I was going to say that it has been a lazy Sunday, but I've been working all day long. Church work this morning. School work this afternoon. I've corrected two sets of quizzes, updated my grade book, and created the handouts for two writing assignments. I still have two lesson plans and a crapload of reading to complete.
I always think of Sundays as lazy. Probably because the pace of the day is so different from the rest of the week. Yes, I have a lot of work to do, but I don't have to punch a time clock or worry about supervisors breathing down my neck. That's the difference. Frankly, I work well when I'm not under constant scrutiny. I think that's why I enjoy my teaching so much more than working in the medical office. When I have autonomy, I thrive.
If it weren't for my medical office job, I wouldn't have health insurance. I probably wouldn't have a house or a car, either. Everything I own would be repossessed or in foreclosure. I am fortunate to have my jobs. I know this. However, on days when I am my own boss, making the decisions, I am much happier, less stressed. The only thing that ruins Sunday for me is the looming prospect of Monday morning.
I'm not complaining. Well, maybe I am a little bit. Mostly, I'm dreaming. Of being a full-time professor. Setting my own work schedule. Seeing my kids get on the school bus every morning. Spending my days on campus, relaxed and confident. Having a normal life.
Last year around this time, I was dealing with snow and exhaustion and change. Things haven't changed much. On October 18, 2014, I couldn't wait for the year to be over. I thought 2015 was going to be happier, less chaotic. As my seven-year-old son says, "Humph!" Every year is filled with challenges The best for which I can hope is a little happiness among the challenges. That's just how it is.
October 18, 2014: Over and Gone, First Snow, Maxine Kumin, "How It Is"
"Summer is over and gone," repeated the crickets. "How many
nights till frost?" said the crickets. "Good-bye, summer, good-bye,
good-bye!"
Yes, in the fall, when the weather turns
cold, the crickets seem to cry in the dark. It's a sad sound, an elegy
for hot summer nights. The morning air is crisp, like a drink of cold
water. The afternoons are golden; the evenings, full of the promise of
winter. In two little sentences, E B. White captures the shift from hot
to cold, from hot sand to orange leaves, from August sun to harvest
moon.
This morning, the first snow fell in my little
corner of the Upper Peninsula. I looked outside, and the world was a
chaos of white. The snow didn't accumulate. In fact, it almost looked
like it was melting before it even hit the ground. It was a warning, a
reminder of the long months to come.
Winter used to be
my favorite season of the year. I loved the shortened days and the
long, black nights. I loved the chimney smoke funneling into the sky
and the bleary Christmas lights in the sweaty windows. And I loved
being at home, drinking hot chocolate, reading huge novels while
Christmas music played. (Christmas still is my favorite holiday, but
not because of the snow and cold.)
As an adult who has
to battle his way to work in snowstorms, who has to shovel all that
white crap, who has to pay astronomical heating bills, I can no longer
call myself a fan of winter. My idea of a perfect winter has
drastically changed. I would like an extended autumn. One that lasts
until Christmas Eve. Then, on December 24, a light dusting of snow can
fall. Just enough to give everything that Martha Stewart touch. Not
enough to require a snow shovel. The day after Christmas, the snow can
melt. For the rest of winter, I would accept temperatures in the forty-
to fifty-degree range. Enough to require a heavier jacket. Then,
around the middle of March, spring arrives. Perfect.
Of
course, that's not how the world works in the Upper Peninsula. I am a
realist, not an optimist. I know what I'm in for in the coming months.
If last winter is any indication of what's to come, it's going to suck
tremendously. However, it's one of the trade-offs of living in this
beautiful, hard place. We are hardy folk who choose to dwell in this
little, shark-shaped piece of land surrounded by water.
My
daughter complained today about the fact that she will probably have to
wear a winter jacket when trick-or-treating this year. She knows
that's part of the bargain of a Yooper Halloween. Maxine Kumin has a
great poem about the acceptance of difficult experiences. Of course,
Kumin's not speaking of frozen days or killer blizzards. Her poem is
about absence. Loss. Loneliness so profound it sits in the room with
you like a sleeping cat.
The year 2014 has not been fun
for me or my family. Professional upheaval. Loss of income and jobs.
The death of my brother. I will be honest. Come December 31, I will
be happy to have 2014 in my rear view mirror. That doesn't mean that
2015 will be any easier. It may be worse for all I know, but I'm still
hoping for something better.
That's just how it is with Saint Marty right now. The crickets are singing. Change is coming.
How It Is
by: Maxine Kumin
Shall I say how it is in your clothes?
A month after your death I wear your blue jacket.
The dog at the center of my life recognizes
you’ve come to visit, he’s ecstatic.
In the left pocket, a hole.
In the right, a parking ticket
delivered up last August on Bay State Road.
In my heart, a scatter like milkweed,
a flinging from the pods of the soul.
My skin presses your old outline.
It is hot and dry inside.
I think of the last day of your life,
old friend, how I would unwind it, paste
it together in a different collage,
back from the death car idling in the garage,
back up the stairs, your praying hands unlaced,
reassembling the bits of bread and tuna fish
into a ceremony of sandwich,
running the home movie backward to a space
we could be easy in, a kitchen place
with vodka and ice, our words like living meat.
Dear friend, you have excited crowds
with your example. They swell
like wine bags, straining at your seams.
I will be years gathering up our words,
fishing out letters, snapshots, stains,
leaning my ribs against this durable cloth
to put on the dumb blue blazer of your death.
Confessions of Saint Marty
