notes to myself

Just before rushing out the door to attend a national conference a couple of years ago, I printed out a personalized schedule without reading it carefully. In the weeks leading up to the conference, whenever I came across an interesting author, I'd search for his or her name on the conference program. If they were presenting and it sounded intriguing, I would mark it. But the hurriedly printed version only gave times, dates and locations. Dutifully, I followed the itinerary and showed up at various ballrooms and salons not knowing what was in store. It worked out better than anyone could have imagined. My pre-conference self did a fantastic job with selecting sessions that would have escaped my notice during the unsystematic searches on-site (e.g., "okay, what's available this afternoon?"). What I needed to know was provided for, just when I needed it, through a note I'd generated for myself.

Sometimes the notes to myself have been generated by another person ... but I had left them in an odd place to discover at some unanticipated moment. The poet Naomi Shihab Nye has been doing this for me lately. When I thought I had only first discovered her, I realized I'd actually heard someone else read one of her poems long ago. Yesterday, I found myself reading another of her poems in a compilation I'm certain I had been through before. One of her poems is one I've printed a couple of times and jammed into my bookbag with the expectation I'll pull it out of a mass of papers, re-read it, and remember what matters. In particular, The Art of Disappearing ends with a reminder that strikes me as bold and clear -- and memorable:

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second
Then decide what to do with your time.

Occasionally, I leave notes to myself that I can't quite decipher. For example, I was double-checking the travel time required for Sue and me to reach our favorite restaurant*. I typed the town's name into the mapping search engine and then used the "search nearby" feature. This place is called Still River Cafe and it is a culinary gem in the middle of nowhere. But as I typed, the search engine suggested I was looking for rivera nocturnal landscape — which brought nothing to mind. It was as if a ghost was writing for me, just like in a Harry Potter scene where a deceased boy writes replies into the book where Harry quills in his questions. Later, I pieced together that this was a Diego Rivera painting (adjacent) that reminded me of a photo Zeroeth took during a teacher trip. Even though this was not an example of a note to myself (at least not that I can yet pinpoint) it is evidence I leave scraps here and there.

The final note to myself to report upon arose during breakfast when I was lucky enough to reconnect with the guy who hosted me during a trip to Cape Town a few years ago. He travels here to interview applicants for the spring honors program as well as student nurses for their fall expeditions to his country. He inquired (as I feared and hoped he would) about prospects for education students. I shared with him my pessimism. Somehow, because he was quietly chewing or I needed to continue, i explained my ambition had been to help students see diversity and poverty in a dramatically different setting such that they could return home to see those conditions here with fresh eyes. The words came so easily that upon hearing them, I recognized them as something I had expressed before when a South Africa trip was still a possibility. Now those ideas have come to the surface again and I'm looking for an angle to pursue such an opportunity. A verbal note to myself that I was carrying in my skull but had been forgotten until I shared it with myself.

- - - - - - - - -

* The sky was very overcast but there was a break in the clouds to the west at 6:30. It was not a lightness that illuminated nor a glow that gave warmth. Instead, it created the ache that comes from knowing that it will become much darker and colder — and these times will be of sufficient duration it might be that warmth and light won't return until after life has departed from the body. It seemed the perfect conditions to see deer along the country road. I announced this sensation and less than fifteen minutes later we passed, untouched, through a herd of whitetail as they ambled across the blacktop. Another message from and to myself.

just might work out

Most teachers know about the great fun of preparing for a new group of students. Everybody is new, anything is possibility, and every thing is beautiful ... in its own way (see pop culture reference in a this unique video). Later we discover how foolish it was to plan for students in two separate courses to do the same assignment and have it due the same week. In this case, despite the workload it's a good idea. In brief, they are to find a cute or clever or classic hands-on activity and upgrade it so it incorporates effective teaching practices (e.g., learning cycle, process skills, standards-based, inquiry, differentiation, etc.). I'm sure once I finally open the pile of papers and associated email messages that it will work out.

What this is competing against are my efforts to generate two complementary NSF proposals. I have not had the best of luck winning sizable grants but on this occasion, I am emboldened. For one, the idea has stirred great enthusiasm and interest among those who may be involved, including colleagues in the Ed Leadership department and someone else at another university down the road. In addition, I'm getting some badly needed advice from people I've never met. To one in particular I sent a bold email asking for a copy of his recently funded project. Not surprisingly, he declined but we've since arranged for a consultation phone call later this week. Also, we have a great budget guy at our institution and he sent back a revised spreadsheet that corrects some of my mistakes. Having this means I can see for myself the financial implications of dropping from 3 to 2 graduate assistants. That change allows me to increase travel funds for fieldworkers and still bring us in under budget.

If there's anything unfortunate in all of this is that the two tasks are competing with each other. There's less than a month left to align all the pieces, obtaining all the necessary supporting documents and finalize a compelling description about what we'll accomplish in the NSF project. Even though I'd rather do some wordsmithing, this late in the day is not a good time to undertake such a creative intellectual task. What makes it so fun is that the proposed project is similar to writing a syllabus: it's all possibilities and exciting ones at that. The additional encouragement from friends and strangers, far and near, only makes it more grinnable.

gone crazy

Earlier this year, there was discussion about whether it might not be best to envision colleagues as mental patients. In a very pragmatic sense, this construct held true due to its verifiability in multiple sites. Turns out this may be more than idle speculation in light of empirical evidence.
According to a recent article, mental disorders by people may reach a 60% incident rate by age 32. And even higher values as one ages. Here's a quote from the researcher as reported in Science News:

Life flu, if you follow a cohort of people born in the same year, as they age almost all of them will sooner or later have a serious bout of depression, anxiety or substance abuse problem.

What should be comforting to me is that I already suspected as much, which suggests I may have greater interpersonal sensitivity than I might have believed. What is subsequently discomforting is the seeming inevitability of this for me. I suppose if I am to continue my contrarian ways, I should avoid anxiety and depression by opting for cannabis dependence. On such a sunny autumn afternoon, perhaps I should perform a google image search to see whether I can begin a leaf collection that will place me on the normal path to mental disorders.

indulgences

First weekend in October and there are many indulgences. Two days of intermittent rain extended the period of nightfall such that I have slept all night and past 8 am for two nights in row. While the clouds prevented us from gazing at the full moon, there is still a Chinese mooncake waiting to be eaten. Dense, glutinous, sweet — it almost certainly transport billions to their childhoods upon the first bite. Me: I learned how lotus paste tastes and am not surprised the hard-boiled egg yolks are not common within most past pastries I have encountered.

We drove across the border in search of an orchard recommended by a local friend. Along the way, the steering wheel all but jumped out of my grip as we approached a sign indicating it was New England’s largest liquor store. The parking lot was full and inside we were greeted by a costumed scarecrow (note: purchased costumes such as lobsters are far superior) and clots of people. Turns out it was Octoberfest and the locals were swarming around tables for beer tasting. On the periphery, others hovered with their bratwurst. We made our way around one soggy swarm to an aisle of whiskey and a section from the isles of the United Kingdom. Four different styles of Tullamore Dew varying in supposed age and by bottle design. Nearby, distinguished and aloof, was my choice of a tall cardboard sleeve or a regularly corked bottle with the hazy landscape of Connemara in western County Galway.

Further, weaving on narrow damp roads toward the orchard, my co-pilot asked what I might want to eat at this place. Bratwurst was on my mind and her response indicated that was a feeble hope. We parked in a meadow and walked toward the store and apples. We heard music. Turned out there was a live band doing a very decent job generating southern rock from beneath a shelter that held a dozen or so picnic tables. A trailer was selling onion rings, french fries and other greasy foods. And so I had my bratwurst with kraut. There were goats and llamas to survey. A weedy pen held a sign explaining the world distribution of the emu but none was to be seen. Sue tossed a piece of my brat bun to a chicken who then fell head over claws in love. We ambled back toward the music, selected a peck of Galas, and headed down the road.

Breakfast on Sunday was a caramel apple we bought at another orchard the same day. The whiskey sits next to the coffee maker (temporarily) and I resist the indulgence of a snort or a sniff. It ought to be enough to enjoy the lightening sky where I am instead of attempting a mental escape. A reverse recollection would accompany the odor of peat-smoked malt, perhaps a vous jàdé experience where I know in the future I’m going to remember this moment. Quite sadly, I discover there are no cheap flights later this month between Hartford or Providence and Salt Lake City. The whiskey find then is a somewhat hollow victory. Somehow or another there has to be a way to indulge this increasing desire long before May 1 in Denver. Wheels begin to turn.