Doubt

Doubt slides over me

Like a sleek silk scarf

Slipping cross my eyes

Diffusing visions once familiar

Coiling round my neck

It tightens

I hold my breath,

For even breathing

Proves unnatural

Now still,

All traces of doubt dive underground

Undetectable

I can see, I think

I can think, I see

Until I breathe

A tickle

A presence persistent

Ah ha!  There you are

I think

I’m going through a rough time right now.  I’m breaking in a new pair of resale jeans.  It’s not going well.  Out in public, people look right past me.  Their eyes land instead on younger women in skinny jeans with the cuffs rolled up to show their stylish boots. Their layers of shirts and vests and sweaters that look haphazard and slopped on are clearly well thought out.

Really, the thing is, I’m filled with self-doubt and feeling inadequate because I’m letting some recent interactions pull me down.  I’m disappointed by how easily this happened.  I feel like I’ve been struck with an injury, like a kick in the shin, and I limp tearfully into my day.  It’s amazing how I’m kneading in past injuries so that the hurt bubbles and swells like a rising, fermenting ball of sour dough.  I guess I’ve been in the rising phase for the past couple of days. 

This week I was told how inadequate I am.  And I became so.  My anger was nearly uncontrollable.  My words were thoughtless.  My rage pulled the rug out from under my feet and I felt like I’d made no progress as a grown up in the past six years.  I carry self-doubt with me and crumble easily when someone looks at me the wrong way.  I’m still bubbling with anger.  It reminds me of a sour experience a few years ago when I let someone else determine who I was.

One of my fellow teachers had decided it was her place to tell me my faults.  “Can I tell you where I find fault with you, Ms. Leghorn?” she said during class.  She’d never really been this straight forward.  Usually her criticisms were couched in jokes, so I could laugh and pretend along with her that she didn’t really mean it when she called me a “prima dona” or a “slack-off” because I wouldn’t grade all the students’ papers.  But this time there was no hiding behind humor while she pointed out my errors. “You had your back turned to the students for the past ten minutes.” She imitated my position as she continued. “Never mind that you have a class of twenty-five students in the room.”  It was true.  After I circulated the room, while she graded a this-just-in paper with her head down, but facing the class, I decided to get a jump on determining what we’ll read next week.  While she circulated with students, I bent over the book and jotted some page numbers for four or five minutes.  So, yes, it was true.  I had nothing to say when she decided to point out my deficit. 

I took this interaction all over the place. 

I defended myself: I do know how to use my physical positioning in the classroom.  I’m the one who gets the students on track and blah, blah, blah.

I attacked my enemy: Hey, Black Kettle.  Yeah, that’s right.  I’m talking to you. There are many ways to turn your back on students like when you blah, blah, blah.

I whipped out wicked words in warfare, all willy-nilly, without wit: wormy weasel; wavering weakling; wanking wimp!   

I slipped into despair: I’m a lousy teacher.  She’s going to spread the word and tell everyone what I’ve done. I’m not only a lousy teacher, I’m a lousy human being.  I’m untrustworthy and selfish, with frizzy hair and jowls and my new jeans sag in the butt.

I slouched through the rest of that week, sloppy but without thoughtful arrangement.

Remembering that experience this morning is loosening the squeeze of doubt around my neck and I can breathe a little more freely. At the time, two very precious tools helped me.  The first tool was service.  I had forgotten one of my most important roles as a co-teacher; I’m supposed to be a trustworthy, supporting partner.  I don’t want to be a color blind black kettle.  Whether this co-teacher had ever heard me complain about her or not, I have.  I even slipped once and joked about her with the students.  Never mind that she’d done that to me many times in front of the class.  I remembered that onions cry too and that she was most likely coming from a place of pain when she burned me.  As soon as I located that role again in my mind, that place of service, I felt a peace flow through me, then and now.  I feel good about myself when I act as a caring, supporting, building up kind of gal.  If I knead with love and effort and vision, I can be the person I want.  John Ruskin said, “The question is not what a man can scorn, or disparage, or find fault with, but what he can love, and value, and appreciate.” 

The other tool that I can employ is reaching out to friends who love me and know me as a growing human being with faults, friends who appreciate my efforts and my generosity.  I have a bank of experiences to fall back and bounce on, times when I was enjoyed, loved, valued.  Thank goodness I have that warm, doughy cushion to help support me.  If I remember I’m a spiritual being striving for a deeper understanding, that I will fail and try again, maybe I can keep my ego out of the mix and be proactive rather than reactive. I can spread some sweet honey on top of this bubbling mess.  I may even go out later and hunt down a new pair of jeans that show off my petite seat. 

But for now, it’s time to stay in and bake some lovely orange cardamom scones.  I’m working on not going sour today.

Orange Cardamom Scones

I’m going to half this recipe before I perfect it.  You might want to too.  This makes 16 scones, 16 too many if you mess up, which, if you’re human, you’re likely to do. Then you be the judge of whether you've done a good job or not; no one else should define you.

3 c. unbleached flour

¾ c. sugar

4 t. baking powder

1 t. cardamom

1 t. salt

1 c. chopped pecans

½ c. cold butter

½ c. buttermilk

¼ c. fresh orange juice

¾ t. orange extract

Combine all the dry ingredients, including nuts.  Chop in butter until you have a course consistency.  Don’t overdo it.  Slowly add the buttermilk, juice and extract all together, a little at a time.  Use only enough to make the dough hold together but not so much that it becomes it sticky.  Shape into round or cut into 16 triangular scones.  Bake at 350 degrees for 15 to 20 minutes, until a little brown on the bottom and very lightly brown on top.  If you want a little more sweetness in your life, combine honey, a sprinkle of cardamom and a splash of orange extract to spread on top.

Boundaries and Hills

On old country song:

“Get your boot off my forehead

Please just move along

Well, I hope that by mornin’

This imprint is gone.” 

OK, it’s not an old country song; I made it up.  And I love belting it out with that sultry, southern accent with s’s that sound more like zh’s.  I think it’s really my theme song.  I used to have this image of my post-menopausal self.  I would be honest, bold and take no gruff from anyone.  Darn it!  I’m not there yet.  It’s all about setting boundaries, which has never come easy for me.  From one of my earliest memories to just yesterday, my boundaries are diffuse and permeable.

When I was about three or four years old, I was playing with my older sister and lots of neighborhood kids in the dirt hills near our house.  Everyone but this older girl and I left on a mission.  We were pretending she was my mom.  I wanted to leave but she made me lie face down in the dirt.  She kept yelling at me to stay down.  I felt trapped and didn’t know I could get up and leave.  All I knew was I was scared and unhappy.  I wanted my sister to come back and rescue me from this mean girl who controlled me.  Now, over fifty years later, when I find myself in the dirt, I’m still trying to find my options. 

One of the hard parts in establishing boundaries for me is I see the other side.  My empathy leads me to adjust easily to other people’s sense of humor, their interests, their manner of touching and proximity, and I even find myself reflecting their sitting or standing position.  All of this is unconscious.  But recently, because I’ve become aware of it, I look for it.  It’s so funny to find myself sitting across from someone, comfortably mirroring them then melting into another position with them.  A beautiful, classy friend of mine recently expressed something similar when she said she walks into a room, reads the energy and evaporates because she so completely adjusts.  I know how she feels.  Just yesterday I asked a friend for support and immediately fell into the listening role, my MO.  And no big surprise, I found myself mirroring her posture to a tee.  Changing my posture was optional, but I couldn’t find a way to change my role.  Just like that little girl on the dirt hill, I couldn’t see my options. 

During this last week of school, teachers completed a survey on personal communication styles.  We attended a workshop that probably cost the school thousands of dollars so we could find out our personal communication styles.  Teachers were tickled reading their reports and most felt they were on target.  It was like reading our horoscopes, I thought.  We heard what we wanted to hear.  One paragraph from my report stood out and is exactly what I’ve been facing with new glasses for the past few weeks, or months, or years, I suppose.

Given her empathy for others, Lindsay may seek to look out for their interests. As a result, she may resist making demands upon them or even setting firm deadlines or expectations.  She may fear that to do so might be taking advantage of them or subjecting them to unfair pressure.  Of course this concern about taking advantage of others may make Lindsay more vulnerable to others who may seek to take advantage of her.

Exactly!  Not that others try to take advantage of me.  But if someone offers you their head and says, “Go ahead; give it your best shot,” what else are they going to do?  This is so true of how I deal with my two legged and four legged house mates.  Get your boot off my forehead; I’m cleaning my glasses, rustling up my courage and looking for a way off the dirt hill. 

I know that besides empathy, arrogance keeps me down and dirty.  Where it gets murky is that I want the best for those I love, and I think that by making things easy for loved ones at my expense will prevent pain for them.  I bend over and offer my forehead to my daughter and her dog.  I want them to be happy, so I encourage her to keep her boyfriend’s dog here.  This way Cooper and Godfrey can play together and leave me alone.  But that often means I have another mouth to feed and dog to walk.  You probably are asking yourself why it means I have that responsibility.  Exactly!  “Now, where are those glasses?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.  It’s dirty business up on that dirt hill.  I vacillate between thinking I don’t want to work on this issue so everyone please leave me alone and the other attitude that I love these people and dogs and know how temporary this time is so maybe I can do this.  I know that soon enough my daughter, her boyfriend and their dogs will soon “just move along” and I’ll miss them.  In the mean time, I’m very slowly working on how to stand up, protect my forehead with love and remove my arrogance by giving back the life lessons to their rightful owners. 

I’ve been given an opportunity to practice this challenge even more by opening up my home temporarily to my sister and my mentally handicapped niece.  My sister comes with two dogs that are easier than the other two staying here.  She also comes with a dining room full of craft supplies so she can spend her days making beautiful, original cards.  She helps me take care of the dogs when my daughter’s not around and shares in caring for my dad.  My niece comes with bubbly, sweet energy and is so flexible about where she sleeps, what she eats and what we do.  In that way she helps me by example.  So now I have a home, barely big enough for me, my food, my furniture, my mail, that is filled with five people, four dogs, mail for seven people—don’t ask—and food for everyone.  I’m mostly succeeding, at least with my sister and niece, at establishing my boundaries and enjoying the fruits of our crowded community.  I’m lucky for the practice at establishing boundaries, for the joy of good company, and the gift of seeing these as opportunities rather than limits.

 

My daughter and niece planned to use the fruits of our crowded community by making banana bread today.  But my niece took off on a long walk, my daughter had homework to do, so I, being the sultry country singer, made the banana bread.

Banana Bread

1 3/4 c. unbleached flour

¼ c. wheat bran or oat bran

½ c. rolled oats

1 c. sugar

4 t. baking powder

1 t. salt

4 T. sunflower oil

¾ c. almond milk

1 egg

1 c. chopped walnuts

handful of dark chocolate chips

1 c. mashed banana

Combine dry ingredients, add wet, nuts and chocolate chips and mix well.  Spoon into one large or two small loaf pans, greased and floured.  Bake 55 to 60 minutes at 350 degrees.  Do the toothpick or fork test.

If you make a mistake and undercook it, you still have options.  That’s easy to do and easy to remedy.  You can slice thinly and toast it in a toaster, toaster oven or broiler.  I suggest you extend your boundaries and your bootay with a little cream cheese on top.  The taste and texture will leave you with a delightful imprint you won’t want to wipe away.

Pushing Buttons

Are you sure we can’t knuckle the knuckleheads in schools?  I’m not a violent person, but there are days, boy I tell you!  Those are the days I have a brief inside argument that goes like this:

“Child of God, Lindsay.  Child of God.” 

“Yeah, but not a good one!”

I have a private little laugh and lighten up.

I’m not the only special ed teacher who has this big group of big boys with big mouths and little ears.  They talk while I’m talking, barge large and loud into the room after the bell and argue about their black hoodies that aren’t part of the dress code and question over and over, without movement, why I want them to sit in a seat away from their buds who keep talking to them while I’m repeating for the 5^th time that they need to move.  It’s a blast!  One knucklehead in particular really pushes my buttons, so I push his: the security button, and off they go to 135, the disciplinarian.  This week Dion wouldn’t shut up while the other knuckleheads actually buckled down and worked and thought and questioned the text rather than my authority.  Finally I pushed the button on Dion but was disconnected. I tried to walk him down to 135 myself, but he refused to follow.  I hailed a security officer and ranted about Dion.  For some reason, her silence spurred me on to rant harder, as if I needed to convince her I was in the right.  I guess I was hoping for some affirmation from her.  Instead of affirmation, I think she got confirmation that I’m an out of control lunatic. 

After a day suspension, Dion returned and refused to move to a different group.  “Why?” he asked about ten times.  I answered, “Because I’m the teacher and I’ve decided that’s what is best.”  He said low, under his breath, “Mother fucker.”  Then he shared his inner most feelings and desires with me.  “I don’t even like you.  Get out of my face.”  I pushed the button and he walked out before security came.  Finally my small group could work.  But, no.  Dion and that same security officer showed up at the door wanting to patch things up.  She asked why he was sent out.  This time I acted a bit cooler, even though I couldn’t believe my class was being further interrupted and my decision was being questioned by someone other than a knucklehead.  When I told her that he cursed at me, she said to him sweetly,  because she is indeed sweet, “You didn’t tell me that you cursed.”  Off they went to 135.  My small group and I finally got to work for the second half of the period.

These kids sometimes have access to my button; it’s labeled Ego.  When I take it personally, when I think I’m a failure because I can’t control the uncontrollable, and when I join someone in questioning my decisions, I truly am a lunatic—a knucklehead.  

I know we’re all born naked, needing unconditional love, eventually needing personal power and dignity.  I know we’re all learning how to grasp and hold onto to those securities, and that some of us are born into abundance but others into a poverty of these needs.  When Dion returned to class the next day, I was welcoming and hopeful. He was cooperative and engaged.  That was easy because we were just watching the first movie of the year after taking final exams, so what’s not to cooperate with?  But he sat next to me and said, “This movie is raw!”  I love that we can start over every day, he and I, that we can keep trying to find what works for ourselves and each other.  I love that I’m not in this quest alone, that we’re both children of God, good ones.

This morning I’m making a healthy, colorful, protein filled breakfast that’s sure to sustain my power through the morning. 

Purple Cabbage with Turkey Sausage and Mushrooms

1-2 T. oil (I use coconut or sunflower oil)

6 or so slices of sweet onions cut in half

1½ to 2 c. purple cabbage, sliced

1 small package of white mushrooms cleaned and sliced

4 turkey sausage links

salt and pepper to taste

Sauté onions for a few minutes then add mushrooms, stir and cover for a few more minutes.  Add cabbage, salt and pepper. Cover and cook for two to three minutes. Add turkey sausage. Cover and cook until the sausage condoms start rolling off.

Remembering that we are what we eat, take in the color and strength of this dish.  Now aren’t you beautiful?  Aren’t we all?  

Into Thin Air

“It’s clouds illusions I recall

I really don’t know clouds at all.”  —Joni Mitchell

   

I remember watching the late show alone in the basement.  Tony Curtis on stage disappeared behind a screen or in a box and metamorphosed into his beautiful assistant, Janet Leigh.  Or maybe it was the other way around.  While Tony disappeared and reappeared, my dad, my sister and brother were probably upstairs sleeping, and my mom was certainly in the living room reading and tapping her fingertips to her thumb back and forth as if along the piano keys.

Earlier this week I saw a most impressive magic trick that no magician could explain or duplicate.  Out in the courtyard of the nursing home, my dad, another resident Steven and I sat and watched the trees and clouds alive on that windy Tuesday.  Conversation was limited and repetitive: “Boy, look at those trees,” and “Look how fast the clouds are moving,” and “The sky is so blue.”  A large cluster of thin, ragged edged clouds traveled overhead.  I commented on how they were all separate but flying together, keeping their form.  Steven, who tells me daily that he was a paratrooper in Korea, said, “In formation.”  I watched the group drift in formation.  One by one, before my eyes alone, the thinnest clouds thinned until they just disappeared, evaporated into the blue.  In my fifty-six years I have never seen such a feat: an entire cluster of clouds, not just gone from view, but gone.  I told the guys the clouds were disappearing but they figured I meant they were flying fast past the trees. 

I think I understand life pretty well, at least how it fits for me.  But with the disappearance of my mom back in December, I really don’t know clouds at all.  It’s such a strange thing; you live an entire life, struggle, laugh, love, get caught up in little snipes and grow and learn, and then poof! You’re gone, at least from this world, from everyone who’s still here.  And what the heck does that even mean: this world?  One cloud disappears and throws off the formation.  The next cloud, the one we’re all gathered around right now, is thinning.  I wonder what will happen to our formation when he disappears into thin air. 

I’m not looking for answers from anyone; coming to terms with death and keeping a hold of life’s meaning is really a personal privilege. 

Right now, my sister is in my front room crafting cards.  My dad, with his flimsy faculties is temporarily safe in his flimsy facility.  My brothers are a phone call away.  My mom?  I think she metamorphoses in all of us: in my brother when he pets and talks to her dog or when he composes his music; in my sister when she laughs and sings; in me when I write or tap my fingers on my thumbs as if on a piano, in all of us as we love and stretch with the wind.

Like my sister said this week, “When I think about Mom’s death, it all seems so surreal.”  Yeah.  Like watching clouds disappear before your very eyes.

And now, for our next feat, watch these hors de oeuvres disappear before your very eyes when you serve them to your cluster of friends and family.

Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms

12 small Portobello mushrooms

balsamic vinegar

olive oil

red pepper flakes

½ large sweet onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped or pressed

1 package of button mushrooms, cleaned and finely chopped

1 package of frozen chopped spinach

Juice of half a lemon

Salt and pepper to taste

Long package goat cheese

Sprinkle balsamic vinegar and drizzle a little olive oil on upside down, stem removed Portobello mushrooms.  Sprinkle a small amount of red pepper flakes.  Bake in 375 degree oven for about 10 minutes.  While those are baking, sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until translucent, then add mushrooms and let cook for a couple of minutes.  Add spinach with water squeezed out, lemon and salt and pepper and cook until all is hot.  Spoon as much of the spinach mixture as you can fit into the mushrooms, then top with a big glob of goat cheese.  Place back in the oven for about 5 to 7 minutes.  These are pretty good for you and not too high in fat.

Maybe you can take your cluster of pals and mushrooms out on a deck and watch the clouds drift by.