So yes, I just posted my first blog, and here I am, already writing a second one.  I laid down to go to sleep for the night, and my head just kept spinning (not in a Linda Blair way) with ideas for what I'd write next. 

I've heard somewhere that happiness is like a butterfly--you cannot chase it if you want to catch it, but rather you must be at peace and wait for it to land on you.  I recently had the chance to visit home after my summer school course had ended.  I made the 12 hour journey home to Indiana, and was surrounded by the comfort of home, which really translates to the comfort of Mom.  I was immediately struck by the sense of relief I felt when I entered Mom's presence.  Here I could lay down my burdens, my expectations of myself, the expectations of others for me, and the masks I sometimes wear.  Here I could stop the performance of me and simply be me--a me loved unconditionally by the woman who bore me. 

I realize what a blessing I have in my mother.  Even as a teenager, I knew that God had given me the perfect mother for me.  My mother's not perfect, but she's perfect for me.  And so here I stop to praise God for this blessing.

As I was driving home, I realized that my mother has always encouraged my creative side, especially the crafting side of me.  She's a seamstress by trade, so creating things with her mind and her hands has always been the model she set for me.  I can remember clearly the small wooden crafts I would paint, and as I got older, the molded plaster I would bring to life.  The small wooden shelf, with a base coat of white, and a hand painted (free-handed, mind you) blue ribbon was my offering to her at 10 years old.  Seeing it years later, I can honestly say I was no prodigy with the paintbrush.  But for a 10 year old, I was decent.  And my mother encouraged me, both verbally, and sentimentally by holding on to the shelf that was too small to serve any real purpose other than to show a daughter trying to express her love for her mother. 

My expressions of love still often take the form of some craft.  On this most recent visit home, mom and I had lots of "projects," and we enjoyed each one.  We found some Goodwill bargains, including a $15 glider rocker, a $5 chair, and a $5 Hollywood bed frame to set up in the sewing room (and thus get the twin mattress out of the garage and into the house where it can be used by the grandkids when they spend the night).  We bought fabric to cover chairs she'd bought for me a few weeks prior to my visit, strapping material to repair the $5 dollar chair's seat, and materials for a baby shower gift Mom inspired me to make. 

All of this was a relief from the mental work of teaching summer school.  But it was in another of my "creative" outlets that my mother encouraged that I found the serenity of happiness.  My mother sold the house I'd grown up in when I graduated from college, and she moved into town closer to church and work.  And by closer I mean she can look out her back window and see the church building.  The house she moved into is in a retirement community and the house was already landscaped, with the community taking care of the front yard, and the tenant tending to any back yard planting he or she chose to add.  While I lived at home while working on my Master's degree, my mother allowed me to plant a rose garden, and I learned from a neighbor about pruning the maple tree in the back, from a church member about how easy it is to root a mum leaf, and from a former elder how invasive bermuda grass is.  Some of my projects have survived, like the knock-out roses on the side of the house, and some have not, like the original rose garden that no longer exists. 

My yard work now when I visit home is usually limited to a few annuals, if I visit in the spring, or some trimming if I see it needs doing.  The maintenance men are busy, and I think trimming is not on their priority list, but after living in an apartment, I enjoy being in the yard again, so I trim when needed.  On this most recent visit, it was needed.  The snowball bushes on either end of Mom's porch were starting to get out of control, and they'd already been trimmed once this summer.  Mom was on the verge of asking for them to be taken out completely, but I hated that thought since the blooms in the spring are sweet to smell and sweet to see.  Anyway, I started trimming.  And as it's been throughout most of the country this summer, the day I decided to trim was a scorcher.  I tried to get started early, but it wasn't long before the sweat was pouring.  My hands were covered in pollen and sweat, and my pruning hand still bears the mark from a blister. 

It was during a water break that it happened.  I was on the porch, drinking from the sweating ice-water glass, and evaluating where I needed to trim next.  And as I sat, calmly (or exhaustedly) pondering my next move, a butterfly, mostly black, with blue spots on the back of its wings and orange and blue on the "leg" side of its wings, landed on my hand.  The next cut no longer seemed as important, and the beauty of one of God's creatures amazed me.  I'd never really realized how fuzzy a butterfly's body is, or how long the "sucker" on its mouth (?) is.  I must have tasted pretty good, covered in sweat and bush pollen, because this wasn't a quick flittering of a landing before he (and I'm not sure why I gendered him with way) moved on quickly.  This was a good five minute inspection of my hand.  He was calm enough that my mother, who is vision impaired, was able to get a good close up look at him before he was eventually startled away. 

As I stood admiring the butterfly, I remembered the saying about happiness, and I praised God for the serenity of the moment and the reminder that when times are good, I should rejoice, and when times are bad, I should remember that God made one as well as the other.

Nature, right here in my apartment complex

So I've lived in my apartment for a little over a year now, but it's only been within the last month or so that I started feeding the fish.  The complex's name of Riverbend is a little deceptive.  There's no river, and I haven't seen Pocahontas yet (you know, because she's "Just Around the Riverbend," and yes, I still sing that phrase in my head any time someone asks me where I live).  But there is a neat water feature, complete with cascading water (thanks to the gurguling water pumped out of the PVC piping and the strategically placed rocks and boulders), goldfish, blue fish, tadpoles, and, best of all, turtles.  There are baby turtles (adorable!), teenage turtles (at least according to the women in the office, and no, they're not mutants, nor are they ninjas), and a couple of adult turtles. 

I started my feeding route close to the front office, where the goldfish gather and a few baby turtles sun themselves on the rocks.  As I made my way around the water feature, the fish got a little more skittish and a lot more aggressive.  The blue fish live just past the bridge to the pool, and they'll literally jump out of the water for their food.  It was here that I met my first adult turtle, and the best part--rather than being scared of me, he actually climbed up to the edge of the water, getting closer to me, and eventually he ate out of my hand.  How cool is that?!?

A few days later I discovered the "feeding spot" thanks to the maintenance man who scoops leaves out of the water on a regular basis.  He mentioned that the turtles come swimming when he stands there, and that was all the encouragement I needed.  From then on, after my obligatory rounds of the "upper levels," I make my way to the bare spot in the middle of the ornamental grass bordering the water.  Sure enough, the turtles are willing to brave the blue fish who'll snatch the food from right in front of them.  At my last count there were 2 adults, 2 teens, and at least 6 baby turtles (not counting the two baby sunbathers from the upper level), and all of them came swimming, hoping for a nibble.  Only the one adult has been brave enough to eat from my hand, but I'm hopeful more will follow suit.

This summer I taught Comp I at the University.  I'd ride the bus in the morning, and return to the apartment around lunch time.  After that first day of feeding, I was hooked, and a stop by the office to get a cup full of food became a daily ritual.  No matter what kind of day I'd had in class, I was still awed by this little oasis of nature, in the middle of a college town, and the peace that came from observing and immersing myself in God's creation.  So thank you, God, for fish, and tadpoles, and turtles, and an apartment manager who provides free fish food to feed them.