Thou dost not look thine age

You may not have known this (unless you subscribe to Harper's magazine), but the King James Bible turns 400 this year. This long-standing, beloved-of-many translation has fallen out of usage due to its old-fashioned, Shakespeare-style language (in fact, the translation was started in 1604, the same year Shakespeare was at the height of his career)--but the move to more modern versions is fairly recent as these things go. Your parents and grandparents likely grew up hearing the King James Bible in church, and there are places all over the world where it is still used every Sunday. Whether you're familiar with it or not, you are surely familiar with the way it has enriched modern English with phrases like "a drop in the bucket," "a labor of love," and "bite the dust," (for real!) among many, many others.

I did not grow up hearing the King James Bible in church, but I have profound affection for 17th-century English and for the smart, secular editors of Harper's, who decided to gather seven well-known authors, have them pick their favorite verse, then write about it for the latest issue of the magazine. This intersection of ideas, writing, language and religion always makes me want to throw a party in my brain--and the variation of writing (four short essays and three poems) are all wonderful takes on the chosen verses. There is cranky atheist Benjamin Hale railing against the notion of human exceptionalism in Psalm 8; and Howard Jacobson's brilliant interpretation of the creation story with God as the original autonomous artist. John Banville re-tells the tale of Absalom through the eyes of an Israelite soldier with the personality and language patterns of a Victorian-era enlisted man. I wish you could access the article online, but you have to subscribe. Let me know if you want to read it, and I'll send you my password or a copy.

It has also inspired me to pick a verse from the King James Bibe and write a commentary of my own. This is not to put myself (ridiculously) in the category as John Banville or Marilynne Robinson. Ummmm...no. But it seemed like such a fun way to mark the anniversary of such an influential book. I invite you to do the same, if you feel so moved. I would love to post it here!

And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. --John 1:5

For much of the year, I leave the house before the sun comes up and return home long after it sets. I have witnessed countless sunrises from the windows of various classrooms and have watched the light leaking from the sky as I sit in meetings, type away at the computer or stand over a copy machine. That teachers work hard is no secret, and our relationship with light and darkness has closely linked literal and figurative sides. The turning of day into night represents the physical hours it takes to educate children with some measure of effectiveness. The turning of night to day, that switching on of the metaphorical light of knowledge is the reason every teacher puts in those long hours in the first place.

Despite my mixed reviews of the movie Waiting for Superman, I do sometimes think of my job in comic-book terms. There are the villains of institutional racism, poverty, apathy and massive budget shortfalls. Then there are the heroes: the teachers, students and families who work every day to overcome these dastardly roadblocks with a pow! wham! smash! of hard work, tenacity, and maybe even some humor every now and then.

I don't think I could be as chipper a good guy as I often am if I didn't believe in the promise at the heart of this verse: that light shines in the darkness. Always. What I love about the King James version is that the darkness is totally clueless. Most translations I've read cast the darkness in a more proactive role. The same verse in the NRSV Bible reads: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. In this version, darkness is still losing, but it's trying to do something about it. In the King James Bible, darkness is there, but it's totally uncomprehending, a verb we use as a synonym for understand, but has its roots in Latin for "to grasp."

A light shines in the darkness (pow! bam!), and the darkness just can't get a handle on it. (K.O!)

It's a good reminder at the end of the year--or maybe at any time--that the darkness is ultimately powerless in the face of the light. It might seem like it's evil, like the Joker or the Riddler, twirling its mustache menacingly, coming up with pitfalls and snares. But, let's not forget, darkness is static, clueless, defeat-able. I speak from experience, especially at the end of the year, as former students head to college, and current students turn in final projects full of insight, organization and correct spelling. Chasing away the darkness, being the metaphorical light, is sometimes just about showing up every morning before the literal light. Or doing whatever it is you do with all your heart, day after day, with the wider world in mind. No cape, no special powers, no Batmobile required. This might sound comic-book-ish, simplistic, with no proper shading or depth--but it's also true. And it's not just me. The King James Bible has been saying the same thing for 400 years.

The power of pressing on

Last week, 70 6th graders, four other teachers, the principal and I went to West Texas for our end of year field trip. This four-day-three-night outing was the culminating reward for kids who did the right thing all year, as measured by our weekly paycheck system. It's a long-standing tradition in our charter network. Some schools (like the one next door) take their sixth graders on a week-long backpacking trips through Utah. We at our school boarded a charter bus on Monday and headed a mere seven hours toward the setting sun and the rolling gold hills between Marfa and Fort Davis.

Step behind the scenes of trips like these and what you find are multiple field trips all strung together by the teachers to make what we hope is a thrilling whole--perfect for inspiring good behavior and academic habits in the future. We kept the kids busy horseback riding, ropes-course climbing, orienteering (Yes! Hand out the coordinates! The class of 2017 will now never be lost as long as they live. And have a compass handy...), exploring and, of course, swimming and riding in the bus. Yes. The bus. At my old school in San Francisco, we joked that we could save a ton of money by simply renting a bus, driving the kids around all day, then finding someplace for them to swim for a few hours. They'd be happy as little pre-teen clams. Not surprisingly, this affection for sitting with friends in large, moving vehicles followed by a quick dip in the pool is also embraced by Texas middle schoolers. Yet we insisted on dragging them away from their peers and forcing them to sit through a (thrilling!) talk about the solar system at the famous McDonald Observatory (just down the road from where we were staying) and learn how to ride a zip line and manage their daily routine while staying in a cabin with 10 closest friends. I mean, really!

We also made them climb a mountain. Of course we did. And it was there, at the end of the year at about 5,000 feet above sea level, that I realized that the kids really do listen on a very deep level. A level that transcends physical comfort. A level that promotes determination and grit. For real! Sometimes I feel that my job, stripped down to its most basic level, involves cajoling children to do things they really don't want to do for hours at a time.

Last week on Guadalupe Peak in the heart of West Texas, I was sure of it. And it was a good thing.

I hiked the mountain (beautiful, highly recommended) with four kids who did not want to be there. I ended up with these four after confusion with another teacher left them alone on the trail, group-less. I went back to retrieve them, and we set off together. They were not in the best shape. They had absolutely no experience hiking a trail with any elevation gain, to say nothing of 3,000 feet. We did a few switchbacks, and they would collapse on the nearest boulder to catch their breath. But never once did they suggest, even for one minute that we 1) stop and wait for the groups ahead of us to come down or 2) give up and head back early. Not once. Neither did they whine (at all) nor do much dramatic moaning. Tired, out of breath and (for at least two) very homesick, they kept going up. I wanted to give them all a medal. I wanted to call up some teacher hotline and give a full report. In the minds of these kids, there was no backing down. The thought didn't even occur to them. And, believe me, plenty of other thoughts did.

JS: Ms. R, what if we fall off the mountain?
AC: What if we get lost? Are we lost? I think we're lost...
AA: What does it mean if you are hiking, and see one of those big ugly birds (vultures) are flying over your head? Does that mean you're going to die in two hours?
JG: Do you think when we get to the top, we will be able to see to Mexico? Cause we're close to Mexico, right?
Me: Where do I start?

Walk, sit, walk, sit...we didn't make it to the summit. That wasn't the point. We kept going up. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but I kept bracing myself for the inevitable loss of spirit, and it never came. Every time we turned a corner, I'd pause and exclaim about the view, the flat golden plains stretching out before us, the jagged peaks of this desert range behind us, nothing but a few windmills and the dots of small towns as far as the eye could see. For five hours of almost constant uphill switchbacks. It would have been a tough hike for anyone, to say nothing of four stocky 6th graders in old tennis shoes or (worse) Converse high tops.

Climbing mountains, as regular readers know, is our favorite metaphor at school for the process of being the first in your family to go to college. Because both are hard and require persistent effort over an extended period of time. It was amazing to see this metaphor in action on a literal mountain slope, to see kids pressing on (our class motto) not because they wanted to, not because I was forcing them, but because they had somehow figured out that there was nowhere to go but up--and not one else could do it for them.

Speaking truth to grammar grouches

I'm five chapters into the most recent nerdy nonfiction book about language, and it's already a treat. In You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws and the Politics of Identity, Richard Lane Greene sets stage for an accessible, timely look at the subtle (and not-so-subtle) messages behind the rants of language purists the world over (the book doesn't focus only on English) and has already included several impassioned pleas for seeing all language as ever-evolving tools of communication and connection as opposed to gates that keep some on the "inside" and others in the linguistic hinterlands.

Don't let the lengthy title fool you. The writing is general-audience friendly and so far has been full of those amusing language anecdotes books of this type are known for. Greene wastes no time pillorying easy targets like the "no split infinitive" and "don't end a sentence with a preposition" rules, then makes an intriguing case in defense of the double negative. He is critical of two authors on language I enjoy, Bill Bryson and Lynn Truss. But his criticisms are worthy and support his argument that languages change--that's what they do. There was never a "golden age" when English (or French or Arabic or Chinese) was spoken the way some people think it should be, and implying otherwise is often a cover for snobbery at best, downright racism at worst.

Every sentence in a book like this is a delight to me. Because, as Greene also points out, this topic--how people should speak or write and who gets to decide--is much beloved of those who make language their living, as I do. (The rest of the world just uses language as they need and gets on with their lives.) In fact, I'm charged with a sacred task, according to grammar grouches everywhere. It is my job to pass down the language to the next generation, to ensure they know the standard-form-of-the-moment in a way that will open doors, showcase their brilliant young minds and brighten their futures. I take this job seriously, as anyone who's known me for five minutes figures out. However, this book has made me realize why I'm an eager writing teacher rather than an intimidated one. Because our language is evolving at such a brisk clip, my job is to make sure my students become able communicators. This doesn't mean anything goes, but it does mean that I teach them how to write with that goal in mind. I teach them the grammar they need to present themselves as literate and informed. I teach them punctuation in the service helping their reader understand their work. (If you've ever tried to read a student paper without a single period, you know what I mean). It sounds obvious, but you'd be surprised how many people, adults and students, still think writing instruction requires memorizing grammar rules and diagramming sentences before any actual composition should be allowed to take place. When, in reality, composition and communication are the only things that matter.

(Case in point: Technically, that last sentence is a fragment. I chose to put a period after 'place' and write a single dependent clause--starting with 'when'-- in order to emphasize my point at the end of this paragraph. How much does that bother you? Or did you even notice? My point exactly.)

Don't panic! My students know what a dependent clause is and avoid leaving them lonely in paragraphs. But I would throw a party if one of them became a fluid enough writer to use a dependent clause for emphasis. As tools go, languages are very expressive. They wouldn't be the least bit useful if they weren't.

Which brings me to the final point from the book that I want to share: all languages are equal, in that every single language has exactly what it needs to express any idea or thought. Period. And this isn't just me being all hippie-woo-woo. This is a fact agreed upon by linguists, and one that more people need to file it under "things that are just true" like the sun rising in the east. If we all did that, it would save a lot of political and cultural turmoil, not to mention a tiresome dose of backhanded racism. For example, speakers of French (or English or German or Russian or...) wouldn't spend so much time extolling the unique virtues of their language whilst casting aspersions on all the others (and, by implication, their speakers). Languages with clear grammar and usage rules like Black English (aka "Ebonics") and other traditionally lower status, so-called 'dialects' would garner respect, along with their millions of native speakers. (I will go toe-to-toe with anyone who doesn't agree with me about Black English, which I do not speak fluently, but I love what that language has done with the past perfect tense, among other things...) Finally, we would be able to celebrate all of our languages as the miracles they are rather than build walls around them to "protect" them from encroachments from the foreign, the young and the outsider. Now wouldn't that be something...

Austin's 11

Age 11 is a bridge that starts on the chipper, forthright side of childhood and ends on the awkward edge of adolescence. It is also one of the more charming years of middle school. I had occasion today to spend four hours with a group of my 11 year old students, as well as other people's 11 year olds at the annual Junior 'Dillo Run here in Austin. In place of one of our Saturday Schools, my school participates in the run, which groups kids by age rather than grade. When I first discovered I would have to get up at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning and shepherd a posse of children through a mile run, I was...resigned, to say the least. I shouldn't have worried. A morning (even a very, very early morning) in the company of 11 year olds is pretty much nothing but laughs from start to finish. It's also the reason the beginning of 6th grade is a lot more pleasant for teachers than the end.

While 11 year olds are, of course, old enough to speak fluently in complete sentences and even whole paragraphs, whether they can actually converse is debatable. If a typical adult conversation is an orderly thoroughfare in a small town in Switzerland, 11 year old conversation is a automotive free-for-all in a place where all the stoplights have gone out. I will attempt to recreate it here in the form of an actual exchange I had with five of my group members shortly after the buses dropped them off. At 6:15 a.m.

Me: Hi guys.
KM: Ms. R, guess what?
Me: I couldn't possibly.
DA: Ms. R, Ms R!
GM: Ms. R!
Me: KM first, then you can go DA.
KM: This morning, I saw a baby bird in the tree by my house.
DA: Guess what?
RR: Hold on, KM is talking.
KM:No, I'm done.
DA: Did you see Ms. Stewart's coffee? She's drinking coffee. Why do teachers always drink coffee?
Me: I could use some coffee.
HB: I love coffee. My mom says I'm going to get addicted to coffee and not grow.
DA: Can we go see the other groups or do we have to stay together?
GM: Ms. R!
Me: Yes? I mean no, DA, stay together. Hold on, GM. Why are you drinking coffee, HB?
HB: Why can't we see other groups?
Me: GM, did you want to say something?
GM: I don't think I can run today. I'm too nervous because I don't like people looking at me when I run.
IS: Do I have to run, Ms. R?
Me: You'll do great. Yes, IS.
IS: But I don't want to run.
Me: You have to.
IS: OK.
HB: Ms. R! Ms. R!

And this doesn't even do it justice.

The conversational fun doesn't stop there. As you might have gathered, kids who are 11 say anything that comes into their head. Anything. Before the race, my group combined with other groups, as well as kids from all over the city to wait at the starting line. Two kids from a local elementary were right in front of us and, of course, took the opportunity to share.

Kid #1: When we get tired, we will have to depend on our livers.
Me (cause what else am I going to say?): Well, naturally.
Kid #2: They give us energy. Not many people know that. Did you know that?
Me: I didn't.
Kid #1 (somewhat pityingly): Hmmmm. The thing is, it's true.

And because he was 11 and not, say, an ironic 15, he was totally serious.

That's another refreshing thing about most 11 year olds. You don't have to spend a lot of time digging through layers of adolescent angst or artifice. What you see--and hear--is exactly what you get. They, of course, expect the same from you, so sarcasm is pretty much a waste of time. In fact, the understanding and appreciation of sarcasm is one of middle school's most significant milestones, along with mastering the semi colon and the Pythagorean Theorem. I have witnessed, through the years, the very moment when a kid first realizes that you are...wait a minute...not serious. In fact (whoa!) you mean the opposite of what you just said. And...wow...that's funny! It's a whole new world.

But until that special moment, children are 11: sincere and random, careening through conversations and life in general. I wouldn't have them any other way.

Sitting still

T.S. Eliot's poem "Ash Wednesday" is one of my very favorites because it captures the two sides of the reality coin that Lent reminds us of so well. There are so many excellent lines in the poem, which stretches for 34 stanzas of modern, dream-sequency word rush, all of which seem to capture the feeling of standing on the brink of something not fun but possibly life-changing and true. (It is happily in the public domain and can be found here, among other places: http://www.msgr.ca/msgr-7/ash_wednesday_t_s_eliot.htm)

Despite many favorites, the lines I keep coming back to is one of the absolute best lines of poetry ever written, in my opinion. It is simply this: "Teach us to care and not to care/Teach us to sit still." Some days, I look at it as a recipe for how to live, with an emphasis on the zen implications of just chilling out. Other times I latch onto the paradox of caring and not caring--and someone having to teach us to do both. Those of us in helping professions struggle with this dichotomy all the time. I think the key is the sitting still part. If Eliot had been a life coach instead of a literary genius, he may have written: Teach us to care, sit still, not to care, sit still. Repeat as many times as necessary to stay sane. But thank God he was a poet instead, so we can read "Ash Wednesday" along with his other work and feel what he's talking about until we can figure out a way to do it ourselves.

This life-alteration-through-poetry (or DIY figuring-out) might take longer than a life coach, but it's also a lot more interesting. Whenever I think never in a million years am I ever going to get there, I have a week like this one, where every day has involved at least one conversation about life in all its complexity. It helps to have wonderful, crazy-smart, thinking friends, and a week off from school to go visit them.

On Monday, my mom and I discussed What to Do When Family Members Are Acting Worrisome. On Tuesday afternoon, dear former colleagues from my nonprofit days talked about Dealing with the Sickness of a Close Relative and Putting Minor Annoyances into Perspective. Later that day, my best friend from college and I discussed Buying A House With Panache, Becoming a Member of a Congregation (ditto panache) and Pretty Much Everything About Long-Term Plans, Jobs and Relationships (avec panache). On Wednesday morning, my mom and a friend of ours of some prominence in academia discussed How to Effectively Evaluate Teachers, The Importance of Public Investment in Education and Why the Current Political Climate Bites. It was in this conversation that I called Milton Friedman "the Satan of the 20th century" then had to apologize to our friend, who knew the man.

On Wednesday evening, MW, another friend and I discussed Beliefs about Death and the Afterlife in Religion in General and Judaism and Buddhism in Particular (among other things). On Thursday at lunch, a friend of my mom's and I talked about The Value of Data and the Role of Research in Education. This was followed by some precious time with my goddaughter's mom (a college professor) and another rousing discussion of The Importance of Public Education, the K-16 edition, and What Those of Us Who Care Are Going to Do About It In the Current Sucky Political Climate (reprise).

Did we solve the problems of the world? Only in our own minds. Did it help to talk and talk and talk with incredible, intelligent people? Tremendously. Will I fly back to Austin with a little weight off the metaphorical shoulders, a little more connected at the deep level that keeps us from feeling alone on the hardest days? Why yes, I will.

It is a blessing that "amid these rocks" (as Eliot would say) there are so many fellow travelers learning to care and not to care--and willing to take a moment to sit still and try to figure it out.

On unfortunately small torpedos, electric chivalry and other reasons to love airports

In a consistent and, I guess, reassuring example of anti-profiling, egalitarian security screening, I am pulled aside every single time I go through the line at the airport these days. The fault is entirely my own and caused (in addition, one assumes, to the “blindness” of random checks) by my silver, fully insulated water bottle that looks unfortunately like a very small torpedo. I insist on traveling with this water bottle, purchased in Abu Dhabi and a constant companion ever since. It is sleek, fits in my backpack and keeps water cold for days.

It also means that I’m inevitably shuffled into that space between metal detectors, prevented from touching my belongings (the backpack, a rolling bag and two of those plastic bins), which are then swabbed (along with my hands) to make sure I haven’t nuzzled up to any plastique or dynamite recently. The water bottle is opened, peered into (it’s always empty), hefted (the insulation makes it heavier than it looks), shaken, turned upside-down and swabbed especially. I always want to say, “It’s just a water bottle, not a bomb.” But I know better than to say the word “bomb” within 10 miles of a modern security line. I’m rarely patted down, though sometimes get the wand twittering around the belt loops of my jeans. Often, I don’t stop reading my Oprah magazine or Kindle. One affable Homeland guy in Newark suggested I get a new water bottle. But I don’t want a new water bottle. The security pit stop has become part of my travel routine, like the two plastic bins, a glossy magazine, pre-flight coffee and, depending on turbulence, the only time I ever drink soda anymore (ginger ale, if airsickness strikes).

This might sound surprising (or just weird), but I cannot remember the last time I was annoyed in an airport. I’ve been nervous and uncertain, discouraged and bewildered, but never bothered or bored. To me, airports are among the most delightful of our public spaces. They contain endless possibility (so many destinations, so many people intersecting on their individual trajectories). They are perfect backdrops as opposed to destinations in themselves (which make them different than parks or plazas, also great public spaces but much less neutral and people-centered).

Take, for example, this morning waiting for my flight from Austin to San Francisco. The gate was full of the usual suspects: sleepy kids, business travelers juggling coffee and newspapers, adults of all ages peering at phone screens. The electrical outlets, placed near the floor years ago with only the vacuum cleaners of late-night janitors in mind, are now the most sought-after spots in the lounge. A woman about my age in a long, patterned skirt sat on the carpet syncing her laptop and iPad. In an enchanting demonstration of courtesy, a businessman offered her his place on the chair nearest another outlet where his phone was charging. He made clear with his gestures that he was prepared to relinquish not only his seat but also his source of electricity, so that she wouldn’t have to sit on the floor. This exchanged caused me no end of happiness. Many people in Austin are fantastically nice, and many men in Texas are reliably chivalrous. But this was such a charming display of old-world manners and modern sensibilities. It probably made my week. And it could only have happened at the airport.

I think the nation could use a pro-airport campaign, something to remind us all that it's not just about walking barefoot through metal detectors (or x-ray machines), enduring long waits and paying ridiculous amounts for a snack or 60 minutes of wi-fi. It's time you have to spend anyway, so you might as well catch up on reading, reassure others as to the safety of your possessions (torpedo-shaped or otherwise), people-watch, smile at cute toddlers and lend a helping hand. And at the end of it all, you get to fly off to someplace wonderful or come back home. What's not to love?

See, now is the acceptable time

There is an exercise on the vast menu of self-help techniques that has always appealed to my appreciation of parallel universes (see two blogs back). In it, you tell the story of your life in two ways: once emphasizing all the bad, hurtful, traumatic things that have happened to you; and again focusing on the positive. It's a great exercise in switching lenses--seeing the world accurately, yet in two completely different ways.

It has prompted me to tell you two stories about the world as it exists now. One is about a public event that represents one side of a common narrative. The other is personal and turns this narrative on its head. It also made me hopeful.

The first story is one you are all familiar with. In it, Muslims are religious fanatics with a medieval mindset that is utterly alien to us here in the West (events in the Middle East notwithstanding). Sure, there might be a few "progressive" voices, but those are mere shills for the "true" faith that is just waiting to take over the world. As witnessed in the recent Congressional hearings on Muslim "extremism" in the United States, there is a deep, yawning fear, suspicion and ignorance infecting so many people in this country and driving us-vs-them wedges that will take years, if not generations to overcome. It makes me despair because of what I know (and know I don't know) about the vast reality that is Islam, and the unwillingness to engage any form of self-reflection about the role of Christianity in the lives of those stirring up all this trouble.

The second story turns this first narrative on its head. It is about a Palestinian-American family I got to know slightly while I was in Abu Dhabi. I taught and was the adviser of the youngest son during my first year at the school, and coached the daughter in softball both years. The mom was a frequent substitute in the 6th grade, and we would chat casually whenever she was around. The children were well-adjusted and happy, and the mom was one of those people with peaceful, gentle vibe about her, despite her urbane sophistication. (She was one of the sharpest dressers on campus.) Anyway. Fast-forward to this week. K told me of a conversation our mutual friend Madame L had with the mom, who has been hired as a part-time Arabic teacher. Apparently Mrs. S. told Madame L I was the best teacher her son ever had (Z, the son, is ridiculously adorable in that corny-fool kind of middle school boy way)--then she recounted to Madame L a conversation she had with Z about my martial status sometime last year when I was still on campus. Her goofy, cheesy, 100% Arab-Muslim-Middle-East-expat son said, "Oh, mom, you know Ms. R is gay. Everyone knows that." To which his 100% Arab-Muslim mother shrugged, and one year later was singing my praises to Madame L. The daughter friended me on Facebook months ago.

Now, I did NOT know that "everyone" at my school in Abu Dhabi, including the more clueless (though very sweet) examples of middle-school boyhood, knew I was gay. Sheesh. But after I got over my surprise at that, I was heartened to the core. Because, though I don't believe in Muslim extremism or any such nonsense, I most certainly did not acknowledge the other side of the reality coin. The one that said the kind of love, openness and appreciation I know is possible from liberal Christians is also possible from liberal Muslims. I should not have doubted, yet I did. I stayed in the closet for two years and actively worried about how people would respond if they knew. The most positive--and logical--outcome never crossed my mind. It didn't occur to me that both things could be true.

At times (like now) when the world seems to be going absolutely insane, when leaders gun down their citizens in the desert, even as others destroy the rights of workers to speak for themselves by navigating barren, souless loopholes--and our Earth makes destructive ideology look like the conceit it is with trembling ground and walls of water--that it helps (a little) to think of how big reality really is. That it can contain all the grief, anger, suspicion and still have room for the other side of the story: growth, renewal, acceptance.

And there's no better season to get down into the nitty-gritty of darkness and dawn than Lent. One of the ways we have learned to deal with tsunamis, literal and figurative, through the centuries is by building rituals around the inevitable. Lent is about hunkering down in the last days of winter (when, historically, food was scarcest anyway) and giving some serious thought to suffering, sacrifice, death--right as the world is about to spring to life with all its attendant metaphors (the story of the resurrection being one of the most powerful).

Ash Wednesday was this Wednesday, and I went to get my ashes for the first time in many, many years. I'm also observing Lent intentionally for the first time in a long time (no meat, including seafood until April 24...). There was a time when I found Lent necessary but tiresome (it does make Easter, my favorite liturgical holiday, all the more joyful, but--ugh--not a single hymn in a major key for weeks). Then there came a time when I felt I living in a sort of perpetual Lent, followed, thankfully, by a time almost completely suspended from the rituals of our common life, in the desert (again, both literal and figurative), doing what people do in the desert: taking a deep breath, getting a grip, forming a plan, resting.

Now I'm back and ready to jump into Lent in a way I've never been before. Maybe it's because working in education in these dark budgetary days lends itself to contemplation of scarcity and sacrifice. Maybe because the darkness seems deeper than it has in a long time. Or maybe it's because I'm finally in a place where I know it won't last forever.