All It Takes Is A Little Love

Now and again a perfect day comes along. It may not be out of the ordinary, and yet it is remarkable and leaves you smiling each time you remember it. I had such a day a few Saturdays ago. It was almost spiritual in both its simplicity and grandeur. 

I rode to Austin, Texas with my eldest daughter. Earlier there had been raging thunderstorms, but somehow the sky cleared and the roads dried just in time for our departure from Houston. We talked, really talked, the entire way. I realized that it had been a very long time since we had been alone together for such an extended period and it was great just to be free to babble on and on about this and that and nothing. The drive seemed to go by in a flash before we drove into my grandson’s apartment complex where we would stay the night. 

We stowed away our bags and headed to a Mexican restaurant that has been a legend in Austin for over seventy years. It’s said that there was a time when the beloved University of Texas football coach, Darrell Royal, was a regular customer. The parking lot was packed with cars and the line just to reserve a table snaked out of the door. There was a lively joyfulness in the air that made me smile as I engaged in my favorite hobby of people watching. Somehow nobody appeared to be annoyed at the long wait. Instead we joked and introduced ourselves to pass the time until our table was ready and we enjoyed a delightful meal as while soaking in the jovial atmosphere. 

The following morning came the main event, another grandson’s final cross country race of the year. It was a chilly day and there was a strong breeze that sent our hair flying and made our faces red. It bode well as the first hint of fall. I knew that my grandson preferred running in cooler temperatures, so I suspected that he would do well, which he did. In fact he made the trek over a hilly course over three minutes faster than his previously best time. He was overjoyed and so were we. 

At a picnic later we basked in the sun and enjoyed a visit with my grandson’s coach who applauded him for his improvement while checking to see how he felt about his efforts. I liked her style and saw that she was genuinely concerned about each of her athletes and their development. Their wellbeing seemed more important to her than the fact that they had all done quite well in the race. it was nice to witness her methodologies and to know that my grandson was in good hands but all too soon it was time to go. We hugged my grandson and wished him well in the rest of his semester as he promised to be home for Thanksgiving. 

On the way back to Houston we stopped along the banks of the Brazos River, among a grove of trees near a spot where a famous heart surgeon had once spent weekends away from the stresses of saving lives. The sky had become a bit overcast and it should have made me feel dreary, but instead I felt a kind of spiritual calm. I thought about all of the people who might have passed along the banks of this old river and it somehow reminded me of the mix of all of the emotions that they might have experienced on their own journeys. The quiet was healing to my heart that too often worries more than it should. Little wonder that the good doctor who saved so many lives enjoyed stopping here for respite whenever he was able. 

Suddenly my daughter suggested that we end our little trip with dinner at Cracker Barrel, my mother’s favorite place to eat. Somehow we both thought of her. She was after all represented in half of the name I had given my little girl so long before. As we sat munching on the country inspired food much like my grandmother used to make, We spoke of the Fridays when my mother would delight in the place like a child at an amusement park. 

In honor of my mama we shopped for Christmas gifts in the already brightly decorated front of the store. We found gifts for friends and neighbors and joked about how my mother always insisted that we choose some candy to take home whenever we came here. I thought of the retirement gift my mama had left for me when she died only the day after I had turned in my keys for my last full time job. She had left a package that contained trinkets from Cracker Barrel that sent lovely messages to me about how much she loved me. 

I still treasure the memories of time with my mother just as I felt the same kind of joy just being alone with my daughter, doing a little bit of nothing other than being together without having to busy ourselves with other concerns. It was therapy in a homespun kind of way, nothing to boast about, but more meaningful and memorable than a grand caravan to exotic places. Sometimes the best times are the ones that are the most ordinary. As I think on our little trip I realize how truly extraordinary it was.   

One of my favorite scenes in a movie occurred in the film Julie and Julia. The gist of the film is that a young woman decides to cook every recipe from Julia Child’s Art of French Cooking book. At one point she realizes that she may have taken on a challenge that is more daunting that she expected. Her frustration level rises to a point where she ends up thrashing and screaming on the floor of her kitchen while her husband patiently looks on without reacting. It seems that he knows her well enough to realized that her hissy fit is momentary and soon enough she will return to being a warrior. 

I love this part of the movie because it totally reminds me of myself when I hit a brick wall. I find a safe place in the privacy of my home and let my frustrations range freely. I might look like a lunatic for a brief time, but once I have let the poisons out of my mind I become invincible just as Julie did in the film. Through the many challenges of my lifetime I have initially emoted like a madwoman, but I always return to a rational state and determine what I must do to stay the course of my life. 

I suppose it would be better if I never lost my cool, but I don’t seem to be wired like that. My main go to spot has always been an empty room far away from other humans. Now and again I am so emotional that I let loose in front of my husband, but my crazed feelings rarely go beyond those parameters. Thus most people see me as a totally calm cool and collected individual. In the few instances that I have let down my facade, things have not gone well. 

The movie scene reminded me that anger and frustration are as much a part of our human experience as kindness and rationality. Balancing the two can be tricky depending on the situation. Allowing the indignation to come to the surface often has the power of motivating, especially when someone insinuates or states their lack of confidence in someone. 

Michael Jordan loved to tell about the time when he was not chosen for his school basketball team. He channeled his disappointment into practicing until his skills became engrained in his muscle memory. Stephen King was rejected so many times that he threw a manuscript in the trash. That piece of writing became his first published book, Carrie, and jump started his amazing career. History is replete with tales of frenzied failure followed by undaunted determination that eventually led to success.

When my mother first became ill with bipolar disorder I was a shy twenty year old lacking the confidence to even try for a driver’s license. After a total meltdown of tears and rage I knew that I had to pull myself together for her. I would transform into an adult almost overnight. I spent the next forty years of my life caring for her whenever she became ill. I found a strength inside me that I never knew was there. I think that I had to endure my fit of despair before I was able to determine a plan for believing in myself and helping her. 

Such has been the pattern of my life. I felt so lost when my father died. I held a pity party for myself and then remembered the things he had taught me. I set aside my childish feelings and worked hard to be the person he had challenged me to be. Later when my high school principal informed me that he did not belief that I would make it in accelerated classes, I went into a slow burn. I stewed only briefly because I knew that I would have to work hard to prove myself and I did. I felt that I had honored my father who always told me never to settle for being less than I had the power to be. 

There have certainly been times when I wondered if I had finally met my match. Some of my experiences have been so painful that I have sobbed in unrelenting despair. For some reason I never stay that way for long. I consider ways to deal with my problems and always pop back up from the dangers that seemed to be drowning me. I find strength over and over again. Just as I believe that most people do.

I would like to believe that I will continue to overcome disappointments and life changing events meant to tear me down. So far my routine of admitting to my own frailties in an emotional outburst, followed by creating a feasible plan has always worked for me. I wonder if one day the provocation I face will be too much. I have witnessed situations that seem unbearable to me like losing a child to murder or enduring war. Still I think that somehow I will find that steely side of myself even in dealing with such horrors. It just may take me longer to reach a point of moving forward. 

None of us should have to always be brave and perfectly behaved. We will each find ourselves in horrible situations that bring a well of sorrowful and angry feelings to the surface. We would do well to find a safe space for letting them out so that we will not hurt anyone in the process of owning those feelings. Then we will hopefully be able to reach back inside to find our invincible selves. One thing we humans have in common is that we don’t like being told that something is impossible.

I’ve always enjoyed programming that features a makeover of some sort. I remember Oprah Winfrey bringing people onto her program who looked especially bedraggled and downtrodden. She’d send them away with experts in hair, makeup and styling then bring them back for a big reveal. They would return to the stage literally looking like different people. I was always amazed by what a good haircut and a bit of highlighting did for one’s appearance. Having clothing that was tailored was rather amazing as well. I often found myself wondering how I would look if the folks who performed such miracles took a crack at me.

I also love shows like This Old House where someone spends more money that I will ever see renovating a downtrodden property. I am always in awe of the architects and builders who bring a neglected home back to glory, but I also realize the expense of doing such things. I often wonder what it is like to have so much income or savings that people don’t have to scrimp on their projects. I also marvel at the outcomes and wonder if the homes are really as lovely as they appear on the screen. 

I suppose that I have reached a point in life of mostly satisfaction with my own appearance and that of my home. I have come to like myself just as I am, and as long as my house is in good working order I am comfortable with it just as it is as well. I believe in a regimen of checkups and repairs for both my body and my household. As the years pass by I find that my desires for a major do over have mostly faded. Somehow spending time and money recreating my looks or those of the rooms in my residence seems to be a waste of resources that might better be used elsewhere. 

I find contentment in liking myself and my home. If I were to make any changes in either of those things it would be to scale back. I find myself moving more and more to a life of greater simplicity. I rarely wear makeup anymore and I clothe myself in mostly jeans and t-shirts. I have way more room and more belongings than I really need. I more often think of sharing than acquiring. I suppose that my change might be attributed to growing comfortably into my own skin. 

It certainly took me long enough to reach a point of satisfaction. I admittedly wanted to please everyone and that often meant putting on a show in my own appearance and the presentation of my home. I suppose that the strange interlude of the Covid pandemic showed me what was really important in life. Somehow all of that time reflecting and seemingly observing from inside a fishbowl helped me to sort out who I really am and how I want to relate to the world. I learned whom I might count on to stand by me, and who would quickly drop me for no real reason. I found out what really made me happy and what mattered very little. I had time to get in touch with my feelings and to better understand those of others. I discovered a new and deeper gratitude for my own good fortune. 

I suppose that it might be argued that I actually had a makeover that was invisible to everyone but me. I walked into the past three years as one person and emerged miraculously different. In a kind of reverse of the usual do over I stripped away the facade that had been hiding the person that I had always wanted to be. It was as though I was born again with more confidence in and appreciation for for my life. The joy of such a realization has been immeasurable. 

I marvel at my good fortune and celebrate each breath that I am able to take. Just thinking about the simple glories of life makes me smile. Nonetheless, I consider what I might do to help those around me and those far away. I want to help them to experience the feeling of contentment and security that I have. I’ve spent more time understanding and speaking up for the souls who are suffering even as I am more satisfied with my own lot in life than I have ever before been. My self criticism and timidity are gone, shorn and reshaped as surely as a new haircut might improve my appearance. 

The old house that resides in my mind has been shored up and restored to glory, maybe even made better than ever before. I’d like to think that the new me is kinder, gentler and stronger than because I have miles to go and much to do before I settle into a long rest. Without having to worry about all that is superfluous my new path is clear. I’m ready to turn my attention to making every breath I take purposeful. 

I will still watch makeovers because they fascinate me, but the envy that once colored my opinion of such things is gone. I have what I need. I don’t require more. I am now freer than ever before.  

It was just after hurricane Katrina had devastated New Orleans. The city was all but uninhabitable and many citizens had to find places to live until the water had receded and the damage to homes and buildings had been repaired. The greatest number of them came to Houston, Texas where the citizens welcomed them and the schools embraced their children. 

I was working at Paul Revere Middle School in west Houston at the time. There was an enormous apartment project adjacent to the campus that had seen better days and therefore had a number of empty apartments. The management made a deal with the city of Houston to offer residences at low rates and so many of the displaced families began to move into the dwellings and to register their children at the school. 

In the beginning the clerks who helped to complete the paperwork for each child and the counselors who assigned them to classes were inundated with applicants. The teachers were overwhelmed by the influx of new students into their classrooms, often having to ask for more desks and chairs and textbooks to accommodate them. All in all the situation was chaotic and tensions were on edge. As an administrator I sensed that all parties were at a breaking point as parents complained and yelled about the long waits and faculty members threatened to quit if they were subjected to anymore overcrowding in their classrooms. I sensed that something had to be done to calm everyone.

I had little idea what might work, but I was ready to try anything. I went to the teachers’ lounge and brewed a big pot of coffee and used all of the change in my wallet to purchase soft drinks. I organized cups, sugar cream, and cold drinks on a rolling cart that I brightened up with a couple of placemats. I rolled my beverages to the area where the parents were waiting and the faculty members were working feverishly. I planted a big welcoming smile on my face.

As I greeted each parent I told them how happy we were to have their children in our school. I introduced myself and inquired about their names while asking if they wanted something to drink. Most of them chose the coffee and smiled their thanks. I asked how they were doing, where they were living, what they had lost. I wanted to know what the school might do to help them. As I spread my meager effort at good cheer the atmosphere changed. People became calm and even understanding about having to be patient as they waited. The faculty members felt the pressure on them decrease. The environment became almost convivial.

Over many decades as a teacher and a school administrator I learned that most of the anger that I encountered came from the anxieties that parents and students were feeling. When they became overwrought and highly charged the best response was to demonstrate a sense of empathy. Most of the time all they needed was assurance that somebody had heard their pleas and understood what was so upsetting. It never took much to settle their feelings and work toward goals for helping. Only once did I fail to simmer things down.

It was an open house evening that had started quite well. The classrooms were decked out in fine student work and everyone seemed to be having a good time when yelling came from down the hall. I quickened my step in that direction as the insults being hurled were beginning to sound like violent threats. I reached the source of the commotion and saw a parent thrashing her arms and screaming at a teacher who appeared to be on the verge of either crying or hurling her own insults in answer to the parent. 

I introduced myself and quietly suggested that the parent accompany me to my office where we might discuss her concerns. At first the woman meekly followed me into the hallway, but after we had taken a few steps she turned on me, asking who I thought I was to interrupt her session with the teacher. Her vulgar language grew louder and louder as I did my best to let her know that I truly intended to hear her out and then help her. She would have none of it and she began to rage that she was going to follow me to my car at the end of the open house, follow me home and beat me when I got out of my car. 

To say I was stunned was an understatement. I was so taken aback that I rather quietly told her that she was going to have a very long ride because I lived across town from where I worked. I also let her know that many former students resided near me and they had great fondness for me and felt very protective of me. When I told her exactly where I lived her eyes became as big as saucers and she proclaimed that I lived in a gang infested part of the city. I simply smiled and said that I most surely did and that she was welcome to follow me if she still wanted to do so, but I had to admit that my former students might not like it if she tried to beat me up when we got here. 

The woman stuttered nervously  and immediately left. I suppose that I had resorted to a tactic that appalled even me, but it had cooled the situation down and the woman later apologized to everyone. She explained that she was having great difficulty with her son at home and was frustrated to learn that he was doing no better at school. She simply lost her cool. I suppose that I had lost mine as well. 

There is always a reason why someone behaves badly. Take that into account when they are raging. More often than not a bit of kindness will soothe them. Of course there are also times when pushing back is the only way to stop their rants. Bullies only seem to respond to strength.

I have been retired for quite some time, but not really. Within weeks of hanging up my teaching spurs I found myself feeling out of sorts and useless. I suppose that I am just not made to spend all of my days without direction. I missed the interaction with students that had been my lot for decades and found a way to fill that void by tutoring students in mathematics. Some of my charges were from a private high school. Others were my own grandchildren. I worked my leisurely schedule around time spent with young people attempting to master Algebra I, Geometry, Algebra II and Pre-Calculus. I found purpose and joy in studying ways to demystify concepts and build confidence in those who needed a little bit more support. It became my hobby of sorts. 

One day I got a message from my niece whose neighbors were searching for someone to teach mathematics to their sons whose homeschooling in math had moved beyond their abilities. It was an opportunity that I had to seize and I haven’t looked back since. Over time those two young boys have grown and moved on to junior college, but I have continued my relationship with their families as their siblings grew to need my services as well. A few family friends also requested my services so this year I’m working with ten youngsters ranging from grade five to community college age. Because of them boredom has never been one of my companions. 

My husband and I did a great deal of traveling before my father-in-law moved in with us. We’ve put most of that on hold until we find a way to feel comfortable leaving him for a long period of time. I’d probably be feeling a bit confined by our new responsibility were it not for those wonderful students that I teach each week. On Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays I travel to their homes to help them to progress in the knowledge and skills of mathematics. On Thursdays and Fridays I grade their work and plan their lessons. It keeps my mind feeling very much alive and fills time that I might otherwise struggle to make useful. It makes me a better person in every regard. 

I have my guilty pleasures as well. I am a sucker for any kind of word game. In fact I begin each day attempting to discover the answer to Wordle. Sometimes in the afternoons I play Scrabble with the computer and in the evenings Wordscape is my go to game. It may sound funny, but these are my therapies whenever life pushes in on me a bit too much and I become anxious. Focusing my brain on solving word puzzles soothes the beast within me every single time. 

In between doing laundry, cooking and keeping the house in order I like to read. In fact I often read when I am exercising on my bike or walking on the treadmill. I find exercising to be boring and tedious even though I always feel better after I have completed a session. Reading an article or a good book makes the time that I spend go so much faster. It feels less like a punishment when I use my mind while also keeping my body in good working condition.

My favorite pastime used to be following my friends on Facebook. I liked staying in touch with them electronically. I wanted to know how they were doing and when Covid came around it was an avenue for making sure that everyone was okay. Over those long weeks of isolation I learned how to use Twitter as well and now I am a great fan who follows experts in education, medicine, politics and economics. I’ve even had the joy of getting comments from famous souls whom I have admired for decades. I have learned a great deal of useful information from my forays into the noisy world of social media, but it is also often one of the most frivolous things that I do all day. 

When I first retired I worried that I would soon be bored with my very slowed down life. For over forty years I had left for work before seven in the morning and returned just before dinner time. I spent every evening grading papers and planning lessons until I fell exhausted into bed. On weekends I had to clean my home, do laundry, and shop for groceries. Every minute of every day was filled and I became accustomed to never having time for frivolities. The thought of having a whole day before me without restrictions was horrifying when I finally came home to spend the rest of my life without the direction that work had always given me. 

I’ve found my footing, a way of living with continued purpose at a greatly scaled down pace. I’ve finally had time to write every single day and to visit leisurely with friends. I am able to care for my father-in-law and laugh with my students. When the weather is not too hot or too cold I tend to my garden and pamper my plants. I tweet on Twitter and celebrate life on Facebook. I relax with words, words and words. One day I will hit to road again and travel to places far and near. For now I am quite content in perhaps the most enjoyable phase of my life. I get to decide each day what I want to do, and sometimes I actually allow myself to relax. My chosen frivolities have kept me happy.