Our Christmas in Munich

We are in the land of Christmas. The Christmas markets - which I featured pictures of in my last entry - went up shortly after Thanksgiving and are open seven days a week all day through Christmas eve. We enjoyed walking through them - shuffling through them, really. They are quite crowded, but, as everyone is happy, that's okay. I think we ate more than we bought gifts, but that, too, is okay. We particularly enjoyed Thor's Hammer which is mead with a shot of Irish whiskey. We also drank Feuerzungenbowle (fire tongue bowl, also known as Feuerzongenbowle) which is mead with sugar and rum added. It is served in a special goblet which has a lip extending from the side (kind of like a sippy cup, but there is no lid to cover the goblet). In this lip or shelf is placed a sugar cube. The goblet is filled with gluehwein, strong rum is poured in and over the sugar cube and the entire concoction is lit. You blow it our (duh!) then wait for the sugar cube to cool and sip the gluehwein through the sugar cube. Yum.

The official drinking vessel of Feuerzungenbowle

Unlike Tashkent where there were no Christmas trees, I was able to find a tree here not too far from home. I walked about a half mile to a an open square where they were being sold. I chose one and carried it home. Yes, I had to carry it home. My muscles hurt for days. Although our car arrived before we did, it has been an ordeal getting it and us licensed.

The Christmas tree lot in Odeonsplatz

About a week before Christmas, we walked to a concert by the Moscow Cathedral choir, a boys and young men's choir. The booming, manly sounds of the men paired with the cherubic sounds of the boys was a perfect way to head into Christmas. The personality of some of the boys was very evident in their stage presence. One boy managed to be simultaneously focused and squirmy. Two boys who stood right in front of the conductor elbowed each other giggling through one song. I don't know how they evaded the eye of the conductor. Another boy, who was singing, was looking off to the side. The conductor slowly walked towards him and gently touched the hand holding the music folder never breaking his conducting beat. The boy's attention was returned to where it needed to be. There were two boys who stood next to each other who, for some reason, I noticed early on. I remember thinking, "They must be the cream of the crop". Later, one of them stepped up for a solo.

I used the Frugal Gourmet Christmas cookbook (the only cookbook, I believe, I have ever actually purchased and the only one I have read cover to cover) to plan our Christmas dinner. I decided on Crown Roast of Pork as the main dish. It sounded way too big for the two of us so I substituted a pork loin, but otherwise used all the seasonings called for - fresh, whole sage and thyme. To accompany it I made the suggested sausage stuffing. I'm not sure why it's called stuffing when it's not being stuffed into anything except our mouths. I made roasted potatoes which required over two hours of oven time so I made them the day before saving the final broiler step for Christmas day. They baked for an hour with butter and garlic - boy, did the apartment smell good - and another hour in chicken broth. When Christmas day came, I forgot all about them. They were still sitting on the balcony in our outdoor refrigerator. Finally I made baked onions. Neither Doug nor I had ever eaten an entire onion (unless you count Bloomin' Onions) so we weren't too sure whether or not we'd like them. They were boiled in chicken broth then baked. They were so sweet, we loved them.

The entire Christmas dinner (including the potatoes)

After we stuffed ourselves, we walked about a mile and a half to see the St. Petersburg Ballet Company present the Nutcracker ballet. The day was perfect - in the forties, floating clouds, little wind. The performance wasn't the best - like I'm a critic. First, it was danced to prerecorded music. The start of every dance sequence always came as a bit of a surprise to all on stage. There was more posturing and posing than challenging dancing. But, as it was Christmas day, it was delightful. It was opened with a storyteller telling the story (in German). Then a mirrored jester came out. He was quite a sight. He literally glowed. He stood before a tray of water glasses and played bits of the melodies on these tuned water glasses. It was very pretty, mystical and captivating. He had to watch what he was doing, of course, but he was able to look up at the audience. I write 'at' in italics because I could tell he was looking at people, at their reactions, not just glancing up for good stage presence. He made several more appearances throughout the ballet. I realized what a sexist environment the ballet is. And, this time, not against women. The men often are, in Doug's words, props to hold up, balance and gesture to the women. I don't know ballet audience etiquette. I was taken aback when, early on, a male dancer came out and danced, I thought, quite well - a solo. When he finished I started to clap. No one else did, so I stopped. Next came a female dancer who also did a very good job. Everyone burst into applause. After the pas de deux, having both danced splendidly -really danced, finally - the couple took their bows, or, rather he stood back while she dramatically bowed and bowed and bowed. I was so put out, I stopped clapping. I didn't want to encourage that. I know I'm not a ballet aficionado, but, when I sang in the opera chorus, all the principal singers took their appropriate curtain calls, not just the women. Perhaps someone reading this can explain this to me.

Our apartment is in the middle of about four or five churches that all have bells that peal throughout the day. They were particularly active Christmas eve, Christmas day and the 26th (which is also a German holiday - the second day of Christmas - no turtle doves). When they all get going at once it is glorious, soothing and just lovely. My mom told me that there was a church somewhere in Phoenix that installed bells and the neighbors complained. How sad. I can understand wanting quiet, but I don't understand picking on the gentle sound of church bells. No it is not necessary, I also understand that. And sometimes any sound is irritating. Leaf blowers and lawn mowers are not necessary, yet for some reason that painful, irritating sound goes unchallenged. I'm glad I'm in Germany right now to hear these bells.

Advent

It is Advent (of which I've written before in my "If I Can" blog - December 1, 2009) and this year in my waiting I find myself not merely waiting, but anticipating and moving forward.

I'm trying to learn to be more mindful and it stands to reason that the season of waiting - Advent - would be good practice. But there must be something I'm mindful of. If I am waiting, I am mindful of what is to come. But if I am being mindful of what is to come, then I am anticipating, thus the mindfulness and forward movement. What can I do now in anticipation while I wait for the future?

Before moving to Germany I decided to make my time here a time of conclusions. Specifically of several stories (novels, really) that I've been writing for years. Then fate kindly stepped in (which it rarely does in a kindly manner) and, when I asked Douglas what he wanted for his birthday, he answered, "I want you to finish one of your stories to the point you can send it to an editor. It doesn't have to be by this birthday, just before we leave Germany."

I love Douglas.

So, while I wait, as I anticipate, I sit and make forward progress (page 50 something as I write - feel free to check up on that page number from time to time) on one of my novels.

But it's Advent and Advent is the time during which we wait for Christmas.

A scene from the Marienplatz Christmas Market - the largest in Munich

These years, Christmas brings memories to me. Memories of anticipation because, as a child, it always felt as though I were waiting for something.

For instance, I always knew something good was about to happen when I noticed that my mother had set out butter to soften. Would it go in candy or cookies?

And my father would get a certain look on his face as he strolled into my room shaking car keys. I knew he wanted company on an errand and he was in one of those moods - maybe we'd stop for candy (don't tell mom).

The sight of the UPS (or FedEX, DHL, whichever) truck stopping in front of our house always caused excitement - read anticipation. The bigger the box the more excitement.

Here in Munich I've started a new practice. Just before Douglas comes home, I turn off most of the lights in the apartment and light a single candle in the entryway. I hope it looks gentle, soft, relaxing and welcoming. I hope it tells him that he's home now and no longer needs to work. I hope it tells him that this is his time - our time.

I like how, in the Jewish faith, the Sabbath day - the day of rest - begins at sundown the evening before. They prepare. They anticipate. Sabbath, I believe, is God's way of telling us "Relax, this is your time, our time."

The Christmas market is in the square of the famous Glockenspiel, a beautiful setting.

Char: The Only Seasoning Added Through the bottom of the Pot

It's been a rough week in the kitchen. This is not meant to be a complaint, just a statement of fact. When we moved in here, roughly five weeks ago, we were told that the kitchen was brand new. Nice. But everything takes some getting used to.

The microwave takes about 30 seconds just to soften butter. In my experience, five or so seconds does it and that leaves me scrambling to shut it off before I have a pool of butter covering the carousel. It takes a good five minutes to boil a cup of water. I now just use the stove top. The stove top has opposite problem as the microwave. Put on full hot, I'm sure these burners could melt steel girders. I'm not often a very patient cook. If I must bring something to a boil I do so in as little time as possible. I fill the pot with water or whatever, put the burner on high and wait to turn it down after it has reached a boiling point. I did this with some soup last week. Within three or so minutes it just wasn't smelling right in the kitchen. I stirred the soup. Everything not liquid had been welded to the bottom of the pot. I quickly picked up the pot. A small flame appeared underneath said pot. I didn't exactly panic; nor did I think clearly. "New kitchen" I thought. "Don't put it on the counter." For that voice in my head, I blame my mother. Sorry, mom. Probably not your fault, but I don't want this to be my fault. Anyway, there sat the new cutting board. The new plastic cutting board. I sat the overheated pot on the plastic cutting board. It slid. "What the . . . ?" Oh . . . (Two plus two . . .)

So now we have this nice unusable soup pot that has a good chunk of the cutting board  stuck to its bottom.

Think, Laura, think! How can you get the plastic off so you can use the pot?

Something else that has taken some getting used to in this kitchen is the temperature of the hot water from the faucet. I don't have a thermometer, but I would not be surprised if it is on the verge of the boiling point. This thrills me. In Tashkent we had to wait a few minutes for very warm water to eventually emerge. I remember catching my housekeeper drinking out of one of our glasses and, instead of washing it, simply rinsing it and putting it back on the shelf. I told her that she needed to use hot water and soap and wash it before putting it back. She turned on the water then stood there looking at the ceiling as she waited (and waited) for hot water.

Here in Munich we have extremely hot water within seconds of turning it on. Nice. Maybe it's hot enough to melt off the plastic or, at least, soften it so I can scrape it off. Nope. And I have the blisters to prove it.

Back to the soup. The apartment stunk with the smell of charred potato leek soup. We opened up every window and the hall door to alleviate the stench. Thank God the neighbors didn't complain. I told Douglas that he didn't have to eat any of this soup. I would consider it my penance for not thinking more rationally. I threw in some very salty spices I got in Uzbekistan that pretty well masked the char flavor so I could get it down a bowl at a time. Why didn't I just throw it out? After all that work? And I'm too cheap.

Which brings me to the back story of this entire saga. The first round of potato leek soup I made, weeks earlier, turned out perfectly, though I had to cut everything by hand since we no longer had a food processor. After that, we went out and bought a food processor that works with European electric current. Great. First thing the morning of this kitchen saga, I couldn't figure out how to put the thing together. I read the instructions and followed them as best I could. The wand, which is supposed to attach to the shaft leading to the blade, was a different size and wouldn't attach. I looked at the pictures, read, looked at the pictures, looked at the wand, the shaft, but it wouldn't fit. I was ready to make soup and did not want to spend another hour cutting potatoes and leeks by hand when I had a brand new food processor sitting before me. I decided to wait for Douglas to come home for lunch and get him to help me figure it out. He put it together before he went back to work. Unbeknownst to me and unmentioned in the instructions is the fact that the wand comes apart. Okay. After he left, I went to work.

Now, there are two or three parts to this food processor that, in the sketches, look somewhat alike. I grabbed the wrong part - the ice shaver. It doesn't work with potatoes. Don't even try it.  The potatoes stuck to the blades. A few small pieces fell through, forced through in the poor processor's efforts to shave a potato. I realized it would be faster to cut them by hand. But I am stubborn sometimes. I refused. I waited for Douglas to get done with work and help me yet again. We were supposed to have the soup that night for dinner. I felt like the soup Nazi, "No soup for you!"

It was hard to eat anything with that stench in the air, but we both choked down a bowl that night just to get rid of the stuff. I know, we could have thrown it away. I know, I know . . .

A few days later was Doug's birthday. He turned 50! I wanted to make a Red Velvet cake for him. Finding some of the ingredients using German was difficult. "Shortening", "Non-stick spray" and "food coloring" are not in my German dictionary. Oh, the charades it took to get these items . . . Thank God for patient, easily amused grocers. The cake turned out okay, but there were some problems. What passes for red food coloring here does not turn food red. For some reason, the cream cheese icing liquefied and barely stuck to the cake. It would have worked well drizzled over a bundt cake, but this was a Waldorf Cake! It looked like an old man's head: thinner here, thicker there. (Not exactly what you want on a 50 year old man's birthday cake.)

Doug's birthday cake. The flowers in the background were one of his gifts. They dried beautifully and we still have them.

Somebody Pinch Me

Douglas and I are in Munich, Germany now. We will be here for two glorious years. We arrived early morning to the first of many rainy, gray days. I love the rain so all my German teachers at the institute said that I will love Germany. Yes! Upon arrival, we were driven to our apartment which, in a word, is charming. Although we were told we’d be in a spacious four bedroom apartment across the city from the Consulate, we are in a small two bedroom apartment a couple blocks from the Consulate. I’m glad. I wasn’t, but I am now. It has beautiful wood floors, huge windows overlooking trees and another bright yellow apartment building with flower decorated balconies, huge closets and lots of storage. We are given a maid’s quarters upstairs which is now my writing room. It’s a small, plain, square room with a closet and a window overlooking more trees.

Doug was delighted to learn that he was not expected at work our first day in Munich. Our hosts left us enough food to take care of us for a couple of days so we didn’t have to run out and shop. Wednesday, our second day in Munich, we spent visiting various people in the Consulate for introductions and information. Doug had more meetings Thursday and Friday. Thursday I went in to straighten out the Consulate’s library books which may seem like a selfless act on the surface, but is actually my way of getting my hands on good books. I found one gem in particular in a book called, “Legends and Tales of Old Munich.” It has historical and mythical stories relating to various famous sights in Munich. As I am hoping to do some storytelling here, that may be very helpful. Friday I went grocery shopping for the first time. It was easy, but expensive. $$$$$ Today I made a huge pot of chicken and wild rice soup that was relatively inexpensive and will last us for days. I must find more things like that to do, because the food is very pricey.

One of the many exquisite view along the 20 miles of walking paths in the English Garden

Our shipment from Tashkent arrived Monday. The men unloaded everything putting it just where I wanted it (even if I changed my mind). When they finished, they came into the apartment and shut the door behind them which made me slightly nervous. The one in charge said, “Now we unpack for you.” I laughed thinking he was joking. They stood stock still looking at me, not getting the joke. “You’re serious?” I asked. The man leaned forward and said in his heavy German accent, “You are in Germany now.” They were serious. That was the greatest as I could put things away without futzing around with breaking down boxes, piling them and trying to stuff all the paper used to wrap in a box.

I have my piano. I was concerned about playing it and highly enforced German quiet hours, but there seems to be some distance between us and the ‘neighboring’ apartment. Our door is the only door on the landing in this hall. Someone beneath us or above us may hear it, but everyone else in this building is American and from the Consulate so they’ll probably be at work all day. I’m relieved.

This is the Monopteros which overlooks the gardens.

Oktoberfest began our first weekend here. We intended to go to a parade Saturday morning – the parade of the hosts – but we overslept. We went to a parade Sunday morning instead, the parade of the costumes. It was nearly three hours long. I have never seen so many bands and costumes in my life. I loved it. My favorite bands were made up of drums, glockenspiels and fifes. We saw oxen, men threshing hay, whip crackers, birds of prey and pretzels and cookies tossed to the onlookers.

The view from the Monopteros.

Tonight Douglas is at a basketball game with the Deputy Chief of Mission from Berlin. I cleaned lint out of my hairbrush. That’s okay. I was in the mood. It was kind of a Zen thing.

You know how, when you’re in another city or state or country, something will happen that tells you that you are no longer home, you are somewhere else? On our first day, we took a walk in the city and these young men were skipping down the street carrying cases of beer and singing. And this was in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon! Later that week I was walking and heard “Allo!” I turned and saw two very young children peeking out a window grinning at me. The window was like a door in shape, but opened by swinging up vertically instead of your typical window which swings out horizontally. They were squeezed into that little opening watching me walk. Precious.

These beautiful gardens are right across the street from our apartment.

My Left Arm

Tell me, have you ever dressed yourself with one arm? Try it when you have some time and patience to spare. Ever tied your shoes with one hand? It is possible if you're flexible and have long laces. One more, no, two. Ever washed under your right arm with your right hand? Shaved? No? Lucky.

In Tashkent I began experiencing pain in my left elbow It worsened and spread to my shoulder. I didn't seek any medical care there because our Embassy was limited in equipment. Locally many 'doctors' got their licenses through bribery. So I waited until we got home to have my arm checked out. A long awaited MRI showed a torn rotator cuff and superior labral tear. I opted for surgery.

That was July 9th. My left arm was in a sling for a week and had to remain absolutely passive.

Poor Douglas.

It wasn't too big a deal the first two days because I was not allowed to shower or bathe. My shoulder was covered with a huge dressing to provide not only coverage, but padding. I looked like my left side was geared up for football.

 What made me laugh was that underneath all that gauze lurked three little bandaids. We've made so many medical advances that we are not sent home from surgery with a bandaid. After the dressing was removed things got a little sticky. Really sticky. The gum from the bandages adhered to my arm seemingly permanently. I asked the Physician's Assistant if she would clean up my arm a bit as I had to walk out in public after I left the office and my arm looked very, very bad. She said that she had nothing with which to clean it.

What? No alcohol in a doctor's office? No, she assured me. I could look around if I wanted, she gestured. Not necessary, I replied. I was just surprised that a doctor's office would have no alcohol, that's all. I turned to Doug, who was with me, doesn't it seem strange to you that a doctor's office would have no alcohol? (Note: when you want backup, sometimes your husband is not your best choice.) Well, he began, it depends on what sort of doctor's office . . . never mind, I interrupted. To finish this teensy saga, when I was taken away for an x-ray in this same office not one minute later, I asked what the staff did in the event of, say, a paper cut. Make an emergency pharmacy run or just suck it? I got a blank look from the x-ray technician. I explained that I was told there is no alcohol in the office. Who told you that, she wanted to know. I told her. I also got several alcohol soaked cotton patches which sweet Douglas used to attempt to clean my arm up a bit. They didn't work.

Now, the timing of all this was somewhat good and somewhat bad. The surgery was on the 9th. Doug's German exam was to be on the 15th. He was surprised that week to learn that they had moved up his exam by four days without bothering to notify him. I was a physical mess; Doug was a mental mess. I needed a lot of help with everyday things like bathing and dressing. I could let my left arm move in specific ways as long as it remained passive. I could bend forward letting my arms dangle while I swayed and let them pendulum this way and that. So I decided to try and undress myself. Remember the sticky goo from the dressing that we couldn't get off? Imagine me dangling over while I tried to take off a shirt one-handed that was adhered to the back of my shoulder. Frustrating. I had to be careful with my right arm as the elbow is already showing signs of tendonitis which is what started this whole thing with my left arm. So I had to call Doug away from his important studies to undress and dress me. You want to know what got the goo off my skin? Old fashioned sweat. I went to the gym and rode the bike for a hour. When I got home, it rubbed right off.

 Poor Douglas.

The good news was it turned out that my rotator cuff was intact. It was a bone spur that was causing so much pain and limited motion - that and the labral tear. There was a bit of good news there, too. My superior labrum was shredded which means he couldn't repair it. That sounds bad, and I thought it was until it was explained to me that a repair would have meant weeks more immobility and physical therapy. Since it was 'just' shredded, he could clean up the shredded ends like you would trim off fraying fabric. I should have complete recovery.

Part of my therapy included the use of a cold therapy machine up to which I was hooked for two and a half long hours daily.

Fast forward to the date I'm actually publishing this account. I have regained much range of motion. I still have minor pain when trying to stretch, but I can stretch. Otherwise, my arm simply won't move and must be manipulated into place. I have begun strength building exercises which cause some pain, but, again, it's minor. There is one exercise that really hurts. I use a cloth held in my right hand (of the 'good' arm) trailed over my right shoulder. My left hand reaches behind and grasps it while my right arm pulls my left arm up my back. Therapists always ask, "How much does it hurt, on a scale from one to ten?" One therapist described one as taking a nap and ten as getting your arm caught in a combine and it's being pulled off. This new exercise is around eight and a half.

Oh, more good news. Douglas passed his German exam. He's now taking a consular course to train to be a consular officer in Munich. It's almost countdown time. We have tickets for Munich and one more visit home. Bad news. Our long awaited four-bedroom apartment in Munich has turned into a two bedroom apartment. We will be unable to house any guests unfortunately, though guests are still very welcome.

In the meantime, don't take scratching your back for granted. It's the little things, you know . . .

A Paradox for You

One of my music teachers once told me, "In your greatest limitations, you'll find your greatest freedoms." He was trying to convince me to compose a twelve-tone piece. For those of you who don't know what twelve-tone is, I'll try to be brief and basic. In our western musical scale there are twelve tones that move in half steps. A twelve tone melody must use all twelve tones without repeating any of the tones (except a tone that repeats immediately after itself) and the composer cannot use any sequence of notes that lends an obvious tonality - like a major triad. Although I don't care for twelve tone music I enjoyed writing it. It was fun following the rules and watching what came of it.

I used his lesson with my students when I taught piano. I would assign them to make up a song using only the black keys, for instance. This was an assignment I often gave younger students or newer students who were overwhelmed with the 88 keys in front of them. By limiting them to the black keys, they could freely move their fingers around uninhibitedly and make beautiful sounds.

I used to take with me what Douglas's mother called my 'possible bag'. Anything I would possibly want to do was in that bag. I took it on road trips, flights and long visits where I thought I may get too fidgety for proper company. Over time, I learned to grab only one or two things which focused my attention. The result? Instead of doing a crossword for 30 minutes, reading a few pages of a novel, jotting down a few notes for a story, paging through an Oprah magazine and nibbling on chocolates, I wound up actually writing a story or reading a few chapters in a book. In other words, I accomplished something. I was free from distraction. I was free from the urge to this or that instead of what I was actually doing. I was free from my short attention span because I had little or no other choice.

For the last few weeks I have been studying German one on one with various teachers. This has been very good for my progress as I am slow at comprehension. When I am the only student, I cannot rely on others to understand the teacher and follow their lead.

I have been writing and speaking on a few topics that are important to me - spirituality, prayer and God, for example. I was asked to report on what I believe. This, of course, I had to do in German. My first thought was that it was too complicated for my limited vocabulary. But since I had chosen the topic I took on the challenge. What I noticed was, I was forced to be concise given my language limitation rather than stating one of my beliefs followed by far too much of my reason and rationality to defend said belief.

Now, I know my teacher is paid to talk to and listen to me, but I could tell that I had the teacher's attention more intensely than I often have of people I meet to whom I'm speaking English. I believe this was because I had to be thought out and I had to limit what I said in words and time.

For example, I recently had a falling out with a very good friend. I was telling my teacher what happened. Instead of going into a gossipy, "She did this" and "She said that" and "Can you believe it?" session, I simply said "Life has thrown so many snares her way over the last several years, I don't think she can take anything going against her right now." Notice I blamed no one. Notice I didn't judge anyone's actions. I made a simple, profound observation, one that keeps her in my heart and my eyes on my behavior.

I talked about judging others and the fact that the Bible tells us not to do that. I pointed out that the Bible doesn't just say "Do not judge those who are not wrong" rather, it says "Do not judge". Okay, I know that's not a quote, but it's close enough for this blog. How, I asked, do we not judge that that we know to be wrong? Instead of going off on how impossible it truly is given the news as of late (the Sandy Hook Elemtary School murders, the Boston Marathon bombing and the English soldier killed in London, for instance). Instead of talking about how truly horrible these people are and how the planet would be better off without them, I looked at what may be the more basic root as to why we are taught to not judge. First, we don't know their back story, their history. We still don't understand mental illness, though we see its effects. Secondly, it's distracting for us to judge. When we stop to judge we stop living our own life mindfully.

I challenge you, dear readers, to write in X number of words or less why you believe in something which is important to you. You can start with XXX number of words, but, in the end, you must whittle it down to X.

Learning to do this and practicing it (there's that wonderful word again), I believe, will make us better arguers. Arguers in the debate sense, not in the sense of angry, bitter discourse. My husband, Douglas, is very good at this. He will sit in a meeting and listen for a long time before putting out his opinion. He takes in what others are saying while he resists interrupting and spouting every thought that comes to his mind - something which many of us do thoughtlessly, habitually . The old adage, "Think before you speak"is not easily done, but we can practice it. And, in practicing it, we'll have to limit ourselves as to how much we speak and what we say. Then, ideally, we'll become as respected as people like Douglas and be freer to share our opinions because people around us will know they stem from somewhere deep, not the tops of our heads.

A Day in the Life

I haven't posted for a month or so. I don't like that, but things have gotten very intense in my German studies. And I'm keeping my promise of not writing  just any old thing to post. I want this to be relevant. I decided to write about studying at the Foreign Service Institute.

This is my second language course at the Institute. I studied Russian three years ago. I'm learning German much quicker than I did Russian. This is partly because English is a Germanic language so there are many more cognates. It always amuses me when I fret over having to learn a new word - like work - only to find out that it is 'Werk'. It is also 'Arbeit', but 'Werk' will do just fine, thank you. (All nouns are capitalized in German, by the way.)

My day usually begins at 9:30 in the language lab. There I go through exercises from the current chapter. Often I read a short writing or listen to a narrative or conversation then complete a multiple choice question and answer exercise. Sometimes I must write in the answers which means that my spelling has to be sharp. The German typewriter is much easier than the Russian since our alphabets are so similar. The 'y' and the 'z' keys, however are in each other's places so I often 'misspell' words with those letters in them. Then there are all those umlauted letters and the double ess - called the 'esstset'. Those take the place of hyphens, apostrophes and other needed symbols so I need to remember where all those are located. The lab is the time during which a teacher sits and listens to you speak and comments on your pronunciation. There are repetitive exercises which we read in which there are slight changes - the subject will change or the preposition or verb, for example. These are easy enough to read, but challenging to do without the text. They are set up as a statement or question and response. I always try to listen and, without using the text, respond before the time is up. I'm getting better at this.

On Mondays at 10:30 we have Morgenkaffee for about a half hour. This is a chance to eat good food and practice our language skills with the teachers and other students from all the different levels. Sometimes I'm in the mood for this and sometimes I'm not. It is a nice gentle kickstart into the week, I must admit. All the students and teachers are in a good mood and patient with one anther. It's a good place to practice news of the weekend before sharing it in class in front of the teacher.

Usually class begins at 10:40. Our teacher always asks us for news - either of our weekend or, preferably, from the rest of the world. This is difficult as it always requires so much more vocabulary than what we have. It's okay to look up words ahead of time and speak from notes. The problem with this is, once the word has been uttered in class, the teachers tend to treat it as a learned word. Just this past Friday, my teacher kept telling me that I knew this word. I kept inisting that I did not. She said, last Thursday we used it. Last Thursday? Really? I took a vocabulary building workshop back when I was studying Russian. I don't remember the exact numbers, but I remember learning that in order to 'own' a word, one must be exposed to it and use it at least a couple dozen times. And she expects me to remember one from last Thursday. I love her faith in me. Wish I had it. Wish there was some basis for it.

We are often assigned presentations on a particular topic, sometimes we can choose our topic. This weekend I am to read a short writing about German artists and report on it. Sounds easy enough. The problems are: I don't discuss art that often in English so I'd rather not take early learning time working on art vocabulary. Also, this article is peppered with a form called 'simple past'. Simple past cannot be found in the dictionary unless one knows the original form of the verb. Sometimes this is accomplished by looking up the first few letters of the simple past form. Sometimes the vowel changes in the simple past form and it's impossible to figure it out. Pray for me. Pray for all us students. Anyway, these presentations are given in class the next day. We talk and the teacher scribbles notes and the rest of the students act like we understand each other. Actually, it's funny, we usually do understand each other. It's the teacher who is bewildered.

We break for lunch at 12:20. At 1:00 we have an hour of study hall. This was a punishment in my schools, but at the Institute it is great help. We have an hour's head start on homework and there is a teacher there to answer any questions. I love study hall. I do get uncomfortable, however, when I'm reviewing a presentation with one teacher who corrects something that another teacher gave me - a phrase or word choice, for instance. "A German would never say that!" They exclaim. I never reply, "Well, your coworker would."

At 2:10 we are back in class. About half the afternoon is spent reading material that is about four or five levels above our speaking level. I just trust that they have a reason for doing this to us. It's quite comical when it isn't purely frustrating. I read a paragraph and then I'm to say, in English (thank God) what it means. Usually in these writings, the only words I recognize are 'and' 'she' 'when' etc. The major nouns are nouns we haven't yet learned and the verbs are often in the simple past and thus are unrecognizable. The teachers say that you don't need to know every word to glean meaning. True. But, tell me, what you can glean from: ". . . where in Germany one a of over 4300 ALDI- . . .:" or ". . . and grey began the November day and . . . boring became the . . . the seashore from . . . clearer?" These examples came from our text. I left out the words I could not understand. My favorite part of reading (sometimes the most frustrating) is when I say "I don't know what 'Erfolgsgeheimnis' means." The teacher will reply, "What do you think it means?" (By the way, in German text quotation marks are slightly different. Example: „Is it a duck?“ That is one of my favorite responses when they ask me what I think it means.)

We get out of class at 4:05. 4:05, not 4:00. 4:05. Why? I don't know. I do know that our bus leave at 4:10 whether or not I'm on it. My new teacher likes to teach past quitting time. "Just one more paragraph." (A sentence takes me five minutes to translate.) I'm rude. I admit it. I'm zipping up my notebook and standing up, nodding as though I'm still paying attention and making my way to the door. The next bus leaves an hour later and I'm not going to sit around the Institute for an extra hour. No sir. My teacher takes this well. She is a good soul. I like her a lot.

The State Department employees, the diplomats, are supposed to put in two or three hours of homework time every night. That's a little much for me most nights, although sometimes I really get in to an assignment more than I expected and the time flies.

Every Thursday morning is Area Studies. This is usually a lecture relevant to the area whose language you are studying. Sometimes there is a field trip. A couple of months ago the German department went to the Goethe Institute. This week they will go to the German Embassy. I usually don't go to Area Studies. Typically the topic is not of interest to me - German banking systems, for example. So Thursday is a short day for me. I only have class from 1:00 - 3:00. Every other Wednesday is a short day for all students - 8:00 - 11:00. It is called Administrative Wednesday. This is a chance for the full time students to meet with their career development officer or take care of Visa, passport or medical needs.

Some students meet with a learning consultant. This is to be sure they are keeping up with the work and understanding everything. This is a good chance for the student to focus on a specific need. For the last two weeks I have been out of the class situation working one on one with a learning consultant. I'd like to think that this is due to my extraordinary abilities in speaking German, but I have the feelling it is because I did so poorly on the last oral evaluation. Not entirely my fault.

This has been quite good for me. My weakness is comprehension so I'm getting lots of practice. The hours are tailored to what I need and topics that I will actually discuss when I get to Germany. As I mentioned earlier, I don't want to spend time this early in my German studies to learn vocabulary I'll likely not use. This sometimes leaves me feeling shallow. One day (in class) the topic was the Cyprus banking crisis. Now, although I may discuss this with someone, I'm sure I will not head into a cafe in Munich looking for a new friend and strike up our first conversation with something like, "How 'bout the Cyprus banking crisis?" These last two weeks have been spent learning grammar and discussing my life story, writing, stories and dreams - topics I'll definitely use over there.

Doug once told me he was concerned that I may putting too much effort into these studies. Meaning that I can probably get by with English in Munich. I told him how self satisfying it is to study this hard, to really apply myself and see usable results. I think I mentioned this in my blog last year, but it bears repeating. Since I have been studying language, my memory is sharper. This may also have something to do with the fact that I don't have 40 piano students a week whose music and schedules I must remember. Maybe. It's a good side affect.

The End of the Story

Today is Easter in the Eastern Orthodox church. Years ago, sometime during Lent, I was asked to give the homily at our church. To the surprise of the congregants, I began with the story of The Three Little Bears. I did this because everyone knows this story and everyone knows how it ends.

After finishing with the telling of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, I moved on to stories in general. Another reason I chose The Three Bears is that I know of there are a few other versions that not everyone knows. For example, "Goldilocks" is an old woman of foul character who breaks into the bears' house and helps herself to their table of food and beds. When the bears return and find her, she winds up impaled on the church steeple as an apparent reminder to keep out of others' houses. I then related this story and stories in general to Easter

I posed some questions to the congregants. How did Mary feel during the days between our Good Friday and Easter morning? How did the disciples pass their time? Today as we reread the Easter story it's easy to  overlook those aspects. Three days, however, is a long time to overlook. It's particularly easy to overlook when one knows the outcome of the story. Saturday morning two thousand odd years ago, no one knew the outcome of this famous story.

If the old woman in the alternate Three Bears story knew she'd wind up impaled on the church steeple she would not have ever entered that house. If Mary or the disciples knew that Jesus would have life again, their worries would have been abated and their fears eased. But, and this is simple yet important, they didn't know.

Today, how many of us are jobless? Who among us is oppressed? Who has just lost love - either to death or due to a break up? Many of us in the thick of these problems will react to the stress with worry, advice seeking, maybe some irrational behavior or, hopefully, ideally, calmly and rationally. Think back to times when you had to react to such a life affecting situation. Remember that as you made your way through it, you didn't know how it would turn out. I think back to all the fears I had after I was raped. Would I have some infectious disease? Would I be able to find insurance? Would I be pregnant by this thing that raped me? Would I be capable of trust again? Could I trust my own decision making? Could I trust others? Could I ever trust the legal system that refused to prosecute the rapist? For  weeks my life was sheer fear. For a year it was full of worry. I wish I could go back to that 35 year old self and tell her that aside from the atrocity of being raped, I was and would remain to be fine and healthy.

Obviously we can't know the end to our stories. We can, however, sometimes write the next page or chapter. We can guide the tone of the dialogue. We can change the scene. We can tweak the setting.

Too often we don't live with enough energy. We drift along through life letting it take us where it will instead of keeping our alert heads up and finding a better way. It's ironic, really. We want life to be easy so we drift along through it. Yet when we find ourselves where we don't want to be, it can take more effort to get out of that place than avoiding it would have taken. We work hard. We spend so much time earning money. Can we will ourselves to spend time bettering our lives in non-financial ways?

There have been times after which I've come out of a difficult situation feeling like I had a second chance on life. Dramatic, I know, but true. I felt that when I realized that I was not pregnant after the rape and once again, later, when I learned that I was still disease free. Truly every day is a second or third chance on life. Let's find out what we're made of. Let's pick one aspect of our lives - behavior, method of thought, the company we keep, whatever - that we want to better and let's do one thing every day to better it.

Stories are written one word at a time as our lives are lived one moment at a time. But we must live them mindfully. We must live them deliberately. If we don't, there are plenty of others out there who have designs on our life, plenty of other forces at work lying in wait.

It's an overwhelming prospect, I know. And we must be patient. We must take pleasure in our efforts regardless of their outcome. This is difficult. Be it Fate or a coworker there is a lot working against us. We must take joy in the smallest amount of progress.

Will Someone Please Explain . . . ?

One of my favorite Bible scriptures refers to being in this world, but not of it. This is sort of a blending of John 17: 14-19 and Romans 12:2. I understand that principle. I really do. I live it daily. Here are just a few of the things that perplex me about the world in which I live.

Will someone please explain to me why this character on Castle, Captain Victoria Gates insists on being called “sir?” Does she think she is given more respect with a man’s title? Does she think being called “ma’am” is degrading, insulting or somehow lower? I know, it’s a TV show, but I wonder how many women in the corporate world or our armed services make this insistence. This bothers me as do women who act insisting on being called “actors” instead of actresses.* Again, I must ask, do they think it builds them up to be referred to identically as their male counterparts? This came about during the 1970’s, I think, when women were fighting hard to get equality. I don’t see how being called by a male title would give any equality any more than replacing our panties with a jock strap would. We have beautiful words in our language devoted to us like poetess, laundress, stewardess, actress, sculptress and manageress. I found a site that actually tells the writer to avoid using these words. Why? I truly want to know. I can only speak for myself, but I don’t want to be lumped in with the men. I’ve smelled them. I’ve seen them scratch and spit. I've heard them snort and grunt. Keep me in the women’s corner, thank you very much.

Another thing, why are people so obsessed with weather reports? I have finally quit watching local news channels because they show the weather every ten minutes for about three or four minutes a shot. Between that and the commercials, there is about eight minutes of actual news. I could toss traffic reports into the mix here. News flash: Every day M-F the roads are congested during rush hour.  Every day. Another news flash: It’s winter, it’s cold. This summer it will be hot. Now, I do understand giving us warnings for tornadoes and hurricanes. That’s news. It doesn't happen every day. They are dangerous. What is interesting to me, though, is how many people ignore evacuation orders to weather hurricanes and how many people wring their hands over which coat to wear. Look outside. Is the sky gray? Take your umbrella just in case. Do you really need someone to tell you this or do you just need reassurance? Trust yourself, please.

On the subject of weather, I don’t understand why, in Minnesota, for example, the postman or post lady or postess person or whoever will deliver your mail in the worst of blizzards – whiteout conditions even. But the next day if your walk is not shoveled: no mail for you. Don’t ask them to risk life and limb walking through day-old snow. I remember taking a walk in Minnesota the day after a particularly heavy snowfall. The places that were not shoveled were easy to walk over. Where the good citizens had shoveled, it was icy and slippery. Why do we have to protect each other from Mother Nature? Isn’t that the individual’s job? Next they’ll be insisting people in Phoenix provide cooler air and shade outside their homes to help prevent heat stroke.

Here’s another for you. Stores and plastic bags. I usually carry my own canvas bags with me when I shop so I don’t have to use plastic or paper bags from the store. You’d be surprised how many cashiers try to bag the groceries in plastic then stick the plastic sacks in my canvas bag! Many stores automatically double bag things just in case it tears. Why don’t they just buy stronger bags? They are paying twice as much either way aren’t they? There was a store near my house in St Paul that would give me a bag for each item I bought, sometimes each double bagged. No kidding. But the prize goes to the good folks in Uzbekistan (whose bags tear if you look at them too hard). I was buying some bread presses from a sidewalk vendor. I selected the few I wanted and was going for money as he was going for one of his cheap sacks. “No thank you” I said (in Russian) “I’ll just carry them.” Well, this started a long exchange. No, he insisted let me bag them. I held fast as he  tried to take them out of my hands, I’ll carry them. I could tell he thought he was being nice as he pulled harder. Holding more tightly, I assured him we were parked just several steps away, we don’t need a bag. (Douglas was with me.) This went on for a couple of minutes when Doug finally said to me (in English) “Just take the bag, Laura.” No. There was a principle at stake here. Finally, after more pleading from a weary Douglas, I told the man I would take a bag if he lowered his price. Get this: he lowered his price rather than save himself the few pennies in keeping his bag. Can anyone explain this?

Here’s one I’ve been guilty of. In our society we walk on the right. It keeps things from getting too chaotic. (Imagine if we drove on the left and walked on the right, how confused we’d be.) Why is it when people who are walking through a building and come to a left turn around a corner manage to walk on the left side therefore causing a head-on collision with whoever is coming around the corner on the proper side? I have finally taught myself to turn wide. This took some time. I remember saying to myself (still do sometimes) 'stay on the right, stay on the right', like a mantra. What amuses me now is the looks I get when I’m turning right on the proper side and am rammed by one turning on the wrong side as though I have deliberately thrown myself in their path. Repeat after me: 'stay to the right, stay to the right'.

Lastly (for now), why do television programs advertise during the program. All these images that pop in and out and move around during a program are so aggravating to me. (This was supposed to be a light hearted rambling from me, now I’m getting serious. Harrumph!) I've seen the program that I am watching advertised at the same time as its airing - during it! News programs are the worst offenders. They are reporting a story while running other stories below. I have an idea. Spend less time on the cursed weather and traffic and you’d have time to report rather than scroll the more important stories below. These stories often cover up pictures they are showing that relate to the story they are actually reporting! Is anyone paying attention? Who? Who can? I’m very close to swearing off TV because of all this. Looking at it psychologically, I am (and you are) being taught to ignore what is in our periphery; unless, of course, you want to watch the commercials during your chosen program. I’m trying to be funny. I’m trying to be light. Okay, what about this: Perhaps this is further evolution of humankind. Maybe we really haven’t been using our brains to their fullest capacity. Perhaps we are actually capable of taking in all that information simultaneously. Maybe I’m just weak minded.

*I was relieved to see on the Castle website that the actress, Penny Johnson, has the title “actress” under her name.

Dimes

My grandmother, Mrs. Osa Alexander, lived to the age of 102. She was amazing. She mothered three girls - my mother and her two sisters, both older. When my mother was five, Kenneth, my grandfather, died and Osa was left alone to fend for the girls. She was not gentle (she could still hug me until it hurt well into her 90's), but she was determined. She went to work before it was so broadly, socially acceptable. She saved enough money to provide for herself in her retirement and leave some to her daughters.

When I was a little girl living in Phoenix, occasionally she would come to visit. This was big, because, except for a road trip to Tennessee, I don't know if she ever left Kentucky. What I remember most vividly about her is that she always had Butter Rum Lifesavers in her pocketbook (she carried a pocketbook, not a purse) and she always had a dime to give us girls. Us girls. There's the Kentucky in my blood coming out in my writing. Us girls, by the way, is my sister and I. A dime could buy us a candy bar back then. It was always a dime that she gave us. Never two nickels, not a quarter between the two of us. A dime each.

After she died I decided to write about her. Well, sort of about her. What I wound up writing about is more of a composite of myself, my mother and what I knew of my grandmother. The setting is Kentucky around the time that my grandmother would have been growing up. The story roughly follows my Mamaw's in that the mother in the story, Mama, is widowed and left with three girls to raise. As I write and intersperse fact with fiction, what I find is that I can more understand with my grandmother and my mother. Writing another's perspective opens up all kinds of love and understanding that wasn't there before. The word therapeutic just ran through my mind, but it's so much more than that, so much deeper and all-encompassing. My attitude inside myself, as well as externally, has evolved so much that I see more of people than I was able to before. I can see what lies beneath their behavior even if I don't have firsthand knowledge of it. I can see what may soothe them even if they are strangers. I can defuse situations in which I used to be the match striking itself and igniting the dynamite. I don't just react as I used to, I consider the person I'm dealing with

Since my Mamaw died, I have found dimes lying about. I started finding dimes like people find pennies. But it's stranger than that. I finally started writing down where I found dimes and the circumstances because it's rather unbelievable.

For example, I went into a practice studio at St. Thomas University to practice piano. The piano bench was against the wall and there was a regular chair at the piano. I sat my things on the bench, moved the chair, moved my things to the chair then moved the bench to the piano and practiced. When I got up to leave, there was a dime centered on the bench right where I'd been sitting.

I got in Doug's car to drive somewhere. When I reached down to move the seat back I saw a a dime perfectly balanced on the narrow lever. Doug, by the way, doesn't keep change. He gives it to me or puts it in the ashtray of his car.

I was walking around the Renaissance Festival grounds the Monday morning after a weekend spent there. Something glinted in my periphery. With all the trash that lands on the grounds out there, I usually ignore things like this - especially at this distance. For some reason I walked over to it. It was a dime.

I was walking with a friend down a neighborhood street and we were talking. Suddenly I stopped. She asked me why I had stopped. I was looking just ahead of us. On the ground were five or six dimes scattered. Only dimes. She hadn't seen them. That was very dreamlike as I have had many recurring dreams of finding change lying about which I gather because others can't see it.

Usually finding the dimes was not so remarkable. It's the fact that I was finding dimes like I used to find pennies, often. I didn't find any dimes in Tashkent. I only found two coins the entire time I was in Tashkent. I remember this because coins are rarely used there.

My friend Julie doesn't like carrying change around with her. She is also a very generous person. When she has loose change after a transaction in a shop, she tosses it onto the sidewalk outside the shop " . . . so some kid can find it and get excited."

When I started writing the story of my Mamaw, I remember feeling her with me. I began to see the dimes as her encouraging me to continue writing. If I got too lazy, she'd drop one in my path.

The Greater Kudu

There is an antelope called a greater kudu. The males have curled, twisted horns protruding from their heads. They spar with other males by interlocking horns to see who has the strongest pull.

We, as humans, are supposed to be smarter than the other animals. I couldn't help but think of mankind when I heard about greater kudus. We constantly entangle ourselves with one another in battle. From brother and sister fights to lovers' quarrels to outright war, we lock ourselves together with our adversaries over and over. The main difference as I see it is that we realize what we're doing and we can decide against it.

The greater kudus will often lock horns and find themselves unable to disengage them. When this occurs they wind up starving to death or dying of dehydration. All for the love of a female.

We've all heard the term "butting heads" when two people go at an argument to the ridiculous. I, myself, have heard it often throughout my life - often aimed at me. Why do we love conflict so much? Let's start with the small stuff. (And, according to some, it's all small stuff.) Why do we have to have the last word? Why do we have to be first in the line of traffic? Why do we care so much about what someone else believes?

I can ask these questions with a lot of life experience behind them. In the heat of an argument something in me knows that if I have the last word I have 'won' the argument because they've run out of things to say. In my efforts to 'win' I have repeated my opinion until I'm sick of it. I have failed to realize that only truth wins. If there is more than one truth, there is more than one 'winner'. I'm learning to state my opinion once - maybe twice if I can intelligently reword it or I truly don't think the other person got it - and then, with all that's in me (and that's not a whole lot yet, folks) shut up. At most I may say, "Well, I've told you how I feel." If I indeed have the truth and I have put it out there, there is not a whole lot else I can do. It's up to the person hearing it to move next. I have to learn to rest in that. I also have to learn to walk away and replay what they've said just in case they are right.

I got more traffic tickets in Phoenix than I could afford, usually for speeding. I did not like being passed. I didn't like it when someone would pull in front of me without enough space to do it safely or without signaling. I shouldn't have liked it. I still don't. Those who do that are wrong and dangerous and should not be driving. With that said, let me share with you my brilliant reactions to their bad driving. I needed to teach them (someone needed to) why they shouldn't drive like that. So I'd hurry and do the same thing to them. There! Gotcha! The incredible thing is, I never got a ticket when driving stupidly like that. How and when I got ticketed is another blog. Actually, a better blog would be the tickets I managed to worm my way out of. Anyway, eventually my conscience started talking to me. I decided that I should not do that any more. Easy to think . . . So I had to replace it with something just like a chain smoker has to replace the cigarette with something if he's going to quit. So I thought it out. Let them be wrong, I'll be right. Kind of self-righteous, but also just plain right. Who cares which side of my car they drive on? Logical, I still like that one. But my favorite remains, "Fine. If you drive that poorly, I'd rather have you in my sights than come out of nowhere again and cause an accident." I faltered, however, in my efforts to be the better driver. I eventually started back into the habit of speeding past them to keep them behind me because, "If you're going to cause an accident - which, driving like that, you will - I don't want to get stuck in the back up." Ah, me.

The one place where I've made the best progress is not caring so much about what others believe. Truly it's not that I am uncaring, I just realize that it usually doesn't matter to me. It doesn't make any difference in my life. I try to learn from them. How do they come to that belief? How do they express it? How can I express my beliefs? How should I not express my beliefs?

We are all distressed about the amount of war in our world. I know that the layers of reasons for war go deeper than I understand. I believe, however, that, at the base is not only greed, but belief systems. Too many people believe that those who live or think differently should not exist. This offers me a chance to say what I think is the root of almost all the trouble in our world. Selfishness. Whether it be manifested in greed, intolerance, chemical dependency (which, I know, has other roots, too), rape or other brutish, barbaric behavior. When self-centered meets self-centered, they lock horns and pull. They try to pull the other one over to their side. They try to make the other one go where they think they should go.

Who wins when your horns are locked and you're thirsty and hungry?

I've had some uncomfortable confrontations with some friends over the years. Sometimes I have simply ignored the offense to keep the peace. Other times I've argued or tried good old-fashioned debate. Sometimes I've questioned whether or not to continue in the friendship if there is so much stressful disagreement in it. I haven't ended any of these friendships for many reasons. One of them is my realization that if I cannot get along with my neighbor how can I ever expect peace in the Middle East? I think I've posed this question before in another blog so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. I think it bears repeating.

Add a Little Sugar . . .

Note:  Anyone who actually understands the title to this blog is impressive. I'm tired, not feeling at all creative and need to post this now.

It's been particularly blustery in the D. C. area lately. I could look at that poetically - nature is sweeping out the old and blowing in the new. I could look at it more scientifically - sheesh, my cheeks hurt! The wonder of it is that I can and do look at it from different perspectives. I love that word. Perspective. I love it as much as I love the word practice.*

Perspective is what has saved me from my old, bad attitudes that still plague me on occasion. If you know someone with a bad attitude, instead of telling them that they need a good attitude (they probably already know that; they just won't admit it to you) help them find a different perspective. 

I'm going to share a story with you about problems I had with one of my teachers. First, a word in her favor:

She tried to teach us something that, if her students heeded her advice, will have forever helped us in all areas of life. She tried to keep us on track and in the moment. It never failed when we were called on and made any mistakes, we'd start to chastise ourselves. She warned against this for many reasons. Mainly it took the focus off what we were doing (or trying to do). Secondly, it set a bad habit of abandoning that for which what we were working so hard. Remember, practice makes permanent. Holding tightly to that which we want and keeping at bay all distractions is invaluable. Imagine what we would be capable of mentally if we could keep our focus that strongly amid all that the world throws in our way every day.

So, obviously, I learned from her and she was skilled. I also had difficulties with her. She didn't like to answer my questions. It had not always been that way. The first several classes, when I'd ask a question, she'd not only answer it, she'd say something like "What an interesting question" Then, she would evade them or dismissively tell me to not worry about it. Others could question her at length even redirect her when she wasn't addressing their exact issue. I was shut down. One day, it got so aggravating to me that I reacted poorly. I exclaimed, "Does it bother you that I want answers to my questions?" I did this during class. I apologized the next day. It got progressively worse, however. So I talked to myself. "I am here to learn. I am not here to be respected. I am here to learn." I decided, after that little pep talk, that I'd hold my questions until study hall where she would answer them or I'd ask another teacher on duty. 

I got perspective. I didn't abandon myself, however. I acknowledged that I was being disrespected. I also acknowledged that there was nothing I could do about that. She would behave the way she would behave and I would behave the way I would behave. I decided to behave the best I could while keeping in mind the purpose of my being in the class. 

I stopped myself from over-thinking the situation. "Why is she picking on me?" "Why does she answer his questions?" "Why can't she just give me a simple yes or no and move on?" Good questions all, maybe, but irrelevant. I was there to learn. Could I learn while saving my questions for a later time? Yes. Could I learn while put out with the teacher? Yes. Could I learn while pushing the issue during class, wasting the time of others and possibly getting myself kicked out? Not as easily, nope. Perspective.

She came up to me once outside of class and asked me if I was angry. I answered, yes. We talked and I told her everything. She denied everything and told me that I disrespected her. In other words, we got nowhere since she flat out denied her own behavior.  

In time, some students joined our class and I noticed that she was treating me better. One of the new students was struggling greatly and not keeping up on the material. I didn't know this student's life outside of class. Did he even study? I didn't know. He certainly seemed to put out effort during class. All I saw is what we all saw, someone to whom this subject matter did not come easily. Nothing stuck. Basic lessons learned early on seemed new every day. Everything confounded him. The teacher was not always patient with him. She'd say downright rude things to him, "Come on. Keep up." She'd laugh at him. It hurt to watch this go on and I wanted to say something, but it wasn't my battle to fight. So I watched it and squirmed for him. And I noticed something. Her whole tone changed when she was addressing him. He was an irritation and she let it be known. It was the same tone she used to use with me. I recognized it. Her voice got dull and tired sounding. She obviously felt put upon in having to deal with him. It seemed as though she had chosen a new victim.

But I don't think that was the case. Even then, in the thick of it, I never thought she did any of this deliberately. As per our conversation, I don't think she was aware of it. With me, I wondered if subconsciously she favored the male students over me. There was one strong-voiced man who would have her attention whenever he wanted it. He would question some things down to the minutest details and she would patiently answer him. One of my friends thought that she felt like she had something to prove by keeping one student down at a time. I didn't like what this teacher did, but I didn't think she had an agenda.

In the midst of all this I started noticing something completely unrelated. When I would watch people I would see them as their younger self. I saw the 10 year old in presidents, celebrities, my own husband, even strangers. I saw what they had made of themselves and wondered how proud - or ashamed - their parents were. I wondered what their 10 year old self would think if they could have seen their adult self at that age. I wondered how the life of that 10 year old affected the behavior of this adult. I don't know why I started noticing all this in so many people, so many strangers. Maybe I was catching glimpses of my 10 year old self so I simply saw that in others. I don't know. But I think it was what gave me the perspective I was able to have in that situation with my teacher. I recognized this grown person navigating her way through life, trying to figure out how to handle the unexpected on the spot. And sometimes she failed.

One of my favorite authors is Frank Delaney. I'm reading The Matchmaker of Kenmare. Twice in this book a character says that if we can tell our own life story as though it were a legend, it could be very healing. Glimpsing into my own past (the 10 year old me) and the memories of what I have risen out of and what I have risen to are, I believe, the beginnings of my telling my own story.

The wind just blew someone's torn Christmas tree sack onto our balcony. The wind is blowing trash everywhere. Trash we have either misplaced or trash that has gotten away from us. I don't want to live my life leaving trash behind. In the midst of experiences like this with my teacher, I remind myself that I want to write more and, with every experience, my writing skills grow. They grow with characterizations I may not have invented without having known certain people. They grow with my observing my own dealings with others and the failed and successful ways I handle them. I should be grateful. Perhaps my attitude isn't that positive yet, but I think I'm heading there.

*I have written about the word (and the concept) of practice before. One of my teachers at the YMCA used to warn us that practice makes permanent in regards to our posture and other habits. One of my yoga teachers reminded us to not watch those around us during class ("Is she more flexible than me?"), but to focus on our self. She taught us that we spend our lives practicing yoga. We don't one day say, "I can yoga!" It's a process as is most of life.