Little darling... the smiles returning to the faces... little darling... it seems like years since it's been here. I cannot believe that I'm quoting The Beatles since I find myself continuously clicking the dislike button every time they appear on Pandora. However, I do like this song, and it's more than appropriate for the way I feel right now. This has been one of those weekends that has left me speechless. All I can say is, "Wow", and the moments we need sometimes appear in the ways we least expect to encounter them. The people in my life who know the details share an odd mixture of feelings--from complete disgust to questioning my sanity to genuine congratulations. I tend to be rather vague on this blog out of respect for others' privacy, and I will continue to do so here. What I will share is that I've been in a bit of an emotional coma for the last few months. It's been bad--far worse than most people realize. Perhaps they will return, but they...

I just recently found out that one of my colleagues is facing a divorce. I ran into this person in the hall today, and the unmistakeable look of shock was firmly planted in the eyes. The vacuous stare of someone facing what is arguably one of the most painful experiences known to man. We chatted briefly. The exchange was simple. "Life throws you curve balls sometimes." I replied with, "Yes, sometimes it just sucks." In my mind I added, "...the life right out of you." I know that look well. In fact, I recognize it instantly. This pressed on my mind for the remainder of the day, and I found myself realizing that marriage is certainly more than just a piece of paper. I think the pain surrounding a divorce is firmly rooted in the realization that you made a commitment...a vow that is now broken. Something in the loss of that promise is just simply painful in a way that words can never completely express. There are so many curve balls that life throws... Death....

During the last week or so I've been dealing with some heavy, heavy feelings of jealousy. They hit me hard, and I struggled to suppress them. I talked. I let them fester. I really tried my best because every Christian instinct in me said these were bad, bad feelings. I've switched my sleeping habits lately and started waking at 3 a.m. This has always been my favorite time of day. No one is on the computer. No one is available by phone. I am alone with my thoughts and my music and my journal. So far, I have discovered many different pieces of myself that need to be reigned in and adjusted. In the process I discovered that jealousy is directly tied to feelings of being invisible and unappreciated, and the words of one of my foreign friends echoed in my head. "You need to take care of yourself." As a result, I decided to do one thing each day to make myself happy. One thing. Yesterday, it was a walk in the dark. I tripped four times and was doused by sprinklers. Today is...

This past week was Homecoming Week at my high school. As someone who was intentionally removed from the events that make up high school memories, this week is entertaining for me. It is a week long competition between the different classes, and the students and teachers easily get involved in the festivities. As a class sponsor, I am in the thick of things. All week, my students commented on my visible lack of sleep. We all worked very long hours preparing display boards and skits and participating in physical competitions. Despite the fact that it completely takes over my life...and I work 14 hour days...and my dishes don't get washed...and I cannot even return text messages in a timely manner...I enjoy the process of getting to know my students and watching them work. My students this year did a fantastic job. They won the board competition, came in second in the skit, and tied (although we're contesting this) for first place in the physical competition. I'm so proud of t...

"You were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all." I'm sure I've used this line before. It's one that just sticks in my head on a regular basis, and it is especially poignant for me tonight. But I think this line applies more to myself than anyone else I've ever met. I called some old, dear friends tonight after hearing about an important announcement in their lives. We chatted for about twenty minutes, catching up on the more pressing changes since I last saw them five years ago. We ended the call with "much love" and a promise from me to visit the next time I am in town so we can do a proper update. Part of our discussion was my divorce two years ago and my subsequent traveling and language acquisition. She remarked that I have always loved people and their stories and my complete fascination with other cultures. (Was it always that obvious?) A little while later, I was talking with another friend who laughed at one of my...

"It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds." This line is from a song that never fails to make me cry. I asked my students to analyze this line today, and their responses surprised me. It seems to me that I would have been able to connect to this idea even at the tender age of 16. But then again, that's a memory dependent on a faulty camera in my mind. It's a scary thought to think that I have the ability to distort the truth that once existed in the world. I'd like to think that I'm evolved enough to let the past rest on its own merits. Is it even possible? Am I--are we--all destined to shift reality in our minds? I don't know. What I do know is that the concept of time is very real in my life right now. It's understandable, given that certain experiences are bound by the seconds of a calendar year. The struggle, for me, is the space between wanting to embrace the seconds--as fleeting as they may be--instead...

The next three weeks are already set up to be a whirlwind of activity, and I will be a very happy woman on the morning following homecoming. But you know what? I'm glowing right now. The happiness that swirls within me is very real...rushing through my veins. I've found my muse in the most unlikely of places. I'm relishing the connectedness I feel to myself. Speaking of muses, tomorrow I will be performing some old and new works. I'm also working tonight on a very interesting display method for the new stuff (stone and sandpaper...oh, my!). In the process I found new members of my tribe. It's a beautiful group. Okay, so I don't want to start sounding like a scene from The Hangover. It's just a beautiful place in my world now.

It's Friday night. I'm sitting here in the midst of a very, very dirty house. I'm staring at my computer screen. I'm fighting a losing battle with all the words and ideas in my head. I'm supposed to be writing. Last month I accepted a part time position as a writer. So I've been writing. What I'm learning is that writing for someone else--on a schedule--is a challenge for someone who prefers to be free from the shackles of another person's agenda. But everything within me tells me that I need to do this. It's a sacrifice of my most precious commodity--my time. It's humbling to have someone else critique my work and offer suggestions. It's exhausting to deal with the panic that washes over me as I struggle to find the right way to express ideas about topics that are still a bit foreign to me. And I still have a regular job to do. It takes a lot of work, and I brought a good deal of that work home with me this weekend. On top of that, I three a...

I called one of my dear friends early this afternoon and announced, "Every once and a while I have a moment that reminds me how different I am from everyone else." He laughed as I regaled him with the story of my first trip to the local Brazilian supermarket. It all started when I was in the local American supermarket and discovered they no longer carried my favorite Brazilian coffee. As I wailed and bemoaned this grievous offense over the phone to my dear friend, he tried to convince me that one of the Cuban brands would suffice. There was one problem with this logic. Once you've tried Brazilian coffee, you cannot go back. Just the fact that he could not grasp this fact forced me to drive over to the Brazilian store. I've wanted to stop in since I first noticed it along the edge of the road, but time and--more recently--a fear of running into a certain South American have kept me from wandering the aisles in search of imported delicacies. Today left me wi...

Student X: ***says something unintelligible*** Me: Can you explain that? Student X: You're the teacher. Me: Yes, thanks for clarifying that. 10 minutes later while I am explaining something to the class... Me: ***rambling about something*** Student Y: Ms. Aren't you the teacher? Me: Yes, I believe X pointed that out to us earlier. Student Y: Just checking. I was trying to figure out why X was talking right now...if YOU'RE the teacher.

The school year is about to begin again, and I am anxiously awaiting the morning when I will meet my new students and embark upon the journey that will end with a trip to Portugal and Spain next June. I've been sorting through chaos. Preparing a classroom. Negotiating terms for a new part time writing job I've accepted. Sorting through dreams. Excavating some dark corners of my soul. I'll share here in the coming days some of the thoughts I've had, but I still have some articles to touch up and send in, a set of lesson plans to put together, and some incidentals that need to be attended to before I slip between the sheets. A few hours ago, I stood on my porch and watched my dogs romp in the front yard. I think it's impossible to watch the bliss that exudes from their hops and quick chases. The smile that quickly spread across my face reminded me again that life is beautiful.

I have a confession. I am not a English teacher. I had this epiphany last week during a training I attended to prepare for the courses I will be teaching next year. The workshop was filled with real English teachers. The ones you remember from high school, with their favorite books and deep insights into the writer's meaning of punctuation marks and interpretations of sentence structures. They all love a good story--as long as it's filled with the appropriate rising action, climax, and resolution. That's not me. I know that many writers just like punctuation marks because they can separate ideas. I've also learned that sometimes the best stories on the planet would show a flat line on a rising action graph. The better ones often have no resolution. Just a vast empty space waiting to be filled with a dream. Teaching English is one of those things that I can do well because...well...I can just do a lot of things sufficiently. It's one of my gifts. But it doesn't f...

"The memories of me seem more like bad dreams. Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred."

My new friend in Barcelona has a habit of taking pictures of the "urban art" that can be found all over the city. The spirit of art is very much alive throughout the city, and I'm not sure if that's just a by-product of being in a large city or more reflective of the culture itself. Either way, if your eye is on the look-out, there is much to see. I took this picture in one of the Metro stations on my last day in Barcelona. After returning from my brief visit south, I spent the day doing my souvenir shopping and just enjoying my final moments in the city that I have grown to adore. I was feeling an odd mixture of homesickness and restlessness, and it was the first that I felt rushed there. Then this gem popped up on the stairs, and I was once again reminded of the simplicity of living that I discovered there. This was my gift from Barcelona, courtesy of some stranger who has no idea how he or she brightened my day.

I know this isn't a picture of Spain. It wasn't even taken in Spain. This is the airport in Germany where I spent 10 hours before flying to Barcelona. I'm a bit of an interesting traveler, and I tend to meet interesting people. (Just ask my students.) On my flight from Miami to Dusseldorf, I struck up a conversation with my seat mate. He's an Italian scientist on his way home to visit his family, and he ended up being my buddy for the seemingly endless day in the airport. We spent the day searching for Internet, sleeping on airport benches, watching each others bags and talking. Lots of talking. I took this photo after I was enlisted for bag patrol. Before he stepped away, he threw his jacket across both our bags. The image you see here struck me because it is a beautiful symbol of humanity. Stranded in the midst of a new world, I was embraced by someone who stood by my side and helped me pass the time. I cannot help but feel blessed.

I found it interesting--coming from the "land of flowers"--the number of flowers around Tarragona. Everywhere I looked, there was some sort of plant life. Tall, shady trees. Scented flowers. Long, dangly plants. It's beautiful and romantic and sentimental. I'm not necessarily a big nature person, but it was impossible to ignore the feelings elicited by nature in the cities. I think the Spanish have managed to combine the natural and the human made worlds in an exquisite manner. Even in the greatest heat of the day, there was always some shade...and you needed a sweater when standing in it.

I was fascinated by windows during my time in Spain, most likely because of a voyeuristic streak in me that wanted to gather as much information as possible about the interior lives of the people. Something about the nature of life that can be seen through windows intrigues me. This foto shows the window of a home that rests along the oldest wall built outside the city of Rome during the age of the Empire. I can only imagine what it must be like to live with such a piece of history each day. It's a continuity of time that never ceases to amaze me. And it's beautiful.

Perhaps my favorite part of Spanish culture is the sense of humor. This stands prominently in a playground in Castellon (at the base of the hand sculpture), and my first reaction to it was, "Can you imagine the 'morality' groups in the States who would protest this?" There is just more freedom here for artistic expression and less analysis about how people will be offended or misinterpret that expression. That leads to more authenticity in personal interactions, and that was a refreshing change from my world in which I am constantly forced to evaluate myself so that I don't offend people. One striking example of this was when my new friend in Barcelona gave me a tour of the city. A discussion about the differences between European and Latin American Spanish quickly turned into a discussion about "bad" words. After much cajoling, I shared some of my "dirty" Spanish. In the States, I would have been quickly judged for what I said. There, however,...

Two things stand out to me about this picture from a Barcelona street. First, keeping plants on the balcony is a very Spanish habit. (My dear Spaniard told me this.) If a woman lives in the flat, chances are that plants will be on the balcony. Second, I was completely fascinated by the balconies because they were glimpses into the lives of people--filled with laundry, toys, political signs, and flags. They were also places to watch the world go by. I cannot wait for my own.

Spain is filled with parks, and as I wandered the streets of Castellon de la Plana, my eye caught this tall, colorful sculpture. It is the center of a small play area for children, and the whimsy captured in the outstretched hands is remarkable. The place is filled with imagination, and this is one of the shots I took. It reminds me of the Michelangelo painting.