Growth = Change+Risk

I decided to become a teacher in the late 80’s. I graduated college, went to work in advertising and it was not what I hoped it would be. I thought to become a human rights lawyer and was studying for the entrance test needed. To make ends meet I worked two jobs - one at a tour agency and another at an employment agency. One day I was sitting at my desk at the tour agency and literally heard “teacher” in my mind; it was like it blew in one ear and out the other. No, I’m not crazy and I wasn’t hallucinating. It felt so “right” that I completely changed the course of my life and applied to New York University’s outstanding education program. I quickly knew I was on the right path. To be able to immerse myself in literature, in such a dynamic and creative way, was nirvana for me.

My first student teaching gig was a nightmare and a terrible placement/fit for me. Thanks to my mother’s sage advice, I spoke up and was reassigned to a progressive type alternative public high school in New York City. Satellite Academy was the PERFECT place for me; I honed my craft, was surrounded by people who loved what they did and encouraged me to find my unique style of teaching. Once my student teaching was completed, I was offered a position and happily took it. I taught there until I moved overseas.

When I returned to the states I began teaching in a small community near where New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania meet on the map. I left one year to go to another district, but quickly returned because I felt in my bones I belonged in Port Jervis. Once back, I was a teacher there for over twenty years. I loved every moment of being a part of the community; the good days, the super great days and the days filled with incredible sorrow. I was part of the fabric of the area. I raised my daughters and my youngest attended my high school.

But teaching changed. No longer was it a place of learning and creativity, but rather, for me, a place driven by data and statistics. Decisions on the education process were no longer a school’s, or even a teacher’s. Rather, it was becoming a corporate enterprise. All that mattered were the results on a grid. I still maintained my integrity, taught my students with love and respect and got them the results they needed to be successful. I could have continued - formulated writing for tests, non-fiction writing emphasized over literature, etc. But my soul was withering.

The final straw for me was when my Creative Writing class was replaced by another SAT prep course. I wasn’t angry at the teachers, or the administration. I understood the reason why it happened. But what was lost by this choice was the proven concept that creativity breeds ingenuity and a personal sense of self. Ask any student I had in my creative writing course and each one will tell you that they became better writers. But more important, they became better thinkers, able to critique writing and express their ideas verbally and in writing, They gained a sense of self, and community, in a room of peers completely different than themselves. For me, it was the perfect social experiment of how people of all different ages, sizes, shapes, genders, backgrounds, ethnicities and lives could come together and not only tolerate each other, but come to love each other.

When I met my husband I had already started to look into changing careers. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, but I knew it had to be creative (and, realistically, a career I could draw a salary from). When I moved to New Jersey I spent the first year in two very different leave replacement jobs. I loved my first placement at Princeton High School; my colleagues were professional, hilarious, warm, welcoming and incredibly intelligent. I also taught an adult night school Creative Writing course in Princeton. My second placement was fine, but couldn’t match my first one. During my second placement I had many heart-to-heart conversations with my husband about what I wanted the next part of my life to look like. It had to be creative and it had to incorporate something I loved. (As a side note, I am incredibly lucky to have such a supportive husband.)

But I guess I wasn’t truly ready. I still applied for teaching jobs. It is hard to start again and fear controlled my actions. A leave replacement came up again in Princeton and this time I didn’t get it; I was heartbroken, but I knew there had to be a greater reason and this is it: I needed to get out of my comfort zone and find my new path. So, this may surprise many of you, but I began to take courses in Interior Design.

Yes. Interior Design. To me, it is another form of storytelling. In September I started exploring career opportunities. I sent out applications, interviewed and was offered four positions. One position was an amazing internship, in New York City, for a top designer (one of Architectural Digest’s top 100 designers), but I declined. I was offered two other positions where I would have begun immediately as a Design Consultant. However, after much thought, I have decided to begin my career as a Design Coordinator for Ethan Allen. The furniture is incredibly well made (both traditional and contemporary) and they offer FULL design services. I can learn a lot and gain experience before I become a Design Consultant with them and/or start the renovation and design company my husband and I dream of. It feels “right” (once again) and I love the management and staff too. Although I will always identify myself as a teacher, I now have a new “hat” to add to the wardrobe of my life. My journey continues and it feels so good to be excited again about a career!

Growth=Change+Risk. This is not a dress rehearsal and, as much as possible, I want every second of my life to have purpose. For me, this means maintaining my personal integrity, fulfilling my need for creativity and work/life-family balance. I wish the same for everyone. Much love to each and every one of you. 

~Piece by Piece~

The I after You

lay dormant

in the heart of Winter

snow and shards of ice 

as sharp as any knife 

created protective layers

over my cold skin

But piece by piece

I thawed

First my feet

then my legs

then my belly

then my heart

and finally

my brain

started to come

back to life

like bright green leaves

and rich brown roots

Every once in a while

I was tempted to retreat

back under the frozen ground

to seek sanctuary far from

any heartbeat or blood pulsing

through my fragile veins

To be alive again stung

like frozen heat

But piece by piece

I became whole again

(Dedicated to my husband who has made me feel more alive than ever.)

~I Dream of Flame Trees~

At night she came to me
curved against my hip
like meat cleaving 
to my gleaming white bones
I felt her enter into my
pelvis, twining her spirit with mine
twisting hope out of me

When she whispered
"You are MINE"
I knew she possessed me

I chanted
"Hear O' Israel"
I sang
"Whoever dwells in the shelter
of the most high
will rest in the shadow of
the Almighty"

But to no avail

She had found her twin
Frailties and flaws
Pain and illness
Her ghostly sins and mine
Mixed with rue and 
the mud of our history
interwoven between 
there and here

No, she would not leave
until she chose to
(Was there an Ibbur to save me?)

What is your name???!!
Only to be answered 
by sand and salt
rubbing into my wounds
You see, only I could 
set myself free
but once her presence
was banished
what would fill the void?

So I keep hidden
in the shadows of my home
afraid to step into the sunlight
Expose what I had become
What I have always been
For she and I are sewn together
with blood and marrow
and feathers torn from doves

Night after night
In the darkness of my dreams
I see her serpent hair and green skin
I dream of flame trees in the desert
as I hear her chant my discretions
one by one

Day after day
I feel her mock 
my efforts to free myself
for she knows they are half-hearted
Psalm after psalm
I falsely beg heaven and earth
to free me
My sins increasing with
each empty utterance

Until finally one day I can no longer bear 
the burden of my ways
I seek true forgiveness
and freedom
I seek to set myself free

Raphael
Raphael
Raphael

I should not have harmed you
I should not have harmed you
I should not have harmed you

You harmed not should I
You harmed not should I
You harmed not should I

Break her grasp on me
Break my grasp on her
Break me

And then....please....heal me

************************************

(This poem is based on ancient Jewish beliefs of demons and how to rid oneself of them. Inspired by a historical/biblical fiction novel I am reading and my love of Judaism.  Thankfully, this is NOT autobiographical.)

Sanctuary

From: Nature, Poem 15: The Bee 

By Emily Dickinson

...His feet are shod with gauze, 

His helmet is of gold;

His breast, a single onyx 

With chrysoprase, inlaid...

Although it is contested as to when “native” bees arrived in England (some believe as early as 9000 years ago), there is no doubt they arrived  long before I did.   I am American and came to Oxford, England, as part of my Master degree studies in Education.  It was 1986:  the same summer Prince Andrew made Sarah Ferguson his bride. Perhaps it is ironic that the Etmological Museum is located in Oxford, England, where my story takes place,  but I will let the reader decide on the value and importance of this fact. David Cushman stated in an article based on a lecture by Phillip Denwood in 2012, “in the last decade DNA studies by Pedersen and others in Denmark and elsewhere have conclusively shown that modern specimens of Dark Bees from the UK and Ireland fit into the genetic specification of Apis mellifera mellifera (see e.g. the article by Pritchard).” Yes, but they are so much more than their DNA.

Let’s quickly peruse the symbolism of the bee, as perhaps this might be important to the story, as well.  If you like looking deeply into a story.  As this story is a true one, with no embellishment, it may be a fun exercise, at the very least, to create layers to my tale.  With that said,  the bee has been associated with, and therefore symbolizes many ideals and concepts:  Fertility, Death, Rebirth, sexuality, the soul, femininity, immortality, hope, humans/family, government, social order, diligence, cleanliness, royalty and more.  Again, I leave it to you to attach any symbolic significance to this tale.

********

Without further ado, let me begin to tell you about me and the Wycliffe bees.

“...His labor is a chant,

His idleness a tune;

Oh, for a bee's experience

Of clovers and of noon!”

I was probably a gypsy in a former life, as my desire to travel, and wanderlust, were well known to all who loved me.  I was twenty five and the world was her oyster;  I worked and saved my money. In July of 1986 I boarded a Virgin airline and was whisked off to England.  After two nights in London, with a group of other American students, we were brought to Wycliffe Hall, in Oxford, where they were to be dorm for the duration of our stay.  We weren’t aware, until we got there, that Wycliffe Hall housed the seminary students, several of which were there for the summer.  

Wycliffe is a beautiful old tudor building, named after John Wycliffe.  I was a young woman when I arrived and the last thing on my mind was why the place was named Wycliffe Hall.  But now, looking back as a woman, I find the information fascinating.  He was quite an amazing man. Wycliffe was a theologian and seminary professor at Oxford, but clearly Mr. Wycliffe was also quite a rebel within the Catholic church.  His followers were called “Lollards”, which was the precursor to the Protestant Reformation.  He spoke out against the wealthy, reminding the people that Christ called his disciples into poverty.  In a way he was a purist, writing that the focus should be on Christ and his teachings.  He believed every Christian should have access to the bible and translated it into English with the help of his friend, John Purvey;  the church completely opposed this idea.  Sadly he died before the translation was completed.  Purvey is considered responsible for the “Wycliffe Bible” of today.  

How would he feel about what happened to me in the chapel named after him?

Let me walk you into the main entrance where you will immediately see the  grand sweeping staircase, with a beautiful wood banister, which leads you to the bathrooms, rooms and study rooms.  Downstairs was the dining area, a general area and a hallway which led to, I was told, a chapel.  The building is solid, speaks to its history and I adored it.  My room was probably the tiniest one available, all the way at the end of a  long hallway.  It was perfect;  my view was of the incredible gardens in the back yard.  To me it felt magical.  Every morning, right around sunrise, I would walk through the garden, under a stone archway, cross over Norham Gardens and to Oxford University Parks, next door.  The mist would rise and I would sit by the River Cherwell  and read.  When I look back I think of these mornings as perfect moments in my life.

Wycliffe Chapel, designed by George Wallace,  was opened in 1896 by the Bishop Oxford.  There is a stained glass window of John Wycliffe.  These are facts.  But what I felt, and experienced, that day in the chapel goes beyond accepted truths.  I could tell you that I am not certain what drew me to the chapel, but that would be untrue.  I was curious to see the chapel, but also to find a quiet place to think and meditate.  Do not confuse wanderlust with being carefree.  I had a lot on my mind at twenty five and, in general, was an introverted and introspective type of girl (that hasn’t changed in the years which have passed).  I could also tell you that I remember the exact moment I decided to go to the chapel, but that wouldn’t be true either.  It’s as if that memory was superfluous to the story and my memory has simply chiseled it away from the focus of the moment.  I simply remember going and being there.  

Here is a glimpse of Wycliffe Chapel:

********

On leaving the old nest, the swarm normally flies only a few metres and settles. Scout bees look for a suitable place to start the new colony. Eventually, one location wins favor and the whole swarm takes to the air.

From The Secret Life of Bees (From Bees of the World)

From the moment I walked through the door, which connected Wycliffe Hall to the chapel, I felt that I had entered another world.  It was a rather grey day, this I remember clearly, and the were was a definite smell of damp mildew.  It felt like the dust had settled here a long time ago and very few disturbed it.  The silence was palatable.  I immediately felt at peace and at home.  

The chapel itself was not as bright as the image, above, indicates.  In fact, I remember it being shadowy.  I didn’t even notice the stained glass windows.  All I saw were the wooden pews beckoning me to sit down for a bit.  And so I went and sat down.  

In my lifetime I have been to a few places that immediately felt unique and, yes, holy.  The Western Wall in Jerusalem, a small town outside of Boulder, Colorado, different woods I’ve walked  and the Grand Canyon.  Wycliffe Chapel was too.  I simply can’t explain this feeling;  I believe it is so very personal and every person can experience it in his/her own way.  I just knew immediately that this chapel would have a lasting and extraordinary effect upon me.  I had no idea how, but even then, when I was just coming into understanding myself, I knew I simply had to remain open to whatever was going to happen.

I wish I could tell you how much time passed, but I really don’t know and it doesn’t matter.  I sat and my mind wandered, returned, meditated, calmed, wandered again and returned.  The simplicity of the wooden bench and chapel allowed for a focus within.  No outside noise penetrated.  I was alone, calm and unafraid.  

Finally I seemed to awaken and become aware of time having passed.  It was time to go.  I could always come back.  As I stood up I heard a buzzing sound.   A bee.  “Bees are one of the major groups of insects, numbering about 20,000 described species. But only a very small proportion of bees are honeybees or bumblebees - most species are actually solitary bees.”

But this bee was not alone.  As I stood there it seemed as though dozens of bees arose around me and started swirling around my head.  The thing is I didn’t panic.  Not at all.  There wasn’t the rational thought that the bees may have settled in my wild hair.  I just stood there and let them move around me.  I was aware of their droning sound, the whirl of their wings, the presence of them.  I was still.  Calm.  Aware.  Communicating, so to speak, from the heart that I didn’t fear their stings.  It was a surreal, spiritual moment.  Not one bee stung me.

Time seems to have a mind of its own.  It could have been seconds, minutes or hours...I couldn’t tell you how long I stood there with the bees humming around me.  All I can tell you is eventually they all flew away and I felt as if I was waking from a dream.  No longer lulled by their sound, the silence seemed suddenly odd.  I wanted to leave.

I never went back into the chapel again.  For me, I instinctively knew this extraordinary experience was once in a lifetime. The rest of the summer kept me very busy with “life”.  I had fallen in love, was growing as a woman, learning and budding in a spiritual way.  I simply stored away the experience and I don’t believe I have ever spoken to anyone about it until now.

I know that the world didn’t change that day in any dramatic way.  The cure for any dreadful disease was not found because of my experience.  Prejudice didn’t end. The world didn’t stop spinning on its axis.  But I know what I was meant to learn that day and it changed me.  Forever.

Perhaps you will find some irony, or symbolism and feel free to take from this story what you will; for whatever you walk away with, is what you are meant to understand.

********

Works Consulted

http://www.bees.me.uk/Bees/Welcome.html

http://bibba.com/honeybee-origins/

http://www.bees.me.uk/Bees/Welcome.html

http://www.christianitytoday.com/history/people/moversandshakers/john-wycliffe.html

http://www.dave-cushman.net/bee/ammpdenwood.html

http://www.oum.ox.ac.uk/visiting/presenting19.htm

In Pursuit of Wallflowers (A metaphor)

I watch your arms

the veins rise quickly

trails of fierce blue green

the blood pumps your muscles

up

hands flexing

bone to bone

blood to marrow

to create, to form

a slight wet shimmer

on the surface

A pale rose

Then bright crimson

The tension is palatable

Ashes to dust