Houses and Gardens

I'm back in MA/ME for 5 weeks and am quite happy to be here. Today, my sister and I visited two public homes and gardens for the sheer enjoyment of the sight and smell. In the morning (fairly early), we went to the Glen Magna Farm in Danvers, MA to walk through the gardens. The place smelled amazing, and was so peaceful with the dew still on the flowers. There was just one small act of violation: a female snapping turtle was tearing up one side of the gardens presumably looking for a place to lay her eggs. We steered clear of her!

In the afternoon, we joined an open house/tour of the Willowdale Estate in the Bradley Palmer State Park in Topsfield, MA. Mr. Palmer founded the company that eventually became Gillette and was very well to do, to put it mildly. This estate was his "country cottage" that he left to the state of MA when he died. His instructions were that it was to be maintained for the enjoyment of all, free of charge. Built in 1901, it comes out of the "craft" era of design and is quite charming with its field stone facade and open-beamed ceilings. The gardens' designer took us through the gardens which consisted of mostly native, non-invasive butterfly-and-bee-attracting plants. Yet another sweet-smelling visual feast!

The Best We Can

"We do the best we can. That's all there is." I've been getting through year-end projects and tests with a little help from Netflix. Working the rubrics and numbers while mostly listening (as opposed to watching) to Raising the Bar, a short-lived series about a group of friends who work either in the public defender's office or the D.A.'s office in New York City. I remember watching one or two episodes when it aired on TNT originally (2008), but I never got into the swing of it, mostly because I was too busy trying to juggle both administrative and teaching responsibilities. That's no life. I see that now in retrospect...

Anyway, the show got me through what can otherwise be very tedious work, entering numbers, checking them two and three times to make sure it all adds up (even though I use an electronic gradebook). Tonight's line that hit the mark sits at the top of this piece: We do the best we can. That's all there is. What hits home about this is the reality of working with people. You do the best you can. Sometimes that doesn't feel like enough, but if it's your best, it's all you can do. And if you're going to have any peace of mind, you have to find a way to live with that without beating yourself up about it.

The lawyers in this show struggle with that. They struggle with doing the right thing for justice' sake or mercy's sake. They struggle to feel good about themselves when they aren't always sure they're doing the right thing. They follow the law, they do their best. But is it right? That happens in teaching, too. You have young people's lives, their futures, in your hands. You do your best. But what if that's not enough? You weigh justice and mercy. You make a choice. You gamble on the future. Their future. Sometimes it pays off. Sometimes you pay. Or worse, they do.

If you do the best you can, that has to be enough. That is all there is. Right?

Be True! Be True! Be True!

I've had Nathaniel Hawthorne on my mind the past 24 hours. Partly because I'm thinking about next school year (already) when I'll be teaching me all-time favorite course: American Literature. He is not only in my lesson plans (The Scarlet Letter, Dr. Heidegger's Experiment, The Birthmark, The Minister's Black Veil, & Rappaccini's Daughter) but also on my summer reading list (The House of the Seven Gables). I happen to think he has a lot to say to contemporary young Christians who are in the midst of their great search for identity and purpose, so we read a fair amount of his works (relatively speaking) whenever I teach American Literature. So I've been thinking about Hawthorne as I'm planning for next year.

But I've been

thinking about him and his stated moral of The Scarlet Letter for another, harder reason ever since Friday afternoon when I discovered my online gradebook had been tampered with. It's a long story that isn't necessary here except to say Hawthorne's "Be true! Be true! Be true!" kept flashing through my mind. I wished that the young people involved had been true, that they hadn't compromised their names and reputations. That they had proven trustworthy and honest. Instead, the consequences of their actions will be drastic, and far-reaching. It makes me sad..

Photos: Nathaniel Hawthorne (c/o Wikipedia) and The Wayside, Hawthorne's home in Concord, MA (from a visit last summer).

Happy Mother's Day!

Sonnets are full of love Christina Rossetti (1881)

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; Whose service is my special dignity, And she my loadstar while I go and come And so because you love me, and because I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name: In you not fourscore years can dim the flame Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws Of time and change and mortal life and death.

It's All Right

"The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his Heaven—All's right with the world!"- Robert Browning, The Year's at the Spring

I've had two new birds at my feeders this past week (that I know of). It was April home leave--the last one of the year (amazing), so I was home during the day when I otherwise wouldn't be. two days in a row, then, there were new birds. They weren't exotic birds, just a brown-headed cowbird and a pair of white-winged doves. But they were new nonetheless, and have been regulars throughout the weekend. All too soon, though, I'll have to shut down my little backyard bird-feeding station while I return to New England for a chunk of the summer. I'm sure they'll manage without me, though =)

Yesterday, I went to a friend's house for lunch and ended up staying until late in the evening. She lives way out in the desert, so it was all new to me. The cactus are in full bloom right now, as are many of the trees, so the normally drab desert is rather colorful. We spent a good share of the afternoon out on the porch soaking up the beauty of the flowers and the birds that enjoy her backyard. She even had a cardinal, something I haven't seen for almost a year now!

Nothing Else Matters

I heard a sermon this weekend that rocked my thoughts. Being Easter weekend, you might imagine the sermon had something to do with the plan of salvation, Christ's death and resurrection. Of course you'd be right. Among the many standout things Randy Roberts, the speaker, shared were some of his favorite quotes about the importance of this plan of salvation. One of them has stuck in my mind and rolled around consciously and subconsciously ever since. Grant it, it's not been that long, but long enough to make a fairly deep impact. It goes something like this:

If the plan of salvation isn't real, then nothing else matters. If it is real, then nothing else matters.

Thinking about this over the weekend, I have been overwhelmed by the amazing love and sacrifice of this gift of salvation. I went to a church I'd never gone to before because one of my students was being baptized. At the end of the service, which was a blessing all by itself, I had the privilege and joy of singing Gilbert Martin's arrangement of "When I Survey the Wondrous" cross. the choir director just called people out from the congregation to sing this beautiful hymn and I all but ran up to sing with them. It was the most glorious way to end the day.

When I survey the wondrous cross

On which the Prince of Glory died;

My richest gain I count but loss,

And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the death of Christ, my God;

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to His blood.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet

Or thorns compose so rich a crown.

Were the whole realm of nature mine

That were a present far too small;

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Linger Awhile

The birds at my back patio feeders are greedy and messy. And their messiness has brought a family of mice to reside there as well. The mice are growing as fat as the birds. Fortunately the seeds keep them content away from my house. Still, in spite of these side effects, I am enjoying the bird activity on the other side of the living room glass. I am starting to recognize specific birds, not just species. Goldfinch and other little yellow birds have appeared in the past two weeks. They chow down on the seed as if it were their last meal, singing in between dips into the seed.

The Mourning Doves are bullies, chasing each other and the smaller Inca Doves. The finches (both house and gold) are cheerful and agile. The Abert's Towhee is loud; so is the Gila woodpecker. The Mockingbirds are acrobats, often doing the splits between one feeder and the next. Other little birds come and go making for a hopping little bird's paradise. I've definitely enjoyed lingering awhile as I watch their comings and goings.

from I STOOD TIPTOE

by John Keats

Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. (61-64)

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. (87-92)

Architectural Delight

Twice during this month I've spent time exploring the grounds and residence at Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West located about 10 minutes from my new home in Arizona. Until my first visit with my sister at the beginning of the month, I had no idea that one of the buildings connected with my work place was designed by the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, but it made sense once I learned that. Wright's "bring the outside in" designs that made him famous was so obvious I dont know why I didn't think of it sooner,what with the fish pond and water fall that is the focal point of the building's lobby.

My first visit, we just wandered the grounds enjoying the desert beauty that was so close to the heart of designer who lived here 6

months of the year during the latter part of his life. The house and design studio

seem to organically rise out of the desert floor like a ship that has run aground.

I took the 90 minute tour last week and was completely fascinated by the life of this man who was clearly a genius, but one of a somewhat dubious personal philosophy and practice. The tour guide was knowledgable and personable, one who wore no rose-colored glasses when it came to the personality he presented to us. I appreciated and enjoyed the tour immensely, enough to know I'm going to need to come back and explore further.

Meanwhile, I'm reading T.C. Boyle's The Women which chronicle's Wright's life from the perspective of the women in his life (4 wives and a couple of mistresses). The writing in this book is particularly beautiful making it a joy to read for that reason alone. The stories of these women are also compelling...and sad in the long run. Wright was charismatic enough to attract these (and others) women, but didn't seem to know how to take care of a relationship for any length of time. But the writing...it's as beautiful as F. Scott Fitzgerald or Alan Paton or Willa Cather. Just. Plain. Amazing.

A Prayer in Spring

Robert Frost (1915)

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

Photos taken two weeks ago in the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, AZ

Classroom Graffiti

There's a strange phenomenon occurring in my classroom. Kids are writing on the desks. Now this fact isn't the strange part. Kids write on desks all the time. But they usually don't write the kind of thing I found on several desks last week. I was so surprised, I left it there for a few days! See if you don't find this graffiti as interesting as I did:

A Psalm of Life

It's Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's birthday today. Perhaps best known for his story-poems about American history, Longfellow was once a household name, known as one of the Fireside Poets (people used to read his poems by the fireside) as well as one of the Schoolroom Poets (his picture was hung in every schoolroom and school children memorized his poetry). Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, and John Greenleaf Whittier fall into those categories as well. I think I first read this poem in one of the Little House books when Carrie recited it for one of the famous School Exhibitions. I especially love the message of the last verse and have my American Lit. students memorize it each year.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Twittering about Twitterers (the bird kind)

4:15 p.m. I'm sitting out on my patio trying to be as still as possible, hoping the birds will think I'm just a bumpy part of the wall and come back so I can get better closeups of them. I've been taking pictures from the inside, through the sliding glass door, which is fine, but I want better, closer pictures. But do you think they will cooperate? Of course not! Why would they do that?! I am looking straight at a male broad-tailed hummingbird who is looking at me...from the tip top of a tree...at a safe distance. I can see and hear other birds who are even closer, all of whom are pointedly ignoring the inviting enclosure that is my patio. From experience, I know that they will swarm the deck, so to speak, the minute I give up and go to the other side of the glass. But I'm determined to wait them out. I have nowhere else to go right now. And nothing better to do.

4:20 p.m. The hummingbird has been resting in that tree for quite awhile. Long enough for two others to join him. Oops. Now he's moved to a closer tree. Now a closer branch. Now back tothe top of the second tree. Wonder what he's thinking? He looks right, then left. Then straight ahead as if checking to see if I'm moving. Nope. Not going anywhere.

4:25 p.m. My cats are moving from door to glass window, wanting their piece of the sunshine. It'd be all over if they were to come outside, so of course I ignore their pleadings.

4:30 p.m. Now he's back to the farther taller tree, this time with his back to me. Now he's looking over his shoulder...and I can see the red puffing out under his chin. Now he's turned around and is facing my direction again. Looking right, then left, now giving me his profile. Will he? Won't he? Which way is he going to turn next? Whose patio is he going to grace with his presence?

4:35 p.m. A couple walks by and spots him in the treetop. He flashes his red at them and then takes off...out of sight. Maybe for the feeder he's been eyeing in that direction. Well, he'll be back. Yup. There he is! Wow! That was quick!

4:40 p.m. Meanwhile, the other birds are still snoozing, almost motionless, in the trees. Oops! He's off again. This time back to the other tree to visit with two friends. They wake up long enough to give him a glance but then ignore him again. He sits, waits. Waits for what?

4:45 p.m. Dogs bark in the distance, birds continue to chatter nearby. The wind gently ruffles the leaves of my oleander and shakes the limb that wholes the nectar that is waiting for this little fellow.

4:50 p.m. Last week, when I did not have my feeder out yet, he kept buzzing my ear and hanging right in my face as if to say WHERE is my food? So I went and got the feeder I'd put away until cooler weather came (to discourage the bees). Barely had I brought it out than he was buzzing my head, eager for the food.

4:55 p.m. Hmm. Now I'm wondering if there aren't two. The one I've been watching just dove down and buzzed right through my patio...to my neighbor's feeder. No sooner had left, when there was another back in the tree. Now that one just flew through my patio to the neighbor...and flew right back to the tree! Maybe there's only one. I really can't tell. But I didn't see it fly back that first time. It was just in the tree again. Wonder why he keeps passing my feeder by for hers? Perhaps I should freshen the nectar.

5:00 p.m. In any event...I could watch this play out all day...but that would also mean that the birds stay away all day...Oh! Here's a chatty house finch and an inca dove. Maybe more will start to come back...

5:10 p.m. 10 minutes later (after shooting (with my camera) dozens of finches)...yes, there ARE two! I just saw them fly by together. Cool!

5:20 p.m. And now there is new nectar and a different feeder out, this time one with yellow on it to attract his attention. We'll see now what happens. Yes, there he is back up in the tree, surveying the lay of the land...come on little guy! Come on!

Too Short - Too Long - Long Enough

I had the day off from school. Unusual in a boarding school setting. I was grateful for the day, but I am also grateful for the reason for the day. This holiday doesn't just celebrate the life of a powerful Civil Rights activists, it reminds us the importance of treating every human being with dignity and respect, and of supporting and protecting their rights as carefully and passionately as I do my own. Here's a poem about Martin Luther King, Jr. that I like to share with my students either the Friday before or the Tuesday after we have this day off:

Thirty-Nine Years - Too Short - Too Long - Long Enough
By Willa Perrier
from: A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul
(c) 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

From 1929 to 1968 is only 39 short years.
Too short to gather the fruits of your labor
Too short to comfort your parents when your brother drowns
Too short to comfort your father when mother dies
Too short to see your children finish school
Too short to ever enjoy grandchildren
Too short to know retirement

Thirty-nine years is just too short.

From 1929 to 1968 is only 39 short years, yet it's
Too long to be crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination, it's
Too long to stand in the quicksand of racial injustices, it's
Too long to receive threatening phone calls, often at the rate of forty per day, it's
Too long to live under the sweltering heat of continuous pressure, it's Too long, 39 years is just too long.

From 1929 to 1968 is only 39 short years, yet it's
Long enough.
It's long enough to journey all the way to India to learn under a great teacher how to walk through angry crowds and keep cool.
It's long enough to be chased by police dogs and lashed by the rushing waters from the fireman's hoses because you are dramatizing the fact that justice has a way of eluding me and my brother.
It's long enough to spend many days in jail while protesting the plight of others.
It's long enough to have a bomb thrown into your home.
It's long enough to teach angry violent men to be still while you pray for the bombers.
It's long enough.
It's long enough to lead many men to Christianity.
It's long enough to know it's better to go to war for justice than to live in peace with injustices.
It's long enough to know that more appalling than bigotry
and hatred are those who sit still
and watch injustices each day in silence.
It's long enough to realize that injustices are undiscriminating
and people of all races and creeds experience
its cruel captivity sooner or later.
It's long enough.
It's long enough to know that when one uses civil disobedience
for his civil rights, he does not break the laws of the
Constitution of the United States of America - rather he seeks
to uphold the principles all men are created equal; he seeks
to break down local ordinances that have already broken the
laws of the Constitution of the United States.
It's long enough.
It's long enough to accept invitations to speak to the nation's leaders.

It's long enough to address thousands of people on hundreds of different occasions.
It's long enough to lead 200,000 people to the nation's capital
to dramatize that all of America's people are heirs to the
property of rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
It's long enough to enter college at 15.
It's long enough to finish and earn several degrees.
It's long enough to earn hundreds of awards.
It's long enough to marry and father four children.
It's long enough to become a drum major for peace.
It's long enough to earn a Nobel Peace Prize.
It's long enough to give the $54,000 prize money to the cause of justice.
It's long enough to visit the mountain top.
It's certainly long enough to have a dream.

When we note how much Martin Luther King packed into 39 short years, we know it's long enough for any man who loves his country
and his fellow man so much that life itself has no value -
unless all men can sit at the table of brotherhood as brothers.
Thirty-nine years is long enough - for any man to knowingly
flirt with death each day of his life - because to spare himself
heartaches and sorrow meant two steps backward for his brother
tomorrow.

Martin lived for several centuries, all rolled into 39 short
years. His memory will live forever. How wonderful it would be
if we could all live as well.

Martin, like all others, would have welcomed longevity - yet
when he weighed the facts, he said, "It's not how long a man
lives, but how well he uses the time allotted him."

And so we salute and honor the memory of a man who lived in
the confusion of injustice for all his too short, too long,
long enough 39 years- "For He's Free At Last."

Fanfare for a Fragile Life

Tonight's Tucson Memorial Service began with Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man." A lovely and powerful way to begin a time of reflection, celebration, and encouragement. Written to commemorate America's entrance into World War II, the Fanfare was also Copland's tribute to all who contributed to victory, especially those not in the spotlight.

I was reminded of the role of the "common" person several times tonight throughout the speeches and readings. In between the tears and admiration came the realization, or maybe I should say reminder, that life is fragile. These were common, ordinary folks thrust into an extraordinary situation not of their making or choosing who did not shrink from the service of their country or neighbor.

I was inspired. And humbled. It could have been me. It could have been any of us on any given Sunday.

The Greatest Hazard

“To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.”

One of my freshmen students posted this as his Facebook status this evening. Seemed more profound than what I normally get from him so I Googled it. "Author Unknown." Still, I credit him for realizing something of depth and sharing it with his friends. He got quite a discussion going from it.

Speaking of freshmen. I'm so glad they grow up! Some days that's all that gets me through a class with them. I love them dearly. But they do challenge me...sometimes...