Work At Home

I almost logged into the school online grading system from my living room just now. Grades are due tomorrow afternoon and I was going to get a few of them done here at home because the internet connection here is seventy times faster than at school. (Yeah, I measured it. We are basically on dial-up at school.) I almost logged in, thinking it made sense. It was this close, but don't worry, I'm okay.

Teaching is my job. I like it. I liked it a lot more a while ago. I have had jobs teaching at Le Moyne and Onondaga Community College that I have absolutely loved. Those were more than jobs; they were work. I do a job for a boss so I can pay the bills, but I do work because it's all I want to do. I drive home from my job and then it's time for work which includes:

• helping to raise two daughters
• making a good home
• being in touch with friends and family
• writing, writing, and writing

I can't let my job interfere with any of that.

As a kid I watched Mom and Dad work together around the house. They cleaned, remodeled, raked the leaves, cut the lawn, painted, and did everything together to make a good home. I visited Dad working in his office, balancing checkbooks, writing bills, taking care of his business. Both of them taught me to get the work done. Do your work, then you can go play. Now I do my job so that I can dig into my work, the stuff I most want to do.

I almost messed that up. It was close. For a moment I forgot that the job is at school and home is for work, but I've got it now. It feels good to me, sitting here listening to music, working on a piece of writing, thinking of Mom and Dad hard at work on raising me.

Who's A Good Boy?

I'm in staff development today at school. The morning was about celebrating good things about school then placing kids in tiers of need (academic and behavioral). As such things go, it wasn't useless. This afternoon we attend training for active shootings.

It's sad that in the supposedly greatest nation we must prepare for school shootings because we can't get our heads out of our fat asses about guns. Maybe the red baseball hats act like barbs. Whatever. This is schooling in the United States.

Rather than fight this — I've foolishly fought the battle too many times — today I'm trying to breathe and keep to myself. This goes against my nature.

Leo Babauta wrote this week about training the mind as if it were a puppy. I'm not yet housebroken so it seems a reasonable approach. Begin small, focus on doing well, reward good behavior, don't punish, and keep at it. Today I've earned a coffee.

The real reward is getting a new job, but that's a big project. It's like training a guide dog compared with teaching a puppy to sit. Today I'm just learning to sit. It may lead to me guiding myself to some new adventure. I just need to keep asking this question: Who's a good boy? God, I hope it's me.

Possessing Harriet at Syracuse Stage

Went last night to Syracuse Stage to see the world premiere of Possessing Harriet. It's just good to attend the theater, to see actors working in person, and to be largely uninterrupted for almost two hours. My youngest daughter and I attended the show and it was good, had us talking afterward, and will have us still thinking about it today.

The show is described in this way:

In 1839, Harriet Powell, a young, mixed-race, enslaved woman slips away from a hotel in Syracuse, New York, and escapes from the Southerner who owns her. With the aid of a mysterious free black man named Thomas Leonard, Harriet finds temporary safe harbor in an attic room at the home of impassioned abolitionist Gerrit Smith. With the slave catchers in pursuit, Harriet spends the hours before her nighttime departure on the dangerous journey to Canada in the company of Smith’s young cousin Elizabeth Cady, an outspoken advocate for women’s equality. Confronted with new and difficult ideas about race, identity, and equality, and with confusion, fear, and desperation multiplying, Harriet is forced to the precipice of radical self-re-imagination and a reckoning with the heartrending cost of freedom.

It was a good show, but I hope it will change and grow as it is produced elsewhere. There was more speech making than I would have liked and I kept being reminded that I was watching a play. The medium made itself too apparent when I wished to be enmeshed in the story.

That said, I recommend the show as a reflection not just on our past but as a reminder of the discrimination based on race, gender, creed, and more that is as prevalent today. As was the case with abolitionism, these things are not discussed enough in our parlors because they are deemed impolite and impolitic. The show, without reaching, is commentary on our current situation and the disaster of our current leadership.

Possessing Harriet reminded me that believing something is wrong and doing something to make it right are very different things. It had me feeling some shame for not doing more.

Buddha Morning

“A thousand Buddhas populate this house. The Buddha of pepper. The Buddha of brooms. The chimney Buddha and the dustpan Buddha. While we are away the Buddha of bowties stands in front of the mirror and marvels at how handsome he can become. The landscape Buddha snips at the hedges with his scissors. The wildlife Buddha tends to the tranquility of birds. The Buddha of good tidings greets us upon our return and the Buddha of raincoats and galoshes assists us with our wraps. The Buddahs of yet unspecified destinies wait in the hallway. One will become the Buddha of smoothed over domestic squabbles. Another the Buddha of unrealized dreams. Each morning a thin, old Buddha rakes a pattern into the sand of the Zen garden. When he is finished he looks over his shoulder at me standing behind the picture window. He knows this should be enough to lead me to the end of the Great Path. If only I were ready. ”

— David Shumate, "Household Buddhas" in High Water Mark

This is about all I need in a poem. It may be pretty much all I need. It's like an incredibly well-tooled joke with a strong set-up complete with dustpan, bowties, and galoshes. Two thirds of the way through everything picks up pace just a touch and a thin, old Buddha materializes raking answers into the Zen garden. I look out and largely past, not yet able to see well. The joke leaves me smiling but also a little sad. It gets me to thinking.

I consider the thousand Buddhas in my own house. The Buddha of the ink bottle. The Buddha of the dictionary and calendar who does both jobs needing money to pay of his student loans. The Buddha of shaving admires his smooth skin continually touching his face with one hand gently, gently. Outside, the Buddha of dogs accepts the neighbor's untrained beast barking at every passerby and most cars, but looks strained from the lack of sleep. The Buddha of grey skies and rain holds the door open for the Buddha of first flurries. There is a Buddha of our porch lights who appears earlier every evening. The Buddha of desire sleeps in each of our beds with cold feet and sharp toenails. I would tell you about the Buddha of cats, but each cat is Buddha. We have no Zen garden to rake, but a young child Buddha sits at the kitchen table under the light holding a pencil in her hand. She writes a single word on a blank page. This is the whole story but I take it as a prompt and fill the rest of the page and two more with all my thinking. Though if you ask I can only just recall the word she wrote there and couldn't possibly pronounce it.