Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

Tag: SOL24

  • One Of My Favorites

    S has been extra affectionate these last few weeks of school, and even more so in these final days.

    “I can’t believe I’m graduating,” she says, sidling up next to me and laying her head on my shoulder.

    “You mean, ‘I can’t believe I graduated,’” I reply, reminding her through verb conjugation that graduation was last Friday.

    “Ms. Amy, stop!” She whines, lifting her head. Then she lays it back down. “I’m really going to miss you.”

    “I’m going to miss you too, S!” I say, giving her a squeeze.

    S always asks if she’s my favorite, and I always tell her I don’t have any favorites, but the truth is, I do, and she is definitely one of them.

    I never have just one favorite student though. Each week or so, I go through a phase of being absolutely obsessed with one of them. It usually aligns with the relationship getting stronger, with the student feeling more at ease with me, and thus me with them.

    S has been on that list for a while now though. Her dad reminds me of an uncle or family friend, and their closeness reminds me of my own with my dad. She’s bright, has a truly hilarious sense of humor, and in the last few months has been spouting wise sayings at random moments.

    For example, during the week we had sex ed, one of the days we learned about the layers of the pre-teen/early adolescent “relationship cake”: friendship, emotional connectedness, nonsexual physical intimacy, and shared meaning. When asked why these layers mattered, S replied: “Because you need to get to know someone really well before you decide to get in a relationship with them. Otherwise you have to find all that out later, and what if it doesn’t align? What if they’re toxic? Know your self worth, then your boundaries! You can’t give your heart to someone without knowing if they’re going to break it!”

    All of us stared. Was this an 11-year-old or a 40-year-old?

    “PREACH, S!” Kim and I chanted.

    Last week, she recorded a video manifesting my future in 10 years. It involved she and I reconnecting because I was writing books and she was reading them. I hope there’s some truth in that future she imagined for me, because it seems pretty damn lovely!

    Tomorrow’s our last day with them, and even though my head is pounding, my voice is fading, and I’m just barely able to open my eyes in the morning, I know the truth is that I am going to miss them.

    I’m certainly going to miss S.

  • Day 31: Taps

    It’s Saturday evening and I’m watching the sun set behind the buildings across from mine. I was thinking about what to write for my last slice of the Slice of Life Story Challenge 2024, feeling both a sense of accomplishment/relief (one less item on the daily to-do list!) and also sadness, as slicing has become an activity that I have found so rejuvenating this month.

    Last night, Ana and I were sharing with Gi how fun this challenge has been for us. I think particularly about how much more I enjoyed it this year, how I built a stronger sense of community with fellow slicers, how I found blogs that I subscribed to and thoroughly enjoyed reading, and how I felt an inspiration for writing that I haven’t felt in a long time (“big magic,” Liz Gilbert might say).

    “You should definitely do it with us next year,” Ana encouraged Gi. “It’s so freaking fun.”

    As I look out the window, watching the sky change colors, I find myself thinking of the song we used to sing at camp at the end of each evening, Taps:

    Day is done. Gone the sun. From the hills, from the lakes, from the skies. All is well. Safely rest. God is nigh.

    We would play around with harmonies each time, my friends Alice and Claire and I especially. Then off to our cabins to wash up and get ready for bed, have cabin chat, and go to sleep. Every evening ended the same way, and there was a sense of peace knowing that the next morning, after waking up at 7:30, after the day passed with its activities and meals, we’d end it again with some goodnight circle songs, and always, Taps.

    Last year, on the 31st day of the challenge, I reflected on who I was as a writer. I considered blogging more often, writing for the very small audience I’d built, but never managed to do it. I think I wrote one post between then and now. Perhaps it was the focus of my blog that kept me from it (teacher-facing solely), or my imposter syndrome, or the who-cares-what-I’ve-got-to-say, or any of the various life-gets-in-the-way excuses.

    This year, I pushed past the discomfort and just wrote. I learned that a simple post about banana bread can remind someone else of their own recipe, have them grabbing the ingredients from their pantry and baking for the loved ones in their lives. I saw how my friends who followed along enjoyed the stories I told, how they were “insiders” knowing the characters I wrote about. This year, I really felt — feel — like a writer again, in a way I haven’t in years.

    And then magically, serendipitously, the evening that Ana wrote her slice about whether or not she’d go to Ralph Fletcher’s Quoddy Writing Retreat for teachers this summer, I received an email from him letting me know a spot had opened up and was I still interested?

    HECK! YES!

    So, a promise to myself: to keep at it. A weekly slice. Because there is comfort in writing regularly, like the comfort of singing Taps on a summer evening in the Berkshires.

    Thanks, fellow slicers, thanks, Two Writing Teachers, for hosting, thanks to my readers who encourage me, and thanks to my writing partner (she knows who she is).

  • Day 30: My Handyman

    I think the plunger is too big, I text. It isn’t sealing and keeps flipping on itself.

    No just keep trying it, my dad replies.

    I send a photo.

    That is what they do.

    That airpocket that forms is what pushes the shit thru.

    I am standing in my bathroom in my underwear. It’s 9:35 am. I have a dull headache from the margaritas last night at Ana’s.

    I originally thought about slicing something from the evening: we talked about everything from work woes to motherhood, Gianna and I with our mouths gaping open as Lizzie and Ana shared the hardships and joys that come with birthing and caring for a baby.

    But when I got home at midnight, the toilet bowl water was very low and it wasn’t flushing fully. Weird. I was hopeful it would go away and magically fix itself by the morning, but when I got up at 7 after some wild dreams (which I also thought about for slicing), it still wasn’t flushing. The toilet in my apartment is a button-flush, so all my previous toilet clogging knowledge was off the table. I also didn’t have a plunger.

    So I did what I always do when I need help with anything home repair-related or tech-related: I texted my dad. Let me know when you’re awake.

    I proceeded to do the NYT word games and watched a YouTube video about replacing the flusher mechanism inside the tank. Ugh, I thought. I don’t want to do that.

    Luckily, my dad called. We FaceTimed and he gave me some instructions: get a plunger, get a bucket, fill the bowl with water, watch what happens, plunge-plunge-plunge until it goes whoosh. It will likely make a mess. If it doesn’t clear out, then call a plumber. On Easter weekend.

    I am lucky that my building has amenities. (Unlucky that they have no super or maintenance person.) I stopped at the pool floor on my way out to use the restrooms, then walked to Ace Hardware, picked up a basic plunger and a bucket, and turned back toward home.

    Good luck, my dad texted after I sent him a photo of me walking with my newly acquired items.

    I got home, cleared the floor of the bath mats and took my robe off its hook. I stripped to my underwear and filled the bucket, armed with the plunger. Let’s do this.

    But nothing was happening. That’s when I texted my dad again.

    Might take several tries until you get it just right.

    Okay, I replied. Second bucket.

    This time, I felt something as I plunged, plunged, plunged. The air pocket he’d mentioned. I filled the bowl again, kept plunging, noticed that the toilet paper that had started there was all gone and heard a slight whoosh noise. I took my chance and flushed.

    SUCCESS! I texted.

    Mazel tov.

    Wish I had a dollar for every time I have had to do it. Now you know. Knowledge is power.

    It sure is.

    Just like when I changed my lightbulbs by standing my step ladder on my coffee table, or when I fixed the curtain chain, or when I put a new sliding door handle on the balcony door, I felt accomplished. And grateful, once again, for the generous, helpful handyman of a father that I have.

  • Día 29: Conversaciones oídas sin querer

    “No sé cómo arreglarlo,” el hombre mayor dice, exasperado. No tiene mucho pelo, pero lo que tiene es blanco-gris, y lleva un bigote. El hombre frente él tiene mi edad, pienso, con pelo rubio y un bigote.

    Tomo otro trago de mi agua de coco, y trato de concentrar mis ojos en mi libro. Pero sigo escuchando sin querer. Están teniendo esta conversación en un café público, después de todo.

    “Tengo 60 años y cuando me hieres los sentimientos, es difícil decirte que me los estás hiriendo.”

    La conversación cambia dirección, a la mamá del hombre mayor, que él nunca podía decirle cuando le hería los sentimientos.

    “Pero no tiene que ser así con nosotros,” el hombre menor dice. “Sé que te pido mucho, pero si puedes tratar de decirme cómo te sientes en el momento, no tendríamos estas peleas en las que discutimos de todo lo que pasó en una semana.”

    El hombre mayor se queda en silencio.

    Están en una relación. Tal vez están a punto de romperlo.

    Sigo intentando leer.

    Después de unos minutos, el hombre mayor pregunta: “¿Qué vas a hacer?”

    El otro: “Estoy mirando fotos de mariposas. Déjame saber cual te gusta. Si lo vamos a hacer, me gustan todas que no tienen muchas partes negras.”

    Se quedan unos momentos más antes de irse. Supongo que es normal discutir con tu pareja y recibir el mismo tatuaje que tu pareja en el mismo día.

  • Day 28: When was the last time you talked to a stranger?

    “Have you tried that? Is it good?”

    The cashier at Trader Joe’s, a young 20s-something woman with dark hair and blue eyeliner pointed to the Spicy Peanutty Noodle Bowl with Chicken that I get every time I go.

    “Yeah! I like it,” I replied.

    “Is it very spicy or not too bad?”

    “I’d say it’s not too bad. I’m usually a medium spicy kinda girl.”

    “Yeah, okay, I like medium spicy too,” she said, scanning my other items. “Cause I was thinking about having it for lunch, but you never know with spice… and it’s in the middle of the day, you know.”

    I laughed. “Well, I think it’s good. It’s definitely got a kick. But it’s not like wasabi, I hate that.”

    “Oh, me too.”

    We continued to talk about different levels of spice, with her coworker, a middle-aged blonde, chiming in as she joined to bag my groceries: “I can’t do wasabi, but I put hot sauce on just about everything.”

    “I like jalapeños, too,” the cashier said. “If there aren’t too many seeds. The seeds are what do it.”

    “Not for me,” the blonde said. “I’d rather not leave the spice up to chance. By the way, do you want a new one?”

    She held up the red pepper I’d grabbed.

    “Sure, but weird request: can you make sure it has 4 lobes at the bottom? They’re supposed to be sweeter.” (I looked this up just now while searching for the correct term for the pepper parts and apparently it’s a myth. Go figure!)

    “Well, I did not know that! But I most certainly will look for you.”

    As I got home a bit later and unloaded my groceries, I found myself thinking about this 12-minute podcast episode that Ariel sent to me during the pandemic: “The Lost Joys of Talking to Strangers.”

    In the episode, Madeline K. Sofia speaks with Yowei Shaw, who reports on her interview with social psychologist and professor Elizabeth Dunn about the importance of strangers. After noticing how her boyfriend’s grumpy mood would improve (and stay that way!) whenever he’d have a random encounter with a stranger or acquaintance, Dunn began to study how short interactions with strangers affect our mood.

    Dunn discovered that these interactions did boost peoples’ mood and affect in a positive way. Drawing on her own studies of couples and café customers, as well as others conducted by Nicholas Epley and Juliana Schroeder about commuters on buses and trains and people in waiting rooms, Dunn started to develop a theory. Essentially, when we talk to strangers, we try to be friendly and cheerful because of societal norms. And when these interactions go well, they lift our mood and make us feel more positive, as well as affirm our existence and give us this sense of connection.

    The podcast episode reminisces about these random interactions with strangers. When we were in quarantine, we only really spoke to those we lived with or our closest friends and family. We missed these bursts of happiness and connection. Now, in 2024, they’re possible again.

    I think about my errands-filled morning and the many interactions I’ve had with strangers already: the two people at the office where I went to pick up our security deposit; the woman working at Warby Parker who was stunned by how my 11-year-old pair had lost its polarization, and offered me 25% off a new pair, which she helped me pick out; the woman who gives me a facial every month; and then the cashier and bagger at Trader Joe’s.

    I take a bite of my noodle bowl and wonder if the cashier decided to try it. I realize it’s got a bit more than a kick. But it’s definitely delicious.

  • Day 27: Coming Home

    I remember when Miami started feeling like home.

    It was after winter break my first year here, when I left New York and arrived back in the heat and humidity, going straight to the pool to thaw.

    I hadn’t wanted to move to Miami, not really. I had done it for us, because we had wanted to leave New York and we had wanted to give A a chance at a career that he could be happy with.

    “You’re moving to Florida?” I remember my friends saying to me in disbelief. I had felt the same way: I’m moving to Florida? Me, a liberal New Yorker who walks everywhere and loves public transit and is anti-gun and pro-choice? Florida?

    “Well, not Florida, exactly,” I’d say. “Miami.”

    It was like what I’d say when I’d introduce myself to people while I lived in Spain: Oh, I’m not American. I’m a New Yorker. From Manhattan.

    Miami didn’t feel like home, though, not right away. It’s a transient city, with many of its residents working in nightlife and entertainment, most of its residents speaking Spanish, and the majority of its drivers believing that red lights are just a suggestion. I felt I stuck out like a sore thumb. Sometimes I still think I do.

    And yet, it’s home. Home for now, at least.

    I know Miami’s not where I’ll be in the long term. I hope that Miami’s not where I’ll be after next school year. Life often has other plans, though.

    When we decided almost 10 months ago to call it, I didn’t expect to stay. But Miami was home. I couldn’t see myself going back to New York, and I didn’t know where else I’d go so suddenly. And then the way my community here just scooped me up and cradled me as I picked up the pieces of myself and found my way into my new life, my new apartment, was something I don’t know if I would have found anywhere else. For a transient city, some real gems have found their way here and into my life and my heart.

    That will be the hardest thing when I finally do leave to go build a home somewhere else: saying goodbye to the friends I’ve made here.

    Driving home from St. Augustine today, I felt the all-too-familiar, bittersweet feeling associated with trips ending: sadness that it’s over, but gladness and relief to be home.

    I watched the landscape change from tree-lined highway to construction and heavy traffic, the Miami skyline appearing on the horizon, and I thought, This? This is home?

    But it is.

    Pulling up to my building, then dropping my bags after walking through my door, the light shining through and the warm scent of my apartment filling my lungs, I knew I was home.

  • Day 26: Thoughts While Still Lying in Bed

    I have always been an early riser, and vacation is no different. Especially on a night like last night where the pup made noises every time someone passed the room.

    As I lay awake and wait for you to get up, my mind is wandering through the memoryscapes to sleep away camp. How on just a thin mattress in a cabin with 7 other girls, I’d sleep like a rock. The funny moments where we’d catch a cabin-mate sleep talking. The summer that Atlantis had bed bugs and all the girls had to bag up their stuff (what happened to them? Did they sleep somewhere else? Did their parents have to send them more things? I remember the cabin like this foreboding haunted thing, lying empty all session.)

    The bed here is a king and it’s a big cloud. My tuft and needle mattress at home is pretty cloud-like too. I sleep on my sides or back but never on my stomach. The dog is curled up against my right leg and you’re still asleep to my left, so I’m like the in-betweens of a sandwich.

    St. Augustine has so many random shops, but many of the same random shop: hot sauce places, steampunk stores, ice cream shops. I don’t know how someone comes down here and decides, “hey, I think I’ll open up another ice cream shop,” and manages to get by. The man playing live music at the restaurant last night had been doing Monday night sets for almost twenty years. He had long hair and played covers all night long. Something about this town reminds me of New Paltz. This college student + old hippie vibe.

    My stomach grumbles. I wonder what we’ll eat for breakfast. I’m craving waffles and bacon or French toast. Today we’ll visit the Castillo de San Marcos fort and we have dinner reservations. The rest of the day is open. I expect more wandering, more judging and questioning of the people we see, and definitely more ice cream.

  • Day 25: What to Bring on a Road Trip

    When heading out on a road trip to St. Augustine from Miami, you’ll want to make sure you have good sunglasses, even if they make you look uncool. You will also want to stop by the gas station to fill up the tank and grab mints, wet wipes, cheez doodle puffs, and salt and vinegar chips. You’ll need a good playlist, or four. 150 movie trivia questions will help you pass the time. Patience and a sense of humor for the other drivers who feel that they need to drive like they’re in a video game. A fluffy travel companion who sneaks kisses from her tethered post in the backseat. Iced water, of course! Google Maps to help you chart your course (just stay on I-95 for 200 more miles, and you’ll get there). Lots of laughter.

    And of course, a person you’ll enjoy the company of whether you’re cruising along or stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  • Day 24: Sunday To Do’s

    A Saturday of hurkle-durkl’ing means a Sunday of getting things done. And there are many things to do today! A to-do list feels a bit like a slice cop-out, but hey, I’m on day 24! I’m allowed to do a to-do list for my slice!

    SUNDAY TO DO:

    • Finish this slice & comment on two more posts
    • Go for a run
    • Do two loads of laundry (colors + whites/linens)
    • Clean the bathroom
    • Wash my hair
    • Vacuum
    • Water the plants
    • Pack for St. Augustine
    • Do some copywriting (10 posts)
    • See Gianna somewhere in between

    I think about the multitasking vs. switch-tasking vs. back-tasking SEL lesson that Kim and I have planned for when we come back, and then I think about being mindful and focusing on one task at a time. I know I can get it all done (laundry in particular is the task I can have going on in the background), but when I see it as a list in front of me, it overwhelms.

    So I start at the beginning, and check them off as I go.

  • Day 23: Hurkle-Durkl’ing

    Today was a day to hurkle-durkle.

    I don’t remember how we first came across the term — maybe in someone else’s slice? — but it’s apparently been a trend on TikTok (which I’ve been off of since December), and is an old Scottish term meaning to lie/lounge around in bed when you should be up and getting a move on.

    Every morning this last week, I wanted to hurkle-durkle. I actually did hurkle-durkle. I grabbed my iPad and did the Connections and the Wordle and had to really muster up the strength to peel myself away from the cozy sheets. It was a weekday, after all, and I needed to get ready to go to work.

    Today, though, was a day to hurkle-durkle.

    (I’d like to note that auto-correct keeps changing both of these words to hurdle and durable and other “real” words, and I keep having to delete and retype. No, computer, I actually mean hurkle-durkle, thank you very much.)

    It rained yesterday afternoon and evening, and all night long. Thunder and lightning and sheets of rain. This morning, the power even went out for a while in my building and the two across the street. It’s also the first day of spring break, so I’m pretty sure the vacation gods were telling us to hurkle-durkle away.

    There’s nothing to do. No place to be. A perfect day to just laze around in sweats and fuzzy socks, the bed half-made, my hair a mess. A perfect day for hurkle-durkl’ing.