In Aleknagik, Alaska – “School’s Out for the Summer!” This popular marching band tune is my mantra today. It’s funnily familiar, how the anticipatory countdown to summer floats through time. Life seems ever-changing, but now and then, it can also carry a characteristic déjà vu. I feel light – free from a persistent paper-flow of lesson plans, homework packets, textbook assignments and classroom paraphernalia. As a student, the feeling was the exactly same, only then, I was delegated the role of learner instead of teacher.
This lightness is outwardly expressed with flamboyant giddiness. I wish to skip all day long, swinging arms high to the sky, and delighting in that ephemeral moment – at a jump’s apex – where I am in complete defiance of gravity. Today the summer simply appears to be an inexhaustible expanse of time; it’s as though it’ll never end, or, that it’s too far off to even fathom the arrival of fall, and the start of another school year.
There’s much to look forward to – an adventure to Anchorage, Alaska with a certain sweetie, time in Minnesota with family and friends, a possible service trip to Mississippi with my Daddio, a visit from that same sweetie at the end of July, a cycle tour with my custom-built Bike Friday from Montreal to Boston in early August, and hopefully, a hop across the Atlantic for a few weeks to meet up with mates in Europe.
Still, on the vanguard of all of this upcoming excitement, there’s much I’m already missing about the rhythm of a routine school day in Aleknagik. It’s somewhat strange for me – this whirlwind wanderer – to gravitate (even slightly) towards that which is habitual, in lieu of its antithesis. But, I find myself doing it, more and more during my 29th – and soon to be 30th year of life. It’s quite intriguing, actually, and I’m attempting to give my full attention to it, rather than resist – fecklessly fighting-against-the-flow.
I'm missing Thomas's dimpled smile and warm wave - "Hi, Miss Elise!" - from the jungle gym outside. Last week I spent two afternoons in the K,1,2 classroom, and on both days Thomas drew stick figures of Thomas Tinker III and Miss Elise; "Look, it's me and you!", he'd say. I'm also missing little Jamal, who's got the most marvelous shrugged shoulder saunter. He feigns to be shy with the bill of his hat pulled down over his eyes, but knows quite well actually, that he's got every onlooker's heart.
In the 3rd, 4th and 5th grade classroom, I'm missing those rare moments where we somehow gelled together - when we were on the same page, and I wasn't struggling to keep one on task while disciplining another, and simultaneously, sighting an additional challenge out of the corner of my eye while hearing a catastrophic tangle develop behind me.
With the 6th, 7th and 8th graders, I'm missing our jocular interplay between humor and education. We giggled, chuckled and even guffawed our way through class, and, still managed to establish a studious atmosphere - well, most of the time anyway. For the next two weeks I'll fling myself into the Dillingham school system to mitigate - or perhaps, add to - the pandemonium until they're able to sing "School's Out for the Summer!" It'll be a hoot, I'm sure. This is Elise, signing out from Ravensview, AK.
22 April 2010
Inexplicable
I don't quite know what it is – this inescapable compulsion to write. Somehow, it grabs a hold of me and won't let go until I put myself through a painstaking process to produce something. In earnest, I continually attempt to heed my Sussex professor, J.P. Rosenberg's good advice – to delight in the writing process, and to be proud of what comes out of it – but truth be told, the resultant reality doesn't necessarily measure up to this line of philosophy, or even run parallel to it. In all actuality, if I were to emotionally graph my moods throughout any of my compositional follies, rest-assured, it would jaggedly skyrocket and plummet in unpredictable and patternless scrawl.
Sometimes I wonder, do all writers wrestle with themselves like I do? Is it as difficult for them, as it is for me, to commit to a consistent discipline? Do they feel like they spend more time preparing to write, and then staying on task, than actively involved in the creative process? In her book, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, Minnesota author Brenda Ueland instructs, idleness is an intrinsic part of the creative process, and that it is inherently valuable. After all, she asks, how can someone write reflectively without taking time to reflect?
While listening to National Public Radio this morning, a gentleman's British accent caught my attention – not only because I'm naturally drawn toward the dulcet articulations of your average Brit (Birmingham's throaty nasal dialect may be an exception), but also, because I appreciated what he had to say about authorship. A writer's duty, he advises, is to pose – and not necessarily even attempt to answer – life's multitudinous questions within the context of a wider scope. Taking this into account, I might then suppose that a reader's duty, is to openly interact with an author's message, both through the unique scope of personal interpretation, and (hopefully), with an intent to broaden his or her own understanding of the world – its infinite spectrum of intricacies – in looking through the lens of another.
And so, as I sit myself down to read and write, this is what I seek to both accept and embrace – faithfully connecting as an ever-curious questioner, allowing time and space for creative idleness, and, open-mindfully engaging with wonderful words in front of and within me - which continually keep me wondering, and wandering. This is Elise, signing out with love from Dillingham, Alaska.
Sometimes I wonder, do all writers wrestle with themselves like I do? Is it as difficult for them, as it is for me, to commit to a consistent discipline? Do they feel like they spend more time preparing to write, and then staying on task, than actively involved in the creative process? In her book, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, Minnesota author Brenda Ueland instructs, idleness is an intrinsic part of the creative process, and that it is inherently valuable. After all, she asks, how can someone write reflectively without taking time to reflect?
While listening to National Public Radio this morning, a gentleman's British accent caught my attention – not only because I'm naturally drawn toward the dulcet articulations of your average Brit (Birmingham's throaty nasal dialect may be an exception), but also, because I appreciated what he had to say about authorship. A writer's duty, he advises, is to pose – and not necessarily even attempt to answer – life's multitudinous questions within the context of a wider scope. Taking this into account, I might then suppose that a reader's duty, is to openly interact with an author's message, both through the unique scope of personal interpretation, and (hopefully), with an intent to broaden his or her own understanding of the world – its infinite spectrum of intricacies – in looking through the lens of another.
And so, as I sit myself down to read and write, this is what I seek to both accept and embrace – faithfully connecting as an ever-curious questioner, allowing time and space for creative idleness, and, open-mindfully engaging with wonderful words in front of and within me - which continually keep me wondering, and wandering. This is Elise, signing out with love from Dillingham, Alaska.
07 April 2010
"Gribble"
I sometimes read books randomly – opening to a nondescript page, and plunking my curiosity down upon it. This is how I came to learn about “gribble” in a textbook on Crustaceans – which, altogether, outnumber the constituents within other classifications of animals. The author, Edward Ricciuti, explains that gribble (which is about the same size as a peewee ant) can really wreck havoc on waterfront development. It is lured to shorelines to feed off of plants and fungi growing on and within wooden constructs, which then compromises the stability of its structure. This is interesting information – especially for aquatic aficionados – and, what I find especially intriguing, is that gribble proliferates in clean waters; in other words, pollution is a deterrent for this puny pest.
So this presents a compelling topic for discussion, where environmentalists, marine biologists and developers may be more likely to be tossed around in a conundrum than to all agree on a unified answer. What do we do with what we know about gribble? And on a larger philosophical scale, what do we do with what we know about anything? What are the individual and collective roles we expectantly and unexpectedly play in every day life?
This whole scenario yields a certain sentiment of déjà vu – of something we’ve experienced time and again in its innumerable forms, but perhaps, haven’t always recognized the connecting links. It is yet another illustration of life interaction – of cause and effect, but mixed in with a lot more complexity than I may be able to entirely grasp. How do we determine what is “right”, and, what is “wrong”? I mean, how exactly do we do this given the fact that our knowledge set may only be a fraction of the whole? Are we even meant to be determiners of “right” and “wrong”? Hypothetically, what if we aren’t?
I wonder what this would look like? If instead of instantaneously formulating opinions – categorically criticizing or extolling, stereotyping or drawing conclusions about someone or something – what would happen if we paused to take stock of a situation? What might we experience if we became more conscious, more aware of what is going on in our heads and hearts?
Internal processing is something I find myself doing more and more often. I seem to be always asking myself the question “Why? What? How?” Why am I feeling or responding this way? Why do I yearn for this or wish for that? What possibilities exist outside myself? How can I better understand life from another’s perspective? Becoming active inquirers in life not only allows us to better understand ourselves, and our relationship to the world, it also enables us to step outside of our own framework and into another. It enriches and diversifies living – strengthening our unique spirits and cultivating compassion for all life. So thank you, dearest Mum, for always telling me to live out my questions. This is Elise, signing out from Dillingham, Alaska.
So this presents a compelling topic for discussion, where environmentalists, marine biologists and developers may be more likely to be tossed around in a conundrum than to all agree on a unified answer. What do we do with what we know about gribble? And on a larger philosophical scale, what do we do with what we know about anything? What are the individual and collective roles we expectantly and unexpectedly play in every day life?
This whole scenario yields a certain sentiment of déjà vu – of something we’ve experienced time and again in its innumerable forms, but perhaps, haven’t always recognized the connecting links. It is yet another illustration of life interaction – of cause and effect, but mixed in with a lot more complexity than I may be able to entirely grasp. How do we determine what is “right”, and, what is “wrong”? I mean, how exactly do we do this given the fact that our knowledge set may only be a fraction of the whole? Are we even meant to be determiners of “right” and “wrong”? Hypothetically, what if we aren’t?
I wonder what this would look like? If instead of instantaneously formulating opinions – categorically criticizing or extolling, stereotyping or drawing conclusions about someone or something – what would happen if we paused to take stock of a situation? What might we experience if we became more conscious, more aware of what is going on in our heads and hearts?
Internal processing is something I find myself doing more and more often. I seem to be always asking myself the question “Why? What? How?” Why am I feeling or responding this way? Why do I yearn for this or wish for that? What possibilities exist outside myself? How can I better understand life from another’s perspective? Becoming active inquirers in life not only allows us to better understand ourselves, and our relationship to the world, it also enables us to step outside of our own framework and into another. It enriches and diversifies living – strengthening our unique spirits and cultivating compassion for all life. So thank you, dearest Mum, for always telling me to live out my questions. This is Elise, signing out from Dillingham, Alaska.
06 April 2010
21 March 2010
Sometimes the cold can catch you before you even step outside. It's this characteristic dryness that finds me first – off-guard, of course. In seconds, my fingers seem to chap and crack around the nail, static electricity takes a hold of my hair, and I cannot seem to re-apply Burt's Bees chapstick quite often enough. I lick my lips in sweet surrender, remembering an eccentric that I met at Bamboo restaurant in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, who is going to market her line of natural products as "Better than Burt's". “What a statement!”, I thought to myself for a second time.
The above is an excerpt of what I recall from an internal monologue on Anchorage's runway aboard Alaskan Airlines flight 83 from Seattle. Or, at least that's where I think I'd just come from; it's easy to lose track of time and locations of airports when one is merely (and in my case, often mindlessly) stepping off one plane only to get on to another. I think it's amazing that I've never missed a flight, actually. In the last few weeks I've made abbreviated visits to Managua, Miami, Chicago, Seattle, Honolulu, Kahului, Anchorage and Dillingham's airports, and after much travel to and fro and back again, in earnest I can say I'm so grateful to ground and to root into a routine for awhile. Perhaps this “seeking to settle” sentiment will pass and wanderlust will whisk me away once again, or, maybe not. I said this recently to my good friend, Bing, who instantly shot back with “Elise, you can't stop traveling! I live vicariously through you.”
But anyway, continuing on with more “plane” banter, my first twenty-four hours on the ground in Alaska were also a touch turbulent. Our PenAir flight arrived in gusty Dillingham with flurries flying all around us. I had only a light jacket suitable for ~50ºF weather, and I'm quite sure the thermometer read somewhere below zero. Or at least it felt this way – having spent the previous ten days in Maui, and the two months before that in Nicaragua, I'm certain my barometer was most likely a bit tropically biased. Automobile trouble complicated matters, and a grim forecast forced me to RON – remain over night – in Aleknagik so that I could be sure to make it to school on-time the following morning. At Ravensview my suitcases sprang open, and in haste I randomly grabbed wrinkled wintry garments that seemed to be clean, leaving a messy heap of odds and ends to be dealt with at a later date. I jumped in a Mazda truck to the landing, and gratefully caught a ride with Mr. Ambrosier – our school principal – on his “snowmachine” across the lake. Here in Alaska, snowmobiles are “snowmachines”, and boats are called “skiffs”.
Now finally – two weeks later – I feel as though I've re-established firm footing, and I keep having these “Oh my goodness I'm in Alaska!” gratitude moments. Everything about life here is unique; I drive a snowmachine to school in the morning, and in my classroom I have three adorable and audacious kindergarten kids – Ayden, Jacob and Thomas. I'm also teaching yoga adjunct through the University of Alaska – Bristol Bay campus. My students range from 22 to 70 – and are such an dynamic, enthusiastic and open-minded group. Our numbers continue to swell well over the class limit, and still, I continue to let more in! I figure, why not? After all, it's in the spirit of yoga and we definitely have enough floor space. This is Elise, signing out with love from Dillingham, Alaska.
The above is an excerpt of what I recall from an internal monologue on Anchorage's runway aboard Alaskan Airlines flight 83 from Seattle. Or, at least that's where I think I'd just come from; it's easy to lose track of time and locations of airports when one is merely (and in my case, often mindlessly) stepping off one plane only to get on to another. I think it's amazing that I've never missed a flight, actually. In the last few weeks I've made abbreviated visits to Managua, Miami, Chicago, Seattle, Honolulu, Kahului, Anchorage and Dillingham's airports, and after much travel to and fro and back again, in earnest I can say I'm so grateful to ground and to root into a routine for awhile. Perhaps this “seeking to settle” sentiment will pass and wanderlust will whisk me away once again, or, maybe not. I said this recently to my good friend, Bing, who instantly shot back with “Elise, you can't stop traveling! I live vicariously through you.”
But anyway, continuing on with more “plane” banter, my first twenty-four hours on the ground in Alaska were also a touch turbulent. Our PenAir flight arrived in gusty Dillingham with flurries flying all around us. I had only a light jacket suitable for ~50ºF weather, and I'm quite sure the thermometer read somewhere below zero. Or at least it felt this way – having spent the previous ten days in Maui, and the two months before that in Nicaragua, I'm certain my barometer was most likely a bit tropically biased. Automobile trouble complicated matters, and a grim forecast forced me to RON – remain over night – in Aleknagik so that I could be sure to make it to school on-time the following morning. At Ravensview my suitcases sprang open, and in haste I randomly grabbed wrinkled wintry garments that seemed to be clean, leaving a messy heap of odds and ends to be dealt with at a later date. I jumped in a Mazda truck to the landing, and gratefully caught a ride with Mr. Ambrosier – our school principal – on his “snowmachine” across the lake. Here in Alaska, snowmobiles are “snowmachines”, and boats are called “skiffs”.
Now finally – two weeks later – I feel as though I've re-established firm footing, and I keep having these “Oh my goodness I'm in Alaska!” gratitude moments. Everything about life here is unique; I drive a snowmachine to school in the morning, and in my classroom I have three adorable and audacious kindergarten kids – Ayden, Jacob and Thomas. I'm also teaching yoga adjunct through the University of Alaska – Bristol Bay campus. My students range from 22 to 70 – and are such an dynamic, enthusiastic and open-minded group. Our numbers continue to swell well over the class limit, and still, I continue to let more in! I figure, why not? After all, it's in the spirit of yoga and we definitely have enough floor space. This is Elise, signing out with love from Dillingham, Alaska.
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