Back in the U.S., I never really could get into yoga. In New York, it seemed more the realm of snooty former sorority girls, clad in designer leggings and drinking designer organic iced tea in carefully constructed environments designed to feel natural, pristine, calming, and exclusive. The handful of classes I tried felt competitive and conspicuous. You could feel each participant trying to outdo the others with the length of their reach, the balance of their poses, the force of their inner peace, the trendiness of their Lulu Lemons.
But there's a free yoga class in Carolina Park on Saturdays, and lately on most Saturday mornings I seem to end up there. This yoga class is a different story. This is the yoga of the people.
In this haphazard crew, you might be doing your sun salutations next to middle-aged moms or uncle-types wearing track suits or jeans or a soccer jersey, or shorts that may also be swim trunks. Some people bring mats to be on, some bring beach towels, some just pop a squat barefoot in the grass.
The class is located in one of the prettiest of lush, shady spots in the park, but at the end of the day, it's still a public park. One time a bunch of people dressed as ninjas swarmed around the nearby pagoda and began doing slow-motion battle moves with big long ninja sticks, I guess maybe they're filming a ninja movie? Another time there was a thumping reggaeton beat the whole time -- DOOSH-a-doosh-doosh, DOOSH-a-doosh-doosh -- from a nearby festival in the park. Yet another time a dog who had escaped his leash came around sniffing our feet and butts and crotches.
Butt-sniffing ninja warrior reggaeton yoga, that's more my style. I wonder if they have that in New York.
It is also comforting to me that in spite of my novice status, that I am not the worst one in this class. There are always people more mystified than I by the pretzel-like postures we're supposed to take on, and when we do core-strengthening type exercises, there are always people who give up before I do, or whose muscles are trembling even worse than mine. One time there was an old guy next to me who would make these noises like Ooooh or aaaahhh or eeeeeehhh with every new pose, as if he were maybe passing some painful gas or getting some dislocated joints re-set, or lowering himself into a bath that was several degrees too hot. It was funny and distracting.
The two instructors are welcoming and open and gentle with their corrections and encouragement, and they're matter-of-fact about what we're trying to accomplish and why. And I'm also learning lots of useful Spanish phrases, like the lift up your heels and tighten your glutes...
Well I was going to tell you about a moment of clarity during my last class, but I ended up telling you about the class's pleasing idiosyncrasies instead. I'll save clarity for another day.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Aftershocks
It's been a strange week.
One of those weeks where it's all you can do to get yourself dressed and out the door for work in the morning. Forget packing a lunch, or laundry, or tidying up, or making a healthy dinner. One of those weeks at work where it feels like it's all you can manage to have some semblance of a lesson planned, where you hope the kids don't notice that you're winging it, and you haven't quite ironed out all of the details of the lesson you are starting in 5 minutes. One of those weeks where your body certainly is where it's supposed to be, answering emails, attending meetings, up in front of the classroom or behind the conference table, monitoring the patio during recess... but your heart and mind are somewhere else. My heart was on the coast. My head was in the headlines.
It was a week that felt like it took place in grayscale, despite the crisp brightness of the days. It was a zombie week, in no small part because of lack of sleep.
Several nights this week there were aftershocks strong enough that I felt them here in my apartment in Quito. The first thing I noticed, and what woke me up, was the sound of hangers banging and knocking into each other in my closet. Then I realized that my apartment was vibrating, shaking from side to side. One of the tremors felt like a roll - I remember feeling it from the foot of my bed moving towards the head. Being on the 10th floor makes it kind of feel like you're in a swing. I remember thinking in my sleep-addled state, what is it that I'm supposed to do? Should I be doing something other than staring wide-eyed into the darkness and feeling my heart rate accelerate?
Luckily, the tremors weren't severe and didn't cause any damage close to home. But it was hard to go back to sleep afterwards. My apprehension turned itself into dreams. First, an evacuation dream of my apartment, then my apartment turned into a school, and I had to evacuate hundreds of children from many floors up. Almost all of my anxiety dreams are some sort of school-based scenario. It's something we often take for granted as teachers, but when it comes down to it, we spend our working hours responsible for the very lives of our students. It's an overwhelming thought if you think hard about it.
A friend of mine said that this week felt like the week after a terrible bus crash last year in which half a dozen Colegio Americano teachers were severely injured. There's a surreal feeling, especially when everything in your daily life remains almost exactly the same. You try to maintain stability and constancy for the sake of the kids. You clean all of the non-perishables out of your pantry and put them in the collection bins. You put together an emergency kit to keep next to your bed. For the kids, you try your best to model optimism, empathy, action, strength. Steady as she goes. But still, you feel helpless. You know that the lives of the people affected by the tragedy will never be the same. You know that out there, there is nothing but disaster, devastation, destruction, uncertainty, hunger, desperation, heartbreak, fear. You know that for the people who lost family members, friends, homes, businesses, neighbors, life will never truly be back to normal.
And yet, as always in times of crisis, there are opportunities to be truly moved by the selflessness of others. As Mr. Rogers says, look for the helpers.
Ecuador jerseys were everywhere this week, bright yellow beacons of solidarity and hope. In the Supermaxi, there was hardly a can of beans to be found, because they had all been swept up in a whirlwind of donations by citizen shoppers. Carts were lined up in the checkout aisle full to the brim - one with water, another with cans of food, others with toilet paper, diapers, rice, cooking oil, pots and pans. Employees were hurriedly restocking the shelves with all of the emergency items, not even unpacking them from their bulk containers, because they knew the customers would be buying them in bulk to send to the coast. As quickly as the red-aproned workers could stock the shelves, the relief supplies were whisked away into shopping carts and onto the conveyer belts and then sorted back into boxes to be transported to the coast.
There are collection stations across the city and the country, called puntos solidarios, or solidarity points. Many, many tons of food and clothing have been donated. So many people wanted to go and help out that officials had to send out warnings that the affected areas had reached capacity and couldn't sustain more volunteers. Rescuers have recovered 113 people alive. Millions of dollars have been donated by individuals, foreign governments, and international and local organizations.
There is a long, hard road ahead. It will take years to rebuild. But, to echo the sentiments of just about everyone everywhere around here, from radio ads, to posters, to newspapers and social media, Ecuador will come through this stronger than ever before. Fuerza, Ecuador.
One of those weeks where it's all you can do to get yourself dressed and out the door for work in the morning. Forget packing a lunch, or laundry, or tidying up, or making a healthy dinner. One of those weeks at work where it feels like it's all you can manage to have some semblance of a lesson planned, where you hope the kids don't notice that you're winging it, and you haven't quite ironed out all of the details of the lesson you are starting in 5 minutes. One of those weeks where your body certainly is where it's supposed to be, answering emails, attending meetings, up in front of the classroom or behind the conference table, monitoring the patio during recess... but your heart and mind are somewhere else. My heart was on the coast. My head was in the headlines.
It was a week that felt like it took place in grayscale, despite the crisp brightness of the days. It was a zombie week, in no small part because of lack of sleep.
Several nights this week there were aftershocks strong enough that I felt them here in my apartment in Quito. The first thing I noticed, and what woke me up, was the sound of hangers banging and knocking into each other in my closet. Then I realized that my apartment was vibrating, shaking from side to side. One of the tremors felt like a roll - I remember feeling it from the foot of my bed moving towards the head. Being on the 10th floor makes it kind of feel like you're in a swing. I remember thinking in my sleep-addled state, what is it that I'm supposed to do? Should I be doing something other than staring wide-eyed into the darkness and feeling my heart rate accelerate?
Luckily, the tremors weren't severe and didn't cause any damage close to home. But it was hard to go back to sleep afterwards. My apprehension turned itself into dreams. First, an evacuation dream of my apartment, then my apartment turned into a school, and I had to evacuate hundreds of children from many floors up. Almost all of my anxiety dreams are some sort of school-based scenario. It's something we often take for granted as teachers, but when it comes down to it, we spend our working hours responsible for the very lives of our students. It's an overwhelming thought if you think hard about it.
A friend of mine said that this week felt like the week after a terrible bus crash last year in which half a dozen Colegio Americano teachers were severely injured. There's a surreal feeling, especially when everything in your daily life remains almost exactly the same. You try to maintain stability and constancy for the sake of the kids. You clean all of the non-perishables out of your pantry and put them in the collection bins. You put together an emergency kit to keep next to your bed. For the kids, you try your best to model optimism, empathy, action, strength. Steady as she goes. But still, you feel helpless. You know that the lives of the people affected by the tragedy will never be the same. You know that out there, there is nothing but disaster, devastation, destruction, uncertainty, hunger, desperation, heartbreak, fear. You know that for the people who lost family members, friends, homes, businesses, neighbors, life will never truly be back to normal.
And yet, as always in times of crisis, there are opportunities to be truly moved by the selflessness of others. As Mr. Rogers says, look for the helpers.
Ecuador jerseys were everywhere this week, bright yellow beacons of solidarity and hope. In the Supermaxi, there was hardly a can of beans to be found, because they had all been swept up in a whirlwind of donations by citizen shoppers. Carts were lined up in the checkout aisle full to the brim - one with water, another with cans of food, others with toilet paper, diapers, rice, cooking oil, pots and pans. Employees were hurriedly restocking the shelves with all of the emergency items, not even unpacking them from their bulk containers, because they knew the customers would be buying them in bulk to send to the coast. As quickly as the red-aproned workers could stock the shelves, the relief supplies were whisked away into shopping carts and onto the conveyer belts and then sorted back into boxes to be transported to the coast.
There are collection stations across the city and the country, called puntos solidarios, or solidarity points. Many, many tons of food and clothing have been donated. So many people wanted to go and help out that officials had to send out warnings that the affected areas had reached capacity and couldn't sustain more volunteers. Rescuers have recovered 113 people alive. Millions of dollars have been donated by individuals, foreign governments, and international and local organizations.
There is a long, hard road ahead. It will take years to rebuild. But, to echo the sentiments of just about everyone everywhere around here, from radio ads, to posters, to newspapers and social media, Ecuador will come through this stronger than ever before. Fuerza, Ecuador.
Monday, April 18, 2016
Terremoto
This weekend was a contrast between earth and sky.
On Friday for the three day weekend we ascended into the clouds, hiking up to a nature reserve accessible only by foot or by mule. At the summit you find a wooden lodge with an orchid garden, a giant swing that makes you feel like you're flying into the forest, and no electricity.
At one point I caught a glimpse of the view from the top, but most of the time the sky all around us was totally clouded in. That, along with the candlelight, gave our weekend an ethereal, heaven-like quality. We existed in a fog of white, high above the world. We inhabited the sky.
Then, the world shook. It felt like when the above-ground subway passes directly overhead, only it didn't stop. The only thing above us was sky, and we were many, many miles from the nearest train. The building rattled around us, and I grabbed the arms of the two people sitting next to me. As it dawned on us what was happening, we scrambled outside, where the ground continued to shake underneath us. After the earth stopped quaking, my legs continued for some time.
We had enough cell reception to confirm that family and friends had not been harmed, and to let others know that we were all right.
But the true magnitude of a 7.8 didn't impact until we came down the mountain and reconnected to our phones, our Facebooks, our various newsfeeds... Hundreds of people dead, thousands injured, and thousands more suddenly homeless, all in some of the poorest, most remote provinces of this beautiful country. People are still trapped under the rubble.
And here we are, so close to the epicenter, yet so far. Collecting bottles of water and cans of food doesn't feel like enough. I want to gather up souls, invite people into my home, bulldoze or bleed or brandish a sword, embrace the ones who are hurting, wrap them in blankets, rebuild their homes. I want to send them up into the clouds, like we were this past weekend, so they won't have to look at the earth that betrayed them.
On Friday for the three day weekend we ascended into the clouds, hiking up to a nature reserve accessible only by foot or by mule. At the summit you find a wooden lodge with an orchid garden, a giant swing that makes you feel like you're flying into the forest, and no electricity.
At one point I caught a glimpse of the view from the top, but most of the time the sky all around us was totally clouded in. That, along with the candlelight, gave our weekend an ethereal, heaven-like quality. We existed in a fog of white, high above the world. We inhabited the sky.
Then, the world shook. It felt like when the above-ground subway passes directly overhead, only it didn't stop. The only thing above us was sky, and we were many, many miles from the nearest train. The building rattled around us, and I grabbed the arms of the two people sitting next to me. As it dawned on us what was happening, we scrambled outside, where the ground continued to shake underneath us. After the earth stopped quaking, my legs continued for some time.
We had enough cell reception to confirm that family and friends had not been harmed, and to let others know that we were all right.
But the true magnitude of a 7.8 didn't impact until we came down the mountain and reconnected to our phones, our Facebooks, our various newsfeeds... Hundreds of people dead, thousands injured, and thousands more suddenly homeless, all in some of the poorest, most remote provinces of this beautiful country. People are still trapped under the rubble.
And here we are, so close to the epicenter, yet so far. Collecting bottles of water and cans of food doesn't feel like enough. I want to gather up souls, invite people into my home, bulldoze or bleed or brandish a sword, embrace the ones who are hurting, wrap them in blankets, rebuild their homes. I want to send them up into the clouds, like we were this past weekend, so they won't have to look at the earth that betrayed them.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
One of those days
Some days the pages come out of the printer backwards and upside-down.
Some days everyone's talking in circles.
Some days you can't quite find what you're looking for.
Some days it drizzles more or less without stopping.
Some days half the kids' homework didn't get done, and paltry excuses accrue like desiccated flies on flypaper.
On days like this, it is almost certain that your Inbox will have reached its quota, and you must eliminate unnecessary emails in order to continue.
In this case, it is also virtually certain that you will delete emails that turn out to be necessary after all.
Luckily, days like these don't last forever, and sometimes even arrive with a built-in cure. The warmth of a chat with family can evaporate the cold, wet chill from the air. Learning something new and interesting in Spanish class can erase the frustration and futility of beating all those dead horses - the disobedient printer, the engorged Inbox, the guilt-ridden, wide-eyed stares of the culprits of the incomplete homework. And a nice hot meal and a cold beer can fill you up enough to cancel out the absence of that thing you never found, or the sought-after words that never got said.
Onward!
Tomorrow is a different day. Let's see what truth it holds.
Some days everyone's talking in circles.
Some days you can't quite find what you're looking for.
Some days it drizzles more or less without stopping.
Some days half the kids' homework didn't get done, and paltry excuses accrue like desiccated flies on flypaper.
On days like this, it is almost certain that your Inbox will have reached its quota, and you must eliminate unnecessary emails in order to continue.
In this case, it is also virtually certain that you will delete emails that turn out to be necessary after all.
Luckily, days like these don't last forever, and sometimes even arrive with a built-in cure. The warmth of a chat with family can evaporate the cold, wet chill from the air. Learning something new and interesting in Spanish class can erase the frustration and futility of beating all those dead horses - the disobedient printer, the engorged Inbox, the guilt-ridden, wide-eyed stares of the culprits of the incomplete homework. And a nice hot meal and a cold beer can fill you up enough to cancel out the absence of that thing you never found, or the sought-after words that never got said.
Onward!
Tomorrow is a different day. Let's see what truth it holds.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Oda Ecuatoriana
Ecuador, que eres?
Yo si se lo que soy a ti...
A veces turista, huesped, habitante, trabajadora, viajera, ex-patriota, media-Quitena...Perdida y/o comodamente enclavado en mi hogar.
Pero que eres a mi?
Tus caras, tus miradas, son variadas como mis sentimientos a ti, mi anfitrion.
La sierra, la espina de la tierra. Montanas fuertes, siluetas contra sol y oscuridad; truenos, rayos, torrentes. Misterios. Dedicacion. Fortaleza, perseverencia y obstinencia a continuar a vivir cada dia mejor.
Las brisas de la costa, ustedes son los momentos suaves, calidos, los que paso con amigos, conocidos y queridos. Olas frescas y refrescantes. Pero tambien hay mosquitos alla: dudas, timidez. Todo lo que rompa la confianza y comodidad.
Galapagos, eres todo lo que me sorprende, el inesperado. Eres una esquina unica, eres colores brillantes y no totalmente cuerdos. El tiron a no hacer lo que hace los demas. El instinto a llenar el espacio mio, no importa que la forma no cabe dentro de las lineas demarcadas. Evolucion. Cambios hechos para adaptarse al lugar y al tiempo.
Y el oriente, aun no visto. Eres posibilidades. El amanecer. Eres lo que voy ver, lo que voy a entender. Crecimiento. Frondosidad. Lleno con vida todavia no conocida.
Ecuador, en que capacidad pertenezco a ti? Y cuando voy a comprender lo que eres a mi?
________________________________________________________________
Ecuador, what are you?
I know what I am to you...
Sometimes a tourist, guest, inhabitant, worker, traveler, expatriate, kind-of-Quitena...Lost and/or cozily nestled in my home.
But what are you to me?
Your faces, your looks, are as varied as my sentiments about you, my host.
The sierra, the spine of the land. Strong mountains, silhouettes against sun and darkness; thunder, lightning, torrential rains. Mysteries. Dedication. Fortitude, perseverance and stubbornness to continue living each day better than the last.
The breezes of the coast, you are the gentle, warm moments, those I spend with friends, acquaintances, and those held dear. Cool refreshing waves. But also there are mosquitoes there: doubts, self-consciousness. Everything that breaks your confidence and comfort.
Galapagos, you're everything that surprises me, the unexpected. You are a unique corner, you are brilliant colors that aren't totally sane. The pull not to do what everyone else is doing. The instinct to fill the space that is mine, no matter that the shape doesn't fit inside the demarcated lines. Evolution. Changes made to adapt to the place and time.
And the Amazon, not yet seen. You are possibilities. The dawn. You are that which I will see, what I will understand. Growth. Lushness. Full of life yet unknown.
Ecuador, in what way do I belong to you? And when will I understand what you are to me?
Yo si se lo que soy a ti...
A veces turista, huesped, habitante, trabajadora, viajera, ex-patriota, media-Quitena...Perdida y/o comodamente enclavado en mi hogar.
Pero que eres a mi?
Tus caras, tus miradas, son variadas como mis sentimientos a ti, mi anfitrion.
La sierra, la espina de la tierra. Montanas fuertes, siluetas contra sol y oscuridad; truenos, rayos, torrentes. Misterios. Dedicacion. Fortaleza, perseverencia y obstinencia a continuar a vivir cada dia mejor.
Las brisas de la costa, ustedes son los momentos suaves, calidos, los que paso con amigos, conocidos y queridos. Olas frescas y refrescantes. Pero tambien hay mosquitos alla: dudas, timidez. Todo lo que rompa la confianza y comodidad.
Galapagos, eres todo lo que me sorprende, el inesperado. Eres una esquina unica, eres colores brillantes y no totalmente cuerdos. El tiron a no hacer lo que hace los demas. El instinto a llenar el espacio mio, no importa que la forma no cabe dentro de las lineas demarcadas. Evolucion. Cambios hechos para adaptarse al lugar y al tiempo.
Y el oriente, aun no visto. Eres posibilidades. El amanecer. Eres lo que voy ver, lo que voy a entender. Crecimiento. Frondosidad. Lleno con vida todavia no conocida.
Ecuador, en que capacidad pertenezco a ti? Y cuando voy a comprender lo que eres a mi?
________________________________________________________________
Ecuador, what are you?
I know what I am to you...
Sometimes a tourist, guest, inhabitant, worker, traveler, expatriate, kind-of-Quitena...Lost and/or cozily nestled in my home.
But what are you to me?
Your faces, your looks, are as varied as my sentiments about you, my host.
The sierra, the spine of the land. Strong mountains, silhouettes against sun and darkness; thunder, lightning, torrential rains. Mysteries. Dedication. Fortitude, perseverance and stubbornness to continue living each day better than the last.
The breezes of the coast, you are the gentle, warm moments, those I spend with friends, acquaintances, and those held dear. Cool refreshing waves. But also there are mosquitoes there: doubts, self-consciousness. Everything that breaks your confidence and comfort.
Galapagos, you're everything that surprises me, the unexpected. You are a unique corner, you are brilliant colors that aren't totally sane. The pull not to do what everyone else is doing. The instinct to fill the space that is mine, no matter that the shape doesn't fit inside the demarcated lines. Evolution. Changes made to adapt to the place and time.
And the Amazon, not yet seen. You are possibilities. The dawn. You are that which I will see, what I will understand. Growth. Lushness. Full of life yet unknown.
Ecuador, in what way do I belong to you? And when will I understand what you are to me?
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Good things are happening
Just letting you know that Operation End Social Isolation is in progress and so far working. Last night I went to the artisanal beer bar called La Reserva and an impromptu barbecue. Today I went to a baby shower, tonight I'm going out for burgers with some of my girls.
Next week I have lined up salsa lessons, a sushi date, a movie, and a trip to a nature reserve with a bunch of friends for the three day weekend.
There, take that, loneliness!
Next week I have lined up salsa lessons, a sushi date, a movie, and a trip to a nature reserve with a bunch of friends for the three day weekend.
There, take that, loneliness!
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Blues and grays and rays of sun
You know what was delightful? On Wednesday, I got to sleep all the way in to 7am and it was glorious! I had to go back to the doctor for a routine blood test which they only do weekday mornings before you have eaten and they open at 8. So that meant I got to come to school a couple hours late...
Waking up at 7 was so decent, so humane (compared to my usual 5:30 or 5:45)! The sun was already shining, the morning chill had been mitigated by said sun, people were out and about, life was present. I have always felt a sort of silent solidarity for the other early risers that I usually see in the gray dawn of my morning commute - maintenance people, truck drivers, nurses, parents dropping off little ones at school or daycare before work, other teachers, people preparing for big events... But it was nice to join the other folks for a day! The stores were open, morning radio programs had begun. Somewhat jealously, I wondered what subset of people had time to attend a Tai Chi class in the park on weekday mornings.
Once I arrived to work, with plenty of time before my next class, I stopped by the Teacher's Club to refill my coffee and have the cook make me nice gooey grilled cheese sandwich. It was a rare luxury to be able to operate within a flexible time frame. In teaching, your entire existence is plotted out minute by minute. There is no being late when all of your students are depending on you to unlock the classroom door and take attendance and get the gears going in order to set the daily routine into motion.
This unique Wednesday morning, I relished the feeling of reading the headlines in bed before getting up, without the pressure of knowing a bus would be waiting for me on the corner at exactly 6:46am and that I'd better hurry up and get my ass out of bed or I'll miss it. It was nice to dilly-dally. We teachers don't get to do that a lot. Our lives are about pressing on ahead, figuring out how we can makes things go more quickly, more smoothly, more efficiently, more like clockwork. It was nice to un-tether myself from the clock for a few hours.
The other delightful thing that day was a real live teachable moment! Our new Social Studies unit is about resistance and revolution, and as students studied photos and images from segregation and the Civil Rights movement, it gave way to a really interesting and honest conversation. We talked about how to talk about race, and why it's difficult, and how words are important because they have the power to evoke specific meanings and feelings and entire time periods in history. The students also shared some moments where they had detected latent racism in their own lives. It was unplanned, and ended up superseding the Read Aloud I had planned, but it was one of those rare, cool, moments where you can see that the whole class is thinking, listening, being challenged, realizing or naming things that they are just beginning to understand.
Those were some highlights this week.
The not-so-delightful thing is this week is that I think I have been suffering from human contact withdrawal. To have Auntie J here for 2 weeks meant that there was someone to come home to to ask me how my day was, and to tell me about hers. And in the evenings she would gently nudge me when the 9 o'clock hour rolled around, fluffing up my pillows and asking me if I wouldn't like to crawl into bed and get cozy and aim for a good night's rest. Not to mention that she did laundry and dishes, and even discovered a way to get rid of my persistent toilet bowl ring stain! She also bought me a hair dryer. She took good care of me.
Having her here filled up my cup, but suddenly this week I'm back to filling up my own...
Teaching can be isolating. You're on your own. Sure, you are around other human beings all day long, but the relationship is not exactly a socially fulfilling one when you are basically trying to control their actions, words and even their thoughts all day long. (Come to think of it, when people ask me what I do for a living, I'm going to start saying mind control.)
Once the day is done, you begin wondering, where are my friends? What is my life? Is everyone else having more fun than I am? Why has everyone else been able to develop seemingly close friendships with no trouble at all? Things that were so easy and simple back home, like calling up a friend in the neighborhood to out for a meal or a beer, here seem prohibitively complex. When I get home, will my old friends have moved on without me? Will they be resentful that I am so bad at keeping in touch? And it's so strange - have you ever noticed that when your mind has already started wandering down a path of gloom and doom, your brain tends to further betray you by conjuring up out of nowhere embarrassing things you said or did like 10 years ago, just to twist the knife? It would be nice to be able to control my own mind a bit more.
The truth is, these feeling aren't altogether unexplainable. It is the rainy season after all. It shouldn't come as too much of a surprise that I have ended up feeling a bit isolated, especially in the first week back to work after a week of vacation, and with the next long break a solid three months away. At school, my classroom is physically pretty far away from most of the rest of the school - I'm kind of at the edge of campus. I don't have a teaching partner, and my schedule is different from most of the other elementary teachers. Besides that, at school, it's difficult to focus on anything beyond "What's next?" Most days I don't stop working from the moment I arrive at 7:25am to the moment I'm running to catch the afternoon bus at 4. Which I admit is not an altogether healthy way to live. And then I go home tired, and sometimes keep working at home (though not as much as in the past, thankfully.) And then of course there's the whole living in a different country thing. But I've been here six months. I would like to be adjusted already.
Now, I talk a a big game to the kids about using challenges as opportunities to learn and to stretch yourself. According to our curriculum, I am supposed to be teaching them about balance, which has never been my strongest suit. But I figured I should at least try following the advice I'd give to someone else if they came to me with the same complaints. So I reluctantly decided to use today as an opportunity to pull up my big-girl panties practice some self-care.
I told myself that the good news, when it comes to the blues, is that there is a remedy. The remedy is knowing yourself. My prescription is to get up and get out. Resist the temptation to numb out and watch television for the entire day, because it doesn't end up feeling too good in the end. Instead, I went to yoga in the park, where they make you take the time to breathe and look inside yourself and realize what you're feeling. I had lunch with my Ecuadorian friend and her mom, and then drank coffee and took shelter from the rain with a couple of friends from school. (Oh right, I guess I do have friends. I had forgotten.) Then I picked up some groceries and came home and put on the mix of uplifting songs Rika sent me, and cleaned up the house and now I'm writing to you in order to express myself about my touch of the blues. I'm proud of me.
And I'd like to report that it is working. In yoga this morning I went ahead and admitted to myself that I was feeling lonely, and I put it out to the universe that I'd like to spend some time with other adult humans. And within a few hours the universe had responded with an invitation to go dancing tonight. Thanks, universe.
There's been a foggy, gray drizzle outside for several hours now and Pichincha volcano, the sentry outside my window, is almost completely obscured. But before I go ahead and put on my dancin' shoes, I'm going to close with some words from Mason Jennings from my playlist of uplifting songs from Rika. They are as follows:
Be here now, no other place to be
Or just sit there dreaming of how life would be
If we were somewhere better
Somewhere far away from all our worries
Well, here we are.
Be here now, no other place to be
All the doubts that linger, just set them free
And let good things happen
And let the future come into each moment
Like a rising sun
Sun comes up and we start again.
And it's all new today
All we have to say
Is be here now.
Sun comes up and we start again.
Waking up at 7 was so decent, so humane (compared to my usual 5:30 or 5:45)! The sun was already shining, the morning chill had been mitigated by said sun, people were out and about, life was present. I have always felt a sort of silent solidarity for the other early risers that I usually see in the gray dawn of my morning commute - maintenance people, truck drivers, nurses, parents dropping off little ones at school or daycare before work, other teachers, people preparing for big events... But it was nice to join the other folks for a day! The stores were open, morning radio programs had begun. Somewhat jealously, I wondered what subset of people had time to attend a Tai Chi class in the park on weekday mornings.
Once I arrived to work, with plenty of time before my next class, I stopped by the Teacher's Club to refill my coffee and have the cook make me nice gooey grilled cheese sandwich. It was a rare luxury to be able to operate within a flexible time frame. In teaching, your entire existence is plotted out minute by minute. There is no being late when all of your students are depending on you to unlock the classroom door and take attendance and get the gears going in order to set the daily routine into motion.
This unique Wednesday morning, I relished the feeling of reading the headlines in bed before getting up, without the pressure of knowing a bus would be waiting for me on the corner at exactly 6:46am and that I'd better hurry up and get my ass out of bed or I'll miss it. It was nice to dilly-dally. We teachers don't get to do that a lot. Our lives are about pressing on ahead, figuring out how we can makes things go more quickly, more smoothly, more efficiently, more like clockwork. It was nice to un-tether myself from the clock for a few hours.
The other delightful thing that day was a real live teachable moment! Our new Social Studies unit is about resistance and revolution, and as students studied photos and images from segregation and the Civil Rights movement, it gave way to a really interesting and honest conversation. We talked about how to talk about race, and why it's difficult, and how words are important because they have the power to evoke specific meanings and feelings and entire time periods in history. The students also shared some moments where they had detected latent racism in their own lives. It was unplanned, and ended up superseding the Read Aloud I had planned, but it was one of those rare, cool, moments where you can see that the whole class is thinking, listening, being challenged, realizing or naming things that they are just beginning to understand.
Those were some highlights this week.
The not-so-delightful thing is this week is that I think I have been suffering from human contact withdrawal. To have Auntie J here for 2 weeks meant that there was someone to come home to to ask me how my day was, and to tell me about hers. And in the evenings she would gently nudge me when the 9 o'clock hour rolled around, fluffing up my pillows and asking me if I wouldn't like to crawl into bed and get cozy and aim for a good night's rest. Not to mention that she did laundry and dishes, and even discovered a way to get rid of my persistent toilet bowl ring stain! She also bought me a hair dryer. She took good care of me.
Having her here filled up my cup, but suddenly this week I'm back to filling up my own...
Teaching can be isolating. You're on your own. Sure, you are around other human beings all day long, but the relationship is not exactly a socially fulfilling one when you are basically trying to control their actions, words and even their thoughts all day long. (Come to think of it, when people ask me what I do for a living, I'm going to start saying mind control.)
Once the day is done, you begin wondering, where are my friends? What is my life? Is everyone else having more fun than I am? Why has everyone else been able to develop seemingly close friendships with no trouble at all? Things that were so easy and simple back home, like calling up a friend in the neighborhood to out for a meal or a beer, here seem prohibitively complex. When I get home, will my old friends have moved on without me? Will they be resentful that I am so bad at keeping in touch? And it's so strange - have you ever noticed that when your mind has already started wandering down a path of gloom and doom, your brain tends to further betray you by conjuring up out of nowhere embarrassing things you said or did like 10 years ago, just to twist the knife? It would be nice to be able to control my own mind a bit more.
The truth is, these feeling aren't altogether unexplainable. It is the rainy season after all. It shouldn't come as too much of a surprise that I have ended up feeling a bit isolated, especially in the first week back to work after a week of vacation, and with the next long break a solid three months away. At school, my classroom is physically pretty far away from most of the rest of the school - I'm kind of at the edge of campus. I don't have a teaching partner, and my schedule is different from most of the other elementary teachers. Besides that, at school, it's difficult to focus on anything beyond "What's next?" Most days I don't stop working from the moment I arrive at 7:25am to the moment I'm running to catch the afternoon bus at 4. Which I admit is not an altogether healthy way to live. And then I go home tired, and sometimes keep working at home (though not as much as in the past, thankfully.) And then of course there's the whole living in a different country thing. But I've been here six months. I would like to be adjusted already.
Now, I talk a a big game to the kids about using challenges as opportunities to learn and to stretch yourself. According to our curriculum, I am supposed to be teaching them about balance, which has never been my strongest suit. But I figured I should at least try following the advice I'd give to someone else if they came to me with the same complaints. So I reluctantly decided to use today as an opportunity to pull up my big-girl panties practice some self-care.
I told myself that the good news, when it comes to the blues, is that there is a remedy. The remedy is knowing yourself. My prescription is to get up and get out. Resist the temptation to numb out and watch television for the entire day, because it doesn't end up feeling too good in the end. Instead, I went to yoga in the park, where they make you take the time to breathe and look inside yourself and realize what you're feeling. I had lunch with my Ecuadorian friend and her mom, and then drank coffee and took shelter from the rain with a couple of friends from school. (Oh right, I guess I do have friends. I had forgotten.) Then I picked up some groceries and came home and put on the mix of uplifting songs Rika sent me, and cleaned up the house and now I'm writing to you in order to express myself about my touch of the blues. I'm proud of me.
And I'd like to report that it is working. In yoga this morning I went ahead and admitted to myself that I was feeling lonely, and I put it out to the universe that I'd like to spend some time with other adult humans. And within a few hours the universe had responded with an invitation to go dancing tonight. Thanks, universe.
There's been a foggy, gray drizzle outside for several hours now and Pichincha volcano, the sentry outside my window, is almost completely obscured. But before I go ahead and put on my dancin' shoes, I'm going to close with some words from Mason Jennings from my playlist of uplifting songs from Rika. They are as follows:
Be here now, no other place to be
Or just sit there dreaming of how life would be
If we were somewhere better
Somewhere far away from all our worries
Well, here we are.
Be here now, no other place to be
All the doubts that linger, just set them free
And let good things happen
And let the future come into each moment
Like a rising sun
Sun comes up and we start again.
And it's all new today
All we have to say
Is be here now.
Sun comes up and we start again.
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