Airports
I'm feeling good in the moment. Airports will do that for me. So many people with so many stories. So many opportunities for plans to change at a moments notice. So much time to spend reading, writing, chatting, calling people, going for walks, observing from coffee shops.
The stout wrinkled woman comes up to me smiling. "Pasco?" she asked.
"Pasco?" I repeat stupidly.
"Washington?" she asks next.
"Washington?" I say, feeling like a parrot.
"Va a llegar Pasco..." is all I catch as she says something to herself, thinking over how to translate it to English. (I've done this myself many times, the opposite way.)
"Yo no se," I offer. "Lo siento."
"Ah! Ok." She laughs in delight at my attempt to communicate with her in Spanish. We smile and go our separate ways.
I approach Gate 80 cautiously. My flight was supposed to leave from Gate 64 at 2:00. When I got to the airport, it had been moved to Gate 84 according to the Departure Boards, but Gate 84 wasn't publicizing that it was home to flight 6337 to Colorado Springs yet. When it finally claimed the flight, it was delayed by half an hour. Within half an hour, the flight was moved to Gate 80, hence my hesitation.
I hear one of the people sitting in the waiting area remark "...not leaving until 2:30 now." I approach them, "Is this the flight to Colorado Springs?"
They shrug their shoulders with a smile, "We hope so!" The gate has yet to own the flight, but I decide to sit down with this crew, because at least we're in this together now. I warned my mother, I should never fly United.
I was about 12 when the curse started. My dad was supposed to fly from the cabin to KC for a Goodman family reunion, and then drive my Blythe grandparents back to the cabin. My mom asked my sister and I to get my dad a paper to help his nerves while he flew. The front page had a story about a plane crash, a bad omen, but my mom said give im the paper anyway.
We hung out in Denver all day because Aunt Diane and Ryan were flying in later that day. We went back to the airport to pick them up, and my mom called the Blythe grandparents from a pay phone, who were grateful to hear from us! They had been hoping we would call, and told us not to leave the airport, that my dad was still at the gate, where he'd been for hours, and his plane was going nowhere.
Since then flying United for me has resulted in lost luggage, delayed flights, and any mix-up you can have in an airport. I still shudder when I think about trying to get myself and all my baggage to the Sierra Nevadas.
An agent appears at our gate. "Where'd she go?" he asks us, inquiring about the last agent who has left. We smile blankly.
"She went to find us a plane!" someone jokes.
"So she just left you all here, all alone," he shakes his head and smiles.
People have their smart phones out, checking statuses. The plane has left its last location one mom informs us all, so its running behind but still moving along.
"You all could have driven to Colorado Springs by now," our agent points out to the mom.
"I think about that all the time while I'm in Denver," she replies, still with a smile on her face.
For however temporary, it is refreshing to be in a group of people that so easily bonded together to share this travel experience, with smiles on their faces and light laughs when we're supposed to be boarding and there's no plane in sight. I can't remember being surrounded by such a stress free group of travelers before.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Smile
"Spare change."
I pause, turn and look at the person sitting on the sidewalk, "Sorry, not today."
My friend Nick once made fun of me for saying this, ("Not today? You gonna come back tomorrow?") but I really mean it. Today I am a volunteer, living on a stipend that doesn't cover rent. Tomorrow I could have a full time job, with a salary and benefits, and that will be a different conversation about the change in my pocket and whether or not I really need it.
In this situation, I usually hear several times a week, "You have a beautiful smile." Usually from the men. Many people tell me that is creepy, but I think this is one of the nicest compliments to hear from someone you don't know very well. I don't feel it's objectifying, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, and although it's a comment on a physical feature, I don't think it really is. I think people tell me I have a beautiful smile because they see genuine happiness behind it.
I try to soften my face toward the world and give the same smile to my bus seatmate as I do the woman in the elevator at the doctor's office, Wings at Starlife Cafe making me lunch, the beggar or vendor or busker on the sidewalk, the cashier at the grocery store. I think opening an interaction with a stranger with a smile shows the other person that I am happy to be sharing a moment with them, that I am excited about the possibilities in the world, that I am a friendly, optimistic, hopeful, happy person.
No one has told me I have a nice smile this week. Polly was a reference for a job application of mine recently, and she told me she was a big advocate for me to get the job, because I'm an authentic person with everyone I meet, no matter how different we are. I haven't been feeling as authentic this week, which is probably why no one is raving about my beautiful smile. I still have the moments with strangers I've started writing about each day, but I think the people I interact with can tell I'm struggling. I'm being pulled inward by my thoughts, I'm engaging but only on a surface level. I'm consumed by my own feelings and less open to creating a relationship with everyone I meet.
A student cancelled our appointment this morning. I called to reschedule. The student, Maurice (or Marty) started to ask some questions about where he should go to school, UW, or community college? I gave him the standard answer that I've learned, community college is cheaper, the classes are smaller, the teachers are there to teach, some at UW are there for research first. He started to say more: he was an African-American male so he could get some diversity scholarships, he was interested in playing football. I tried to cut him off politely, and let him know this was Polly's area of expertise. I scheduled an appointment for him and Polly to meet, because she does the career and academic counseling, I'm just the tutor.
He was persistant though, and kept me on the line. He wanted to be a teacher, he said. If he got grants in Washington, did he have to teach in Washington, or could he go back to Georgia, where he really wanted to teach? He finally had me listening. "I went to school to be a teacher too," I said. "Have you heard of the TEACH Grants? You'll have to teach in the state of Washington for four years, but then you can go teach wherever you want. And you have to teach in a high needs school, at risk students, special ed, something along those lines."
"That's what I really want to do," said Maurice. He explained that what he cared about most was going home to Georgia to teach in some of the neighborhoods that he knew needed the most help, connecting with the at risk, the under-served, the troubled youth.
"What do you want to teach?" I asked.
"Math," he said. "My passion is music, but so many schools are cutting Fine Arts programs, I know I won't get a job if I get a music degree and try to work in the schools." He went on to talk about how he decided math was the next best thing, because of how connected music and math were. Music has patterns in it, math is about patterns. Music has rhythm and measures, math is about counting and multiplying.
I interrupted him to talk about integrative learning, and how he was inspiring me. I told him I also taught math, and one thing I'd learned is that most students fear math, usually because of one awful teacher that made them feel that they were bad at math, when really the student had been failed by the public education system. I was growing excited listening to Marty describe what sounded like an integrative approach to math education, using music to teach students math.
"I'm just getting started," Marty laughed, amused by my enthusiasm. He recommended we sit down sometime so I can hear his whole story. That should happen this Friday and I can't wait.
He started to say it was more specific than music, he wanted to teach students math using a drumline. The counting, the rhythms, the discipline needed on a drumline would translate impeccably well with math.
I had to end the conversation, because I had to meet with another student. Going through a funk isn't usually solved in one moment, or even through one night. I think it can be solved with a thousand moments like this. I was trying to stay on the surface, to close myself off. I was trying to schedule this student with Polly and get off the phone because I felt tired, drained, hopeless, defeated, overworked, and hectic. Instead Marty pushed me to listen to him, really listen, and that moment made me take a breath and remember that I have a beautiful smile to share with the world, and it is most genuine when I take the time to connect with someone the way Marty challenged me to connect.
I pause, turn and look at the person sitting on the sidewalk, "Sorry, not today."
My friend Nick once made fun of me for saying this, ("Not today? You gonna come back tomorrow?") but I really mean it. Today I am a volunteer, living on a stipend that doesn't cover rent. Tomorrow I could have a full time job, with a salary and benefits, and that will be a different conversation about the change in my pocket and whether or not I really need it.
In this situation, I usually hear several times a week, "You have a beautiful smile." Usually from the men. Many people tell me that is creepy, but I think this is one of the nicest compliments to hear from someone you don't know very well. I don't feel it's objectifying, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, and although it's a comment on a physical feature, I don't think it really is. I think people tell me I have a beautiful smile because they see genuine happiness behind it.
I try to soften my face toward the world and give the same smile to my bus seatmate as I do the woman in the elevator at the doctor's office, Wings at Starlife Cafe making me lunch, the beggar or vendor or busker on the sidewalk, the cashier at the grocery store. I think opening an interaction with a stranger with a smile shows the other person that I am happy to be sharing a moment with them, that I am excited about the possibilities in the world, that I am a friendly, optimistic, hopeful, happy person.
No one has told me I have a nice smile this week. Polly was a reference for a job application of mine recently, and she told me she was a big advocate for me to get the job, because I'm an authentic person with everyone I meet, no matter how different we are. I haven't been feeling as authentic this week, which is probably why no one is raving about my beautiful smile. I still have the moments with strangers I've started writing about each day, but I think the people I interact with can tell I'm struggling. I'm being pulled inward by my thoughts, I'm engaging but only on a surface level. I'm consumed by my own feelings and less open to creating a relationship with everyone I meet.
A student cancelled our appointment this morning. I called to reschedule. The student, Maurice (or Marty) started to ask some questions about where he should go to school, UW, or community college? I gave him the standard answer that I've learned, community college is cheaper, the classes are smaller, the teachers are there to teach, some at UW are there for research first. He started to say more: he was an African-American male so he could get some diversity scholarships, he was interested in playing football. I tried to cut him off politely, and let him know this was Polly's area of expertise. I scheduled an appointment for him and Polly to meet, because she does the career and academic counseling, I'm just the tutor.
He was persistant though, and kept me on the line. He wanted to be a teacher, he said. If he got grants in Washington, did he have to teach in Washington, or could he go back to Georgia, where he really wanted to teach? He finally had me listening. "I went to school to be a teacher too," I said. "Have you heard of the TEACH Grants? You'll have to teach in the state of Washington for four years, but then you can go teach wherever you want. And you have to teach in a high needs school, at risk students, special ed, something along those lines."
"That's what I really want to do," said Maurice. He explained that what he cared about most was going home to Georgia to teach in some of the neighborhoods that he knew needed the most help, connecting with the at risk, the under-served, the troubled youth.
"What do you want to teach?" I asked.
"Math," he said. "My passion is music, but so many schools are cutting Fine Arts programs, I know I won't get a job if I get a music degree and try to work in the schools." He went on to talk about how he decided math was the next best thing, because of how connected music and math were. Music has patterns in it, math is about patterns. Music has rhythm and measures, math is about counting and multiplying.
I interrupted him to talk about integrative learning, and how he was inspiring me. I told him I also taught math, and one thing I'd learned is that most students fear math, usually because of one awful teacher that made them feel that they were bad at math, when really the student had been failed by the public education system. I was growing excited listening to Marty describe what sounded like an integrative approach to math education, using music to teach students math.
"I'm just getting started," Marty laughed, amused by my enthusiasm. He recommended we sit down sometime so I can hear his whole story. That should happen this Friday and I can't wait.
He started to say it was more specific than music, he wanted to teach students math using a drumline. The counting, the rhythms, the discipline needed on a drumline would translate impeccably well with math.
I had to end the conversation, because I had to meet with another student. Going through a funk isn't usually solved in one moment, or even through one night. I think it can be solved with a thousand moments like this. I was trying to stay on the surface, to close myself off. I was trying to schedule this student with Polly and get off the phone because I felt tired, drained, hopeless, defeated, overworked, and hectic. Instead Marty pushed me to listen to him, really listen, and that moment made me take a breath and remember that I have a beautiful smile to share with the world, and it is most genuine when I take the time to connect with someone the way Marty challenged me to connect.
A Morning Person's Observations #1
6/12/2012 - First naturalizing in Queen Anne
I heard them this morning, the chickadees! I'm glad they live on this side of Lake Union too.
As I sip my tea, I look between my feet and see a slug trail that went all over a plant by the back stoop, but the slug was nowhere to be seen. I hope to find it one day.
There is a gentle coolness in the air, temperature is the low 60s. It's dry, but feels fresh. There are partial clouds in the sky. Basically, Seattle before the Fourth of July. If I was in D.C. I would swear it was fall and not summer. My new sit spot is on the back step, below Raffaela's (upstairs roommate) porch, so it's shaded and tucked away in the forest of our backyard.
The chickadees make their namesake noise for me again. I can hear them and many others, but I can't see any of them yet. I'm the new kid on the block, and they're not sure if they're ok with me coming out to play.
6/13/2012 - Familiarizing with the neighbors
I was lucky enough to look between my feet, and see the slug this morning! Somehow it is the ugliest and cutest slug I've ever seen, all at once.
Some of the birds emerged this morning, just for a moment. I vainly assumed they had come to see me, that after two days I had become a consistent, reliable, and safe presence. Then I heard Raffaela by the side stairs to her flat. They had come over because they had been disrupted elsewhere. Still, once they saw me they seemed curious. They were probably a type of sparrow. What one of my college professors, Jay Roberts, would call LBJs (Little Brown Jabbers). Their brown feathers were a dark, rich brown. The tail feathers were long and royal looking.
I notice some of the flora characters this morning. A few Bracken ferns, a Maple tree, Big Leaf I believe. A few other species I'll need to identify later. And the familiar morning glory with its beautiful white flowers, crawling all over the horsetail fern with a King Midas touch, choking the life out of anything it comes across.
In the coming weeks, my roommates and I all leave for two weeks, and we return to find Raffaela's bike under the outside stairs, covered in Morning Glory!
6/14/2012 - Nesting Ninja
One of the LBJs made an appearance today, third day in a row and it seemed willing to tolerate me. The bird looked like a wren to me. Tiny body with a long, elegant tail sticking straight up. A white headband cuts across the eyes, making me think of a ninja.
Ninja wren picked up some fluff that looked like dandelion bits. It shook them against the ground, dusting them with dirt. I still find it funny the way birds move, such twitchy little creatures. Ninja wren went to deposit its nest materials in a hole between the house and Raffaela's porch.
I notice today that one of the ferns is bracken, but the other one looks more like Spiney Wood Fern.
6/20/2012 - Naturalizing at Green Lake
I've been staying at Chris' all week, dog-sitting Denali while Chris and everyone are in the backcountry for staff training. We sat on the front steps this morning, Denali in front of me, just in case the couple across the street walking their toddler tried to attack me (he has some neurotic wolf guarding tendencies).
I've heard naturalists say don't try to do a sit spot with a dog. This advice makes sense, but I do also like the different dynamics you observe sitting outside with a dog. The flies were swarming because of a present Denali had dropped in the front yard yesterday that I hadn't cleaned up yet. The bees also swung by, particularly interested in the purple flowers Ally (Chris' roommate) had planted. They had giant pouches of pollen hanging off of either side of their abdomen!
E.J. found a dead honeybee once, with a honey bubble still attached to its leg. She put it in a tiny, clear box, in her car, and I could stare at that bee for hours and the bubble that still hasn't popped.
I try to make my morning sits only about observing, leave the stresses of the world for later, but I can't help but think about all the bees that are dying, and wonder what a world without honey, or pollinated flowers, would be like.
A robin perches on a telephone wire and sends out a call twice. The robin's ears must be better than mine, because after the second call, the robin flies over George's (the landlord who lives next door) house, presumably to find someone who had answered the call.
Denali and I are done sitting, so we head out on our walk. We see the rabbits he chased once when I let him off leash in a field before noticing them. That experience must not have left a lasting impression for the rabbits, or maybe they recognize that he's on a leash, but either way, they barely scooch away as he lunges for them and tries desperately to break my hold.
I head back to my house to get ready for work. As I sit on the corner of Dexter and Westlake waiting for the 30 to take me to the Seattle Center, the top grass and hay layer beside the bus bench starts throbbing, like a vampire digging through a grave (I watched an episode of Buffy last night), or a critter trying to break the surface (more likely). The bus comes before I can see what comes out of there.
I heard them this morning, the chickadees! I'm glad they live on this side of Lake Union too.
 |
| slug trail, look close! |
There is a gentle coolness in the air, temperature is the low 60s. It's dry, but feels fresh. There are partial clouds in the sky. Basically, Seattle before the Fourth of July. If I was in D.C. I would swear it was fall and not summer. My new sit spot is on the back step, below Raffaela's (upstairs roommate) porch, so it's shaded and tucked away in the forest of our backyard.
The chickadees make their namesake noise for me again. I can hear them and many others, but I can't see any of them yet. I'm the new kid on the block, and they're not sure if they're ok with me coming out to play.
6/13/2012 - Familiarizing with the neighbors
I was lucky enough to look between my feet, and see the slug this morning! Somehow it is the ugliest and cutest slug I've ever seen, all at once.
Some of the birds emerged this morning, just for a moment. I vainly assumed they had come to see me, that after two days I had become a consistent, reliable, and safe presence. Then I heard Raffaela by the side stairs to her flat. They had come over because they had been disrupted elsewhere. Still, once they saw me they seemed curious. They were probably a type of sparrow. What one of my college professors, Jay Roberts, would call LBJs (Little Brown Jabbers). Their brown feathers were a dark, rich brown. The tail feathers were long and royal looking.
I notice some of the flora characters this morning. A few Bracken ferns, a Maple tree, Big Leaf I believe. A few other species I'll need to identify later. And the familiar morning glory with its beautiful white flowers, crawling all over the horsetail fern with a King Midas touch, choking the life out of anything it comes across.
In the coming weeks, my roommates and I all leave for two weeks, and we return to find Raffaela's bike under the outside stairs, covered in Morning Glory!
6/14/2012 - Nesting Ninja
One of the LBJs made an appearance today, third day in a row and it seemed willing to tolerate me. The bird looked like a wren to me. Tiny body with a long, elegant tail sticking straight up. A white headband cuts across the eyes, making me think of a ninja.
 |
| Ninja wren nest |
I notice today that one of the ferns is bracken, but the other one looks more like Spiney Wood Fern.
6/20/2012 - Naturalizing at Green Lake
I've been staying at Chris' all week, dog-sitting Denali while Chris and everyone are in the backcountry for staff training. We sat on the front steps this morning, Denali in front of me, just in case the couple across the street walking their toddler tried to attack me (he has some neurotic wolf guarding tendencies).
I've heard naturalists say don't try to do a sit spot with a dog. This advice makes sense, but I do also like the different dynamics you observe sitting outside with a dog. The flies were swarming because of a present Denali had dropped in the front yard yesterday that I hadn't cleaned up yet. The bees also swung by, particularly interested in the purple flowers Ally (Chris' roommate) had planted. They had giant pouches of pollen hanging off of either side of their abdomen!
E.J. found a dead honeybee once, with a honey bubble still attached to its leg. She put it in a tiny, clear box, in her car, and I could stare at that bee for hours and the bubble that still hasn't popped.
I try to make my morning sits only about observing, leave the stresses of the world for later, but I can't help but think about all the bees that are dying, and wonder what a world without honey, or pollinated flowers, would be like.
A robin perches on a telephone wire and sends out a call twice. The robin's ears must be better than mine, because after the second call, the robin flies over George's (the landlord who lives next door) house, presumably to find someone who had answered the call.
Denali and I are done sitting, so we head out on our walk. We see the rabbits he chased once when I let him off leash in a field before noticing them. That experience must not have left a lasting impression for the rabbits, or maybe they recognize that he's on a leash, but either way, they barely scooch away as he lunges for them and tries desperately to break my hold.
I head back to my house to get ready for work. As I sit on the corner of Dexter and Westlake waiting for the 30 to take me to the Seattle Center, the top grass and hay layer beside the bus bench starts throbbing, like a vampire digging through a grave (I watched an episode of Buffy last night), or a critter trying to break the surface (more likely). The bus comes before I can see what comes out of there.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Moments with Strangers #1
6/10/2012 - Moving in
As I pulled into Ken's Market, the small neighborhood grocery store, for the first time, someone in an apron smiled big at me. "Zipcar!" he said. Later I found a Safeway around the corner that google maps didn't show on my search. Maybe it knew I was moving in, and needed a local moment to get me started.
I get home from the market and my neighbor across the street emerged from under his car. "I'm Wally." He welcomed me to the neighborhood and invited me to a 4th of July barbecue with his roommates, after knowing me for less than 5 minutes. This could be a special place.
6/15/2012 - Elevator Pitch
We were all waiting for the elevator. I got there first and pushed the up button. The woman with the cart got there next and jabbed at the (already lit up) up button several times, as if she felt with each jab the elevator would feel her urgency and hurry itself. The last woman arrived to witness the rest of the scene.
An elevator finally arrived, going down. The woman with the cart let out a big sigh. As soon as the door closed, she pushed the down button with as much vigor as she had pushed the up button. That's when the other observer and I made eye contact. The next elevator that came was also down, and empty this time. The woman with the cart got on and as soon as the doors closed behind her, the remaining two of us couldn't help but laugh.
"Someone was in a hurry!" she said as we boarded the elevator that had come to take us up. "That first elevator was going down too. Why didn't she get on it?"
"It's Friday," I offered. "We're all a little off."
"Ain't that the truth!" she said. "I've been here for four hours. I come four days a week and help an older woman with her dialysis. I'm ready to get out of here now, but I didn't want to go wherever she was heading!" I could understand that, since the very aura of that woman exuded stress.
"That's nice that you help someone with her dialysis," I said as we reached my floor.
As I got off the elevator, who had materialized but the same woman with a cart, now smiling broadly and asking, "Going down?" I stared in awe as I stepped out of the way of this magical transporting mail woman.
As I walked away, I could practically hear from the elevator the sound of my friend trying not to laugh.
As I pulled into Ken's Market, the small neighborhood grocery store, for the first time, someone in an apron smiled big at me. "Zipcar!" he said. Later I found a Safeway around the corner that google maps didn't show on my search. Maybe it knew I was moving in, and needed a local moment to get me started.
I get home from the market and my neighbor across the street emerged from under his car. "I'm Wally." He welcomed me to the neighborhood and invited me to a 4th of July barbecue with his roommates, after knowing me for less than 5 minutes. This could be a special place.
6/15/2012 - Elevator Pitch
We were all waiting for the elevator. I got there first and pushed the up button. The woman with the cart got there next and jabbed at the (already lit up) up button several times, as if she felt with each jab the elevator would feel her urgency and hurry itself. The last woman arrived to witness the rest of the scene.
An elevator finally arrived, going down. The woman with the cart let out a big sigh. As soon as the door closed, she pushed the down button with as much vigor as she had pushed the up button. That's when the other observer and I made eye contact. The next elevator that came was also down, and empty this time. The woman with the cart got on and as soon as the doors closed behind her, the remaining two of us couldn't help but laugh.
"Someone was in a hurry!" she said as we boarded the elevator that had come to take us up. "That first elevator was going down too. Why didn't she get on it?"
"It's Friday," I offered. "We're all a little off."
"Ain't that the truth!" she said. "I've been here for four hours. I come four days a week and help an older woman with her dialysis. I'm ready to get out of here now, but I didn't want to go wherever she was heading!" I could understand that, since the very aura of that woman exuded stress.
"That's nice that you help someone with her dialysis," I said as we reached my floor.
As I got off the elevator, who had materialized but the same woman with a cart, now smiling broadly and asking, "Going down?" I stared in awe as I stepped out of the way of this magical transporting mail woman.
As I walked away, I could practically hear from the elevator the sound of my friend trying not to laugh.
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