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.

Service With a Smile

“We hope you enjoyed giving us the business, as we enjoyed taking you for a ride.”  —Flight attendant’s announcement at the end of a nine hour flight to Rio

My sister retired from teaching special education after 35 years.  Congratulations to her!  Six teachers at my school are retiring at the end of our school year.  Congratulations to them!  Waa!  I want to retire!  All year long I longed to retire to a coffee shop writing all day, watching the hard working folks hustle past the window to their jobs.  But in these past two weeks events have connived to change my attitude back in gratitude.

I’ve always wanted to get back to the Bighorn Mountains in Wyoming and thought this would be the summer to do it.  I could camp for a week or so, then drive to Yellowstone.  I prefer to combine my solitude with some group time, so when I read an email from Wilderness Inquiry, an adventure group I’ve traveled with before, I considered their paddle and hike trip in Yellowstone.  They were asking for a trip assistant to help with a disabled person for a significant cut in the cost.  The timing was right for catching the wild flowers in Bighorn before meeting up with the WI group. 

After teeter-tottering for several days, I signed up, but without a deposit.  How’s that for commitment?  I learned the details of the trip: ten people, six of whom are disabled in some way.  That leaves four people and two trip leaders to care for the disabled people by picking up slack, helping them in and out of canoes or with balance and guiding on hikes.  It sounded like a disabled trip, real work and very little adventure.

“Are you crazy?” I said to myself.  My life hit me over the head; I spend seven hours a day, five days a week in service to special needs teenagers.  Then I scuttle off to service at my dad’s place where I wait on tables, act as an interpreter for the weak of voice and the hard of hearing, groomer, and an activities director taking my dad and Max out to the courtyard or leading my three Saturday night dates, the walker brigade, to the movies in the independent living area, then home to needy dogs that aren’t even mine!  “And now you want to spend your vacation in service too?  Are you crazy?”

Still I hadn’t ruled it out.  I envisioned walking alone through meadows of wild flowers, sitting by a mountain river watching a mother moose and her baby in the willows, building a campfire, and  saying, “Wow!  Look at that!” to no one.  The Yellowstone trip promised spots off the beaten path and paddling along rivers I’ve never seen in Yellowstone.  Maybe a week on my own would be enough to handle the service for six days.  Maybe.  And I told myself that many blessings come out of service.  Still, maybe.  Indecision is a disabling position.

Out of the mouths of babes came my dismount from the teeter-totter.  Every Friday we have sustained silent reading in all the reading classes.  I love this day because I get to get lost in a good book, too.  But in my second period class, I don’t get to read my own book.  I read with Pedro because he can’t really read anything past a first grade level.  We’re reading a book called Locomotion by Jacqueline Woodson.  It’s a novel written in verse with a variety of different poem forms, by an orphan whose teacher has asked students to keep a poetry journal.  It’s funny and sad and poignant.  When I read this haiku, I laughed out loud: 

Today's a bad day

Is that haiku?

Do I look / like I even care?

Pedro smiled, studying me.  I told Pedro about haiku and he flipped through the book searching for them.  He got out a piece of paper and wrote down the word haiku.  Last week he laughed even before I did at some parts.  And he explained a passage I didn’t understand.  On Monday Pedro asked if he could come to my fifth period class for extra help during his lunch.  I said it was a freshman class and we’re reading a different book, The Bite of the Mango.  He said, “We read that last year.  I remember you cried. Remember, Ms. Leghorn?”  I smiled.  Pedro said, “You read with heart, Ms. Leghorn.  Other teachers just read.  I mean, maybe they read with enthusiasm, but…I can’t explain it.  You put your heart into it.  That’s what I like about your class.”  I told him, “It takes one to know one, Pedro.”  He laughed.  When the bell rang I went to the bathroom and cried.  That evening I paid for my trip and booked my flight.

Pedro led the week of blessings.  Between compliments and thank yous from residents at my dad’s place, amazing speeches praising teachers for their important and dedicated work at the CPS teachers’ rally attended by more than five thousand CPS employees, and the comedy coming from students, I am welcoming the blessings of service.  This week I realize that I’m right where I want to be.  I may not be able to teach Pedro to read at the high school level, but I can show him how to love literature.  Likewise, I can’t meet the needs of all the residents at my dad’s place, but I can serve them coffee with a smile.  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said, “Give what you have.  To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.”  I love my job.  I love my life.  I love being of service.  As my friend Jan said, “It’s who you are.”  It takes one to know one, Jan.

This recipe is for Jan, but this time her husband will be servicing her, as he’s the one who likes to cook.

Swordfish Steak with Mango and Squash Salsa

Fresh swordfish steak, enough for two or three people

½ large sweet onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, sliced

1 stalk celery, sliced (optional, Jan)

½ red, yellow and orange peppers, chopped (organic since they’re on the dirty dozen list)

1 small zucchini quartered and sliced

1 small yellow zucchini (summer squash) quartered and sliced

½ large tomato, chopped

½ or more mango, cubed

about 1 T. chili powder

about 1 T. cumin

juice of ½ lime

salt and pepper to taste

Sauté onion, garlic and celery in oil until onions are translucent.   Add peppers, spices and lime juice.  Cover and cook for about 4 minutes.  You may need to add a little water so nothing sticks.  Add squashes and cover for about 3 more minutes.  Cover swordfish with salt, pepper, chili powder. I tried to rub it in but only ended up rubbing it off.  Maybe you’ll have better luck.  Stir in tomato.  Slide the veggies to the outside of the pan and place the swordfish in the middle.  Cover the fish with the veggies and cover the pan.  Add mango. Cook for about 4 or 5 minutes, then flip to the other side for 3 or 4 minutes. 

On a hot Sunday

Serve this up with sangria.

To your heart and health.