I got a job. (A real one.) (Slightly more real than subbing every day.)

I. Will. Be. Teaching 10th grade English at my Kids’ high school. [1] I am eager. I am excited. I am unlicensed.

Um. Yeah.

So Utah has this program where I can earn my license while I teach. Which means, apparently, that I’m going back to college. Sort of. And I’m glad. I am ready to learn all the things. I want to know all the secrets to being a great teacher. And I’m confident that I can do a great job even before I know all the knowables. I get to teach “Lord of the Flies” and “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I get to teach essays and poetry. I get to teach sophomores. I love sophomores. Also, half my classes will be Honors, which means twice as many novels and twice as much sassiness. I am so excited, so eager. Also, a classroom! For my own! I will be calling someone to come make it cute, because as we all know, decorating is NOT my forte. And the dear friend who is leaving that classroom is leaving me some of her materials… so YAY!

GO, English 10! Let’s do this thing.

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[1] Do I even need to tell you how thrilled Kid 2 is that she’s already finished 10th grade English? She did a visible sigh of relief when I got my assignment. It’s bad enough, she didn’t say aloud, that you have to be in the building, but NO! Don’t teach me! However, she really wants me here, I’m sure of it, somewhere under there. Even if it’s only because her friends who are boys will come visit my classroom.

When I walk up the narrow carpeted stairway, I stare at the seams that never quite get clean, the seams full of tiny paper bits, lint and, inexplicably, hair. Do my beautiful daughters brush their lovely long hair while sitting on the poky stairs? I shake my head at the possibility. And then remind myself that it might just be the case.

Because we’re comfortable around here. If the brushing has to happen on the stairs, then it will happen. If the “plug in your phone in my room by 10:00″ rule happens to intersect with a night a kid is SO NOT TIRED, and she stays up laughing at funny quotes on Pinterest for another hour, in my room, while my eyes are stretching to stay open, I’ll be glad she’s there, in my room, on the floor next to the pile of her laundry which will probably stay there until it needs to be washed again.

The grass clippings that flutter in through the glass door and then blow through the kitchen show me that the kid mowed the lawn and then played soccer on it and then came inside to hug me before he ran back outside.

The messes are part of the life, and I really, really like the life.

You can have all the talent in the world, but if you don’t show up, don’t pick up the paintbrush or tie on the toe shoes or grab the baseball bat, your talent means nothing.

And you can have all the desire in the world, but if you don’t open the file, if you don’t sit down with the guitar, if you don’t dig the hole, your desire will never be more than a dream.

(“You” is me, if you were wondering.)

I have to recommit (like, daily and stuff) to showing up. I have to remind myself that even if I only write 300 words, they are 300 words that will add a (negligible) bit of story to my story. And I can celebrate when the 300 words turn into 1,000. And I will always see those people who can bust out a book in 2 weeks with a certain amount of jealousy, but when I really think about it, I have to be honest with myself: When would I ever, ever, EVER sit at a computer for 16 hours a day? I wouldn’t. That’s not me. And if that’s you, GREAT! I’m seriously proud of you. (And maybe a tiny bit jealous.) But I will teach some classes today. And I’ll laugh with some kids. And I’ll go out on a date with my husband. And I’ll eat dinner at a table. And I’ll take a walk. I’ll read a section of this great book I’m reading. I’ll answer emails. I’ll make some plans.

And I’ll write words.

It’s a piece, the writing. A piece of my life, of my work, of my world. A piece I care about and that I’m committed to. But it’s only a piece. And the other pieces matter. And the writing piece matters, too. So I’ll show up for all the parts, and I’ll make my life full. Round. Deep. The way I like it.

see it at cabionline.com

Here’s the dress, above, photo courtesy of CAbi clothing. If you can’t see it, I’ll describe it to you in my high-fashion vocabulary [2]: it was green, and silky-ish (some kind of poly-something, I assume); a collared/button-down shirt-dress with a waist tie AND IT LOOKED LIKE A DRESS MY MOM WOULD HAVE LOVED. Except for the green. My mom avoided the green/yellow things in life, because her liver had issues and green and yellow things made her look jaundiced. So she said. I never actually noticed. But I was sixteen when she died, so “I never actually noticed” could be my theme song.

Anyway, the dress looked awful on me. That sassy, confident, leggy, honey-maned model? Not me. At all. It was, in every particular, wrong. But I sort of loved it anyway, because it looked so Mom-ish (in the “my mom” definition, not the “mom jeans” definition). And I stood there, in front of a very large mirror, staring at me in this wrong dress that felt so very right in its ability to conjure. Memories. Feelings. Smells and sounds of that laugh that my kids wouldn’t recognize. The small sweet memories that I hold on my palm like a butterfly that may, any second, fly away — but the ME that is now, this ME is willing to enjoy the seconds the memory flutters there. Maybe that’s the definition of the way I’ve grown up: That I can enjoy the fleeting while it occurs, instead of dreading the moment that it will be gone.

image via greenjeane.blogspot.com, or so google tells me

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[1] Kind of it is.

[2] Please stop that laughing.

Oh. You chose to sign up for that class? That wasn’t in my plan. Recalculating.

You’d like to play how many sports this summer? Recalculating.

The job I’d love is full time, not part time? Recalculating.

Wow. Look at your hair. Recalculating.

Did you just say those words in front of those people and expose me for all my idiocy and there’s no good place for me to hide? Recalculating.

My Plan is not The Plan? Recalculating.

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(On a side note, months ago Husband and I were joking about what it would be like if I were to be the program voice of the GPS. It went something like this: “Get ready to turn left. Left. It’s the one to THE LEFT. Seriously? Did you not hear me? I said TURN LEFT. Why do you ask if you aren’t going to listen to me? Forget about it. Find you own way to the bowling alley. Sheesh.” *muttering* “Some people…”)

I hope you do.

Prospering. It happens at the hands of a generous God, and it happens within the homes of grateful people. It means different things to different groups and in different situations, and sometimes we have the VERY same health and dollars and gladness and feel somehow less prospered. The prosperity isn’t changing. Only our willingness to find it so. I appreciate my ability to find it. And I feel the need, the urge, the responsibility to write it down when it happens. So I can look back at this moment and remember: Prosperity isn’t really about dollars. It’s about attitude and thankfulness.

Texas.

More Boston.

And the things right here,
inside my tiny world.

When your heart is so full that it
nearly bursts,

How do you breathe? Where do you
put it all?

Drumbeats of surprise,
Almost reflexive
Staccato explosions
Like hiccups in
Reverse

Tired chuckles
From bodies too exhausted
To support full lung movement
– even in amusement

Snickers,
Hidden, secret whispers
behind hands
Or under desks
or around corners

Cynical
Snorts
[Accompanied by rolling eyes]
Slip like scorn across a room

And the kind
That sneaks
Through the tears,
Undignified and
Somehow
Holy

Giggle,
Pure and Sincere,
Rises up from childlike throats
Ascending
Into the air like
Birdsong

Which kind will I
Inspire

Today?

So eventually the doors opened, and we (more eventually) made it to our seats. We had a section kind of off to the side, so I sat farthest out (you know, it’s the theatre equivalent of Mom eating the burnt piece of dinner food). Guess who sat in the two remaining seats to my other side? Yup. The twenty-something HandsomeSauce Brigade. (Can two be a Brigade?)

I said hello. They said it back. In accents. I asked them where they were from, and they are from Melbourne. (Possibly they got better looking simply by virtue of being Aussie. Yes. I am a person who thinks things like that.) We talked for a minute or ten about travel, about annual two-week trips to NYC, about growing up best friends, about Melbourne (I have a brother who lived there), about Utah (surprise — they’d never been!). Jeremy, the blonder one, started to ask a question, and then stopped. I told him he could ask whatever he wanted. He asked if I’d seen “The Book of Mormon Musical,” but said he felt foolish asking, assuming. I said, “Why?” and he looked at me blankly. Then I laughed and he laughed, too. “Are you a Mormon?” he asked, and I said that I am. (Because I tell the TRUTH, that’s why.) And he said, “So, have you seen it?” And I told him no. When he asked why, I shrugged and said, “We’re about to see Matilda. The show will be skewed to make us feel a certain way about certain characters, and that’s fine. The BOM Musical, from what I understand, is skewed to make audiences feel a certain way about a huge, diverse group of real, actual people, and it seems a little mean-spirited.” They agreed. Will, the more brunette one (who is also an anesthesiologist in Melbourne — does that make him more attractive again?) said he didn’t know any Mormons. I smiled and said, “Now you do. We’re pretty normal, right?” and I gestured to my 2 girls who were geeking out about the set, and the 3 boys beside them, who were laughing at them and counting light cannons and generally being happy to be where they were. They asked, “Is it true you don’t drink?” and I said, “Actually, we can. We don’t have to receive our fluids through IV or anything. We just choose to keep it alcohol-free.” And they laughed again. We talked a couple more minutes about that sort of thing, and they were gracious and kind.

And then I asked Jeremy if he still lived in Melbourne. And he told me this: (and gave me permission to use it in a story if I ever want to, which IS BRILLIANT) He lives in Manila (you know, the Philippines?) with his girlfriend (hello, my assumptions are flawed) who is the Australian ambassador to the Philippines or something. I could probably google that and see if my memory is correct, or if he was kidding me, or whatever, (and I did ask if he was kidding, because, hello?) but I prefer to imagine that a beautiful, near-thirty Aussie woman is keeping up diplomatic relations in the Philippines during the day and painting the town with my new friend at night. He also said these words, “So I live at my leisure” (which, natch, rhymes with Pleasure) which, natch, made me laugh out loud. He laughed too. He’s a KEPT MAN. I didn’t know those guys existed anymore. So maybe I need to write a story about the “him” in my mind, because the world needs more modern literature about Kept Men and the Diplomats who Love Them. Am I right?

Good times.

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[1] This is a joke. There is no such thing. We stood behind a door, and when it opened, we went in. After which we asked for directions to the restroom. Which was down a long flight of rickety stairs. Carpeted, and probably not that rickety, but narrow and hard to climb in either direction with a newly-gimpy leg. Hey, broadway theaters? Want to get some great wheelchair access? I’m for it. FYI. Even though I’ve never been in a wheelchair except for fun (Aunt Ruth’s motorized Jazzy thing used to get a workout when I’d visit. With my 4 kids. I’m totally an adult.)

[2] This is the part where I assumed that they were gay, (which made me feel a little guilty, just for my ability to make assumptions about people), and then thought nothing stronger than, “Some people are,” (which made me feel like I’m growing up.)