I’m so tired of Jeff threatening me. I’m so tired of all. Of. This.
You can get used to almost anything.
Time. Time is all I’ve got.
And vacillating. I keep vacillating.
Can I please disappear now?
When I get overwhelmed that I am constantly making the wrong call with the kids, or revealing myself to be too in over my head…I have to remember that one day I will be that person. One day I will be that person that knows what they’re doing. One day all of this will be second nature to me…I am learning this as I have learned everything else and I have to be patient with myself. It’s only been 3 weeks and there is a lifetime of things to learn. It’s hard to make the right call every moment with every child and everything they ask but one day it will be more natural to me. One day I will just be this person. How to be a Waldorf teacher will be in my muscle memory and while I’ll never have to stop trying or stop being present, I will be able to glide. To really trust my instincts and to lead. I have to start trusting my instincts now. I just feel like I am completely trying every second of every day to prove that I know what the hell I’m doing and it’s exhausting. But there is a presence. There is a presence that if I absorb and if I inhabit and if I follow…then everything else just clicks into place. I have to get out of my head and into my body and just be. Be a strong tower. Discipline is difficult for me…really, really difficult. And finding that balance between nurturing and reigning them in is difficult. But I can do all things and I can learn all things and I can absorb exactly where the boundaries are and why and I can work on articulating those things. This is just a period of trying. Every minute of every day. To learn as much as I can about everything that’s going on around me. It’s a really overwhelming time, but if I look at it as a period of time and not a river that is chasing me…I think I can begin to understand how to be that person. How to really BE a Waldorf teacher. One day I will be that person. And that is a comforting thought. I can do it.
And it’s beautiful. It’s all so beautiful. At recess I stand in the sloping meadow with a freshly made crown of leaves in my hair and watch the children play as if in a dream. Some picture book come to life. What second grade boys think to do with their time and what first grade girls hold in their tiny hands. The way that they run and the way that they fall into each other’s arms. Trusting, always trusting.
Waldorf boys are beautiful. They hold hands with each other, walk arm in arm, hug in the middle of recess. They’re not afraid of affection or care and they accept my offers to run my hand up and down their back for comfort. They still run at each other with aggression and pound into the ground violently with shovels and rocks. But they are different. And they are comfortable in a safe space. Actually I think they have MORE safe opportunities to express their will forces and their testosterone AND more safe opportunities to express their soft, vulnerable sides at the same time. Recess is just a HUGE old sheep’s pen that slopes and curves in big wide hills…and there are shovels, logs, lumber, silver pails, big rocks and a stream. And they are encouraged to use their bodies to the the fullest extent. They do things I never imagined you would let children do in a school. Nothing is safe guarded, there is a handmade climbing structure out of logs that is quite high and they are allowed to jump off of it, figure out a way to climb up it etc. We run around in the classroom, we skip and jump and hop in a circle. We sing nearly everything. They feel comfortable to catch frogs with their bare hands and pound into the ground with a spade and at the same time, comfortable to sing and dance and skip around. It’s a crazy beautiful place.
The first grade boys are fierce. Determined and wily. But they always glance back at me through the side of their face for reassurance. That they’re ok. That they’re pushing the boundary but they’re still ok. The boys say no and they don’t know that secretly I love them for that. The girls say no too, but in a different way. A lot of the girls just respond to the boys wilderness’ by standing strong and tall and looking at me like they’re exhausted of this game. I wonder if girls continue to do this. I think I know that they do.
I can feel my brain rattling in its cage and this is all so bumbling and mumbling and full of hot air and fresh water and cold, cold tar filling up my lungs. This is rapture and this is really rolling at too fast of a pace to be anything other than dangerous. This is an open flame just burning. All I know is what cannot be unknown. I cannot unknow this hot dangerous truth that is running towards me. This ancient, lost whisper that is searching for me through every fucking raindrop.
OK OK OK OK OK I can be stronger than this. I can stop victimizing myself. I can stop beating myself up about this. I can stop right now.
Come on rain, let’s clean this shit up.
This shit is mine. This diary has kept me aloat. Has kept me sane. So fuck it. I NEED to write.
Fucking be patient.
I get it I get it I get it I really do get it I should stop pretending like I don’t.
I didn’t mean to ignore you I just can’t control my body sometimes I get so nervous.
I know how to live like this. I’m used to living like this.
I just want to get lost. I just want to go on walkabout again. Drive or hike or climb or walk or run until it all makes sense again. Trains, buses, planes, roads, hills, valleys, open sky, endless path. I know how to get lost. Disconnect. Go without a phone, internet, all the drumming nonsense. Where no one knows your name. Those were some of the only times I ever really knew myself. Max hated me for never getting a phone in Australia but it was goddamn awesome. Just racing the sun towards something worth finding. I want to get lost.
I am feeling and feeling and feeling that I am trying to feel like I’m not going to be swallowed whole by this.
Can the ball please no longer be solely in my court?
The only thing I can do is just lift my head. If I just focus on the sun and the air and the wind blowing around me when I walk down this street…It’s the same sun, the same bright star that has lit up all the days of my life and will light up all the days remaining. It is old light, even when it reaches my face. It is starlight, even during the day. We forget things. We get caught up in syntax and implicit connotations of the words we get comfortable using. The ways the like to subjugate and punish people for acts we all have within ourselves. The hearts and impulses and strengths and weaknesses we are all given. The way we all scold each other for “behavior” even though for the life of me I don’t know how to behave any other way that the way I behave based on a thousand trilling dominoes that have ticked themselves away and brought me to this place based on a thousand drilling neurons that have formed themselves into a path that my brain is drumming because of the structure that it is formed and forming in. I don’t know what free will is or where it resides. I don’t know how to be mad at anyone. Ever. I don’t know how to chastise anyone for anything because at that deepest core, we are all that tiny little starlight that is just a bundle of waves that was once a tiny fragment of something inside a single something. That blew out into the big bang. Universal perspective is the only thing that is helping me walk through these confusing days. Just this idea that I am so tiny. That this is so small. Because it seems quite big to me, right now. Glaring in front of my face. Staring at me through the computer screen. It all seems quite big and quite catastrophically meaningful. But it is small at the same time.
This is what I come to when I see my father. Because when it rains, it pours, downpours, thunders and hurricanes. Because I have seen my father once in 2 years and yesterday he came in the middle of this shit. And because I have always tried to make sense of it. And you can say that people are evil. You can write people off. But I see my father and I see this strange curling sadness inside of him and I know he is a human. We are all human. No better and no worse. He has a sad story, and I feel bad for him. He has to fight back tears all the time when he is with me and I know it’s real for him. People feel bad, of course they feel bad. People regret, of course they regret. People act in unspeakable ways and I’ll never know why and most of the time, the people themselves hardly know why either. They are just following the drum beat of the corroded brain structures their neurons are firing in. They are just doing the best they can do with the story they have been given, the strength they have been given, the truth they are living. And we can blame them. Or we can have compassion for them. Because they are always ourselves. Because we are always flawed, and small and wrong. But we try. And we try to heal. And when people rise towards the light, when people lift their heads, when people try to mend…that is a strong force fighting against a legion of structured neurons. When you can fight your own self, that is amazing strength. And when you cannot, you simply cannot. Richard cannot do any better right now simply because he cannot. I can’t hate him for that. I can only send him love and light and hope that one day he can. It’s easy to hate my father. It’s simple. But I don’t know what good it does anyone. When I can see without a shadow of a doubt that there is a terrible blue spark inside of him. That he has a sad story that he is living. And for some reason, some part of the universe is living out this story. It’s true. It’s really happening. I think people want to turn away from these things and just simply blame the people themselves because it’s easier than rationalizing that this is a universe in which these kinds of stories TAKE PLACE. Are real. And right. It’s not a mistake. This is a world in which these stories are breathed into existence. And so what does that mean about this world? About the nature of reality? About humanity?
And little Jamie is sick for the first time. Really sick. And he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand what is happening to his body and this is a universe in which this happens. In which bodies fail. In which pain is part and purposeful. And I was up all night holding this little frightened baby and his breathing sounds horrible and his whole body is feverish and he doesn’t understand why he’s in so much pain. And I can’t make it better even with words. Because he doesn’t understand them yet. But this is a world in which this happens. For some reason there is pain and there is beauty and there is love in this world. And I can give him my body, my warmth and soft song of my voice telling him it’ll be alright. But we are stuck inside these skins that sometimes cannot fight off infection. These bodies that battle themselves. These minds that battle themselves. These minds that do not understand half of half of half of what is happening. We are small. Jamie is reminding me how small and helpless I am. My father is reminding me how small and helpless we all are. Perspective is not making things immediately easier. But I cannot swim in the depth of all of this. I have to float to the top. To raise my head. And keep telling my little baby that it’ll be alright. That it’ll pass. That this too shall pass.
It’s all just a dream. It’s all just a dream. Just this bubble of consciousness that is experiencing itself experience itself. And I’m a part of that. And so are you.
When I am all littered with licked wounds and listless battle scars I will make it back again. When I am cleaned of my edges and rid of my riptides, I will rush back into the running rage of the sea. I will rip out the frayed edges, the folded pages and the silent secrets tucked between the sheets. I will furrow my brow into a shape worth having and I will find my skin feeling its way back to the beginning. When I am all healed of this train called brain I will follow that deep and deafening sound back to sanity. Back to some place that can trace the silent reverie of my life to the moment when memories were mostly magic.
Something in the air today makes me so grateful to be alive I could cry. Sometimes children are so beautiful I feel my heart might explode. Their perfect faces, their wild and curling hair, the way they dance through their bodies with light. It’s horrifyingly gorgeous. We painted today and it was sacred. Lights off, everyone silent, just dim slits of natural light floating through the windows, teacher playing the lyre and everyone experiencing the feeling of golden.
I’m trying. I’m really trying to understand what the fuck I’m supposed to do right now. But I don’t have a fucking clue. So. I am just trying to take each moment by each moment. I am trying to get my head to not think what it thinks and I am trying to get my heart to not feel what it feels but I am never winning. I am always just wandering 10 steps behind myself watching myself fuck up everything in my path. It’s a horrifying car crash that I can feel happening all around me but I can’t even get back into my body to stop anything at all.
I feel like I’m standing over here holding a grenade in my hand and the weight of it is too goddamn heavy for me. I just feel like I might explode. I have felt like I might just explode for 4 months.
You will end up doing everything you always swore you could never possibly imagine yourself doing. Every horrible and wild thing. For life is long, lines are blurry, love is thick, hearts are strong and fear is relentless. And you will never stop being haunted by the feeling that the steady drum beat of your heart almost sounds like a song you once knew you how sing.
Your love little Jamie, though, the depth and honesty of it…has been one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. So thank you for that.
This is fucked. up.
What the fuck is going on.
This shit is out of control.
Is there a light at the end of this tunnel or is there just a fucking tunnel?
All ancient with half breathed love sounds
We keep heaving ourselves onto the table
And hiding ourselves under the couch.
The place to trace the space we once took up.
We sit. We fumble for frozen chunks of words
And mumble half remembered love letters from the
Topmost capillaries of our hearts
We bang our two hopes together and keep hoping that hope will be enough
We light the strangest and darkest fire beneath
Our wings and wonder why we ever forgot to fly
We say half of the half of the half of it
A fraction of the friction that makes fiction from our truths
From the wide open bouts of honesty we tuck into our mouths and hold close for safe keeping.
We keep whispering
Just ten thousand words that are never enough
Just five thousand syllables that all try to say
What is too strong to stick to a sound.
That word before words.
Well a thousand dreams can be torn asunder but I will not move from this moment.
I am a ragtag bunch of beating cells that all sing that sound.
It’s more than love.
And I’m still chasing the word.
He threw his ring at me from across the kitchen. Yesterday in therapy he made absolutely no sense. I lost my keys while walking on the canal path with Jamie on Tuesday and a team of people joined me and looked for hours and hours and hours until it was dark…called a tow truck and the tow truck man found them on the hood because I guess someone nice put them there while we were all searching. Talking with Solomon made me sick to my stomach. I went blues dancing in Philly last night and it was mind blowingly amazing. School is so much to absorb and learn it’s crazy. Jamie is really learning how to walk. And I miss you. And it still hurts. I feel so, so, so emotionally exhausted. I just can’t do anything. I feel sort of numb and sort of explosive at the same time.
I just need it.