Slice of Life: An Interaction in an Office and a Reminder to Self

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"You should see a screen to initialize," said the woman behind the plexiglass. "Just scroll down. The pen is on the right."

Ever since my year of living with(out) the word just, I've been hyper-aware of its use. This explanation about scrolling was not going to make sense to the man standing at the window, and somehow, the use of 'just' exacerbated his struggle. 

"I don't see it," he said. 

As she walked him through the steps that had been easy for me, I learned about his age (78), his changes in physicians (they'd retired), his living situation (recently in a new apartment that his children who lived several hours away insisted on)... I could also tell you his go-to curse and his feelings about new medical office technology and plexiglass windows. 

As I sat in the waiting room both trying and pretending to focus on my Words with Friends and not the interactions in front of me, I thought about my grandmother's refrain; "It's not my world," she used to say. My mother says it now, or something along those lines. 

What won't be my world in another 25 years? How can I make sure it is? More and more, these sorts of questions swirl, reminding me to try new things and learn new systems, even when they're confusing and don't seem worth it. Maybe I'll try a new iPad app today since the only thing I've done so far on it is watch a show and read books. 

Slice of Life: A Late Summer Swim

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I didn't get to the beach until late in the afternoon, but Sarah was still there, reading the water-warped copy of Daisy Jones and the Six, furrows of sand between her feet. She abandoned the book when I sat down, and the two of us talked and watched the clouds drift in front of and away from the sun. Block Island hung on our horizon, deceiving in its late summer closeness. 

My plan had been to take a quick swim, but instead, I spread my towel and enjoyed the luxury of conversation without a wonder about time or lists or the next thing to do. In the cool breeze, I wondered out loud if I'd even go in. Sarah was far from encouraging. "Too chilly for me," she said. 

I waited until the sun re-emerged from clouds. "I don't have many days left of riding to the beach and swimming in the ocean," I said, getting up from the towel and heading toward the waves. 

Given the chilliness of the air, I expected the water to feel warmer. And, as much as I appreciated the gentle waves, the bigger ones force a quick entry. Maybe my slow entry made that water seem extra cold. Even so, I spent my usual minutes on my back watching my toes surface and savoring a late-summer swim. 

Slice of Life: An Orange Swirl Cone with a Candle

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Sunday night was a grand finale for many of the family members. We have an existence that I will never, ever take for granted because my husband's parents left a house to us and his brother's family that is on the Rhode Island coast. It's a magical place, a place of memories, of joy, of togetherness. 

Since three of our four daughters were leaving on Monday, we all went for ice cream on Sunday night. All twelve of us. My nephews, my four daughters, the two friends who were visiting, my brother and sister-in-law, my husband. We stood in line, and we debated our cones of choice. Not surprisingly, everyone except Larkin's boyfriend opted for the orange and vanilla swirl. If you're ever in Watch Hill at the St Clare Annex, you should try it.     

The line grew behind us as the ice cream barista doled out cone after cone. The line grew even longer when the machine sputtered and had to be refilled. As I watched all of my family members receive their cone, I grew a little cross. Why weren't any of the kids or guests passing a cone my way before they dug in? How dare my husband lick away at his cone without chivalrously passing one to me first? And how could the final cone be taking so long? At least we'd timed our arrival ahead of the VERY long line that had now formed. 

"This is testing my patience," I said to Larkin. 

I failed to notice her giggle. I failed to notice her elbow her sister. I failed to notice more giggles. And I failed to think about the fact that the day before had been my birthday and because of another slice-worthy situation, I hadn't gotten any candles to blow out. 

All of a sudden an overfilled cone came my way with a candle. Did I mention I was there with the ENTIRE family? They all began singing, and guess what? So did that entire line! Somehow, they all even knew my name. I am NOT one to enjoy this sort of spotlight, but there was nothing to do except go along with it. I did. I smiled, and I basked in the joy of my family, an August birthday, and an orange swirl cone with a candle on it. 

Slice of Life: Abs on a Monday

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I waited until the last possible minute to announce I'd go with Larkin and Julia to yoga. I'd worked out a lot over the weekend, I had plenty of work to catch up on, and I was looking at a full afternoon of tutoring. But it's rare that Larkin and Julia are both home, so yes, I hauled on the yoga pants. 

The studio lobby was busy with people signing in, and Lisa, the check-in guru, was training a new person. My situation created a learning experience since I was running late and my pre-purchased pack of ten was showing none left, and I was pretty sure there was one remaining. At least the girls took my mat to set up my space-- the one by the window and against the front wall for when I lose my balance. 

"I'll figure it out when you're in class," Lisa said. 

I walked into class, and my mat was in the back row, far from the window and with access only to the back wall. 

"Your spot was taken," Julia said. "I figured you'd want the wall, so I put you there."

I'd deal. Yogis should go with the flow. 

"Is this 60 minutes or 75 minutes?" I asked, hoping it would be shorter because long classes start with abs and short classes just get right into flow. My abs were sore, and I concentrated on Julia saying sixty. She did. But... 

"Today doesn't feel like a Monday," Michelle, the instructor said as she opened the class. "Let's start on our backs with abs."

As I write about this on Tuesday morning, I can guarantee you that there are NO ABS in my next 24 hours. 

Slice of Life: A Quick Jump in the Ocean

 

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"Anyone want to ride a bike and take a quick swim with me?" I ask. 

It's the last day of July, the day when summer is beyond its midway point, and thoughts of the school year creep into my daily routines. 

I have no takers. Larkin is getting ready for an on-line meeting, Amy and Julia are heading for a workout, and Jack has a list of chores. 

I shrug and head for the beach alone. It's a little over a mile, and I pass a few dogwalkers, gardeners, and joggers. We all say hello. It's that sort of a morning. 

I park the bike, the only one, and I imagine its surprise at its lack of company. Usually, it's hard to find a place for a bike along the wall, and sometimes I lean the rusty frame against the cluster of beach roses. 

The waves have a rhythm this morning, a welcome change from the churning surf that chiseled out parts of the beach over the weekend. The red seaweed, another unwelcome weekend guest, has also moved along. Clear water, so clear I can see my feet on the sand grains, welcomes me, and its temperature is about the same as the air. It's easy to talk myself into the ocean this morning. A wave breaks at my waist, one I consider diving through, but its break is gentle, barely offering a ride to shore. I walk a little further, then dolphin-dive. I float on my back, watching the distant walkers along the beach. 

Back on my bike, riding home, I'm ready to tackle my work tasks of the day. 

Slice of Life: A well-timed email from a student

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Last weekend, I gave a talk about the power of teaching. Leading up to that talk, I thought a lot about it, even interviewing a past student, and I've continued thinking about the potential lasting impact of interactions I may have with students. 

Then, this morning I woke up to an email from S. She is a senior in high school, and I mentored her writing spirit for many years. Up until the pandemic, she was part of a group I met with monthly, supporting them as creative writers outside of school. By eighth grade, S. had self-published five (yes, five) novels through Amazon. Here's part of what she wrote:

I'm really grateful I got to be a part of such a fun and creative group and I'll never forget it! It's helped my writing but it's also helped me to grow as a person and is part of the reason why I'm now majoring in creative writing and wanting to go further with it. 

Could we organize a reunion of our writing group, she wanted to know. I've already responded that yes, of course we can find a time for the group to meet again and share plans.

It is starting to feel repetitive and cliché to write that teaching seems hard these days. Sitting in a coffee shop in a quiet peaceful beach town during my spring break, it seems a little easier. I have the space and time to reflect, to plan, to reset, and to organize thoughts and priorities for the final weeks of the school year. And now I have the reminder from a student that sometimes my work makes a difference and inspires writers. I'll let her know how much that means. 

All good things,

Slice of Life- It's a long way from Rodeo Drive!

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I walked into the post office with my four boxes ready to send. I usually don't encounter a line, but I guess it was a popular time for buying stamps and sending packages. When I got to the window, I went through the routine:

Nope, no perishables. 

No aerosols, sprays, or flammables.

Yes, that shipping method is fine. 

"You didn't put a zip code on this one," the man said from behind the counter. 

I pulled up Julia's text. She had sent me her address last night so I could address her package. 

"90210," I read, saying it out loud. Wait, that was a familiar zip code. "That was a TV show," I said. 

Someone laughed from a place in the line behind me. 

"That's the zip code," I said, understanding the laugh and catching on to the joke that was sort of on me. "But this package is headed for Pennsylvania. Not Beverly Hills."

Turns out the zip code for Bryn Mawr is 19010. Julia's numbers were close, but her apartment is still a long way from Rodeo Drive. 

All good things,