Les Classiques.

For the days following Bastille Day we were largely on our own in Paris, every woman for herself. This was to accommodate our different tastes and objectives for Paris and was a good thing, if for no other reason than to travel en masse necessarily brings with it the complications of group work, but I also noted that there were moments throughout my days when I considered how the trials and tribulations of a group dynamic can easily be offset by the joy of having someone to share amazing moments with. I do not think that Paris lost anything for me as I traversed the city wide-eyed with my own version of disbelief about being there, but I must say, I can recall with pristine clarity the moments I looked around for a compadre for no other reason than to exclaim: Can you believe this? Truth be told, by the middle of the first day, I was just borrowing other people and their groups with which to share my awe, I mean after all, we were all there together, crowded, sweaty, agape, amazed, dusty, sprinkled upon, craning our necks, making space… whatever. Travelers are a unique tribe, and everyone I met was completely willing to reply – I know, right? AHmazing. 

Having never been to Paris (unlike all three of my fellow travelers) I was committed to seeing some of the things they all could do without. And I understand, I mean the Louvre can be overwhelming at best, and positively maddening at worst, but I was not going to miss it. And I know that I will return every time I go back to Paris, because: AHmazing. 

The only things I did not see that I know I will on my return include the Luxembourg Gardens and the Bastille.

High points from these couple of days included the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile and le Musée d’Orsay. Although, the Louvre and strolling the Champs-Élysées and floating along the Seine and sidewalk cafes and riverside picnics and the Centre Pompidou did not suck.

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And at the end of each day we reconvened in Clamart to share our stories, each of us infinitely pleased with our days and thrilled to hear about the others’ from parfumeries to cafes and cocktails to crowds and beau artes to vistas and gardens, from missteps to rendezvous, we had it all.

And with our own Frenchie to thank for our bon chance.

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We would depart by train for Nimês on 18 July and take ourselves to Provence for some time in the country. But first one last evening in Clamart.

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Sei sup mmmmmmmmm: ripple in still water.

I wanted to write tonight. I took care of all the things I needed to take care of today and I was all ready to give myself time to sit and write. But I couldn’t. I mean, obviously I could have in a literal fingers-to-keys kind of way, but not in a metaphorical making-meaning(ful)-meaning kind of way.

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

I wanted to write about this video I took from JM’s car in Paris this summer.

I wanted to write about something satisfying. Like about taking a group of high school seniors to listen to a conversation with US Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer on a Friday night and having them come out of the talk and say, “He is all about the Social Contract, isn’t he?”

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But, no.

I suppose if I were a writer, I would say I had writer’s block. But I am not really a writer, am I? Only in so far as one with an Instagram is a photographer, or one who goes to church is a Christian (I wanted to write about the Pope too, because I cannot get enough of the Pontiff.) Instead, I sat. I considered meditating, but I didn’t want to make the cat move, and I sort of suck at meditation anyhow.

It’s a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they’re better left unsung.
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.

I turned 45 this week. I sat with that for a while. 45. Forty five. Cuarenta y cinco. Sei sup mm. Fifty minus five.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

Maybe that is why I can’t think of anything good to write. Maybe by the time you get to be this age, you are supposed to have a whole bunch of real things to write about, and here I sit with my immaculate home and my two cats and some loud Eighties music in my unbearably hip neighborhood, and no typical accomplishments like husbands and divorces and kids and shit to write about.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.

I was born in 1970. Do you know how long it takes to scroll to that year when you are filling out your birthdate on-line? You have to pick your finger up off the touch pad at least twice. That shit is crazy. Nixon was the president and my Grandma M tried cocaine. That would have been something to see.

In 1970 things were pretty fucked up.

I came of age in the 1980s. Do you know how accidentally iconic the Eighties have become? What I know recall about the Eighties could feather your hair. I still love the music, hipsters still love the fashion. We are all still paying for the politics.

In the 1980s things were pretty fucked up.

I got some education in the 1990s: formal and otherwise. Do you think everyone assumes the time they opened their minds is the more relevant than that of others? I don’t know, but a lot of shit happened in the nineties. And then at the end of 1999 the world didn’t end and I think a lot of people thought that was pretty fucked up

I had my mid-life crisis in the mid-90s. Which makes sense because I never really thought I would live very long (which is kind of dumb of me because the women in my family tend to live a very long time.) For whatever reason my mid-life dramz kicked off at 34. It took me about four years to sort that shit out.

Mid-life crises are pretty fucked up.

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.

On the weekend leading up to my birthday I met someone who is in her mid-30s and appears to be on track to have a midlife crisis just like mine. (Apparently it’s not just movies and politicians from the decade that never go away.) I told her I had to sail away to China to deal with it. She did not get the musical reference, but I am fairly certain she is on board with the rest of it. I predict she breaks up with her boyfriend before the end of this year (not due to my counsel, mind you – I am not a meddler, just a sharer.)

Maybe the reason this birthday isn’t sitting so well with me is that I don’t have anything to be in crisis about because I already got all destructive and ridiculously reckless ten years ago and so it feels empty of purpose. I emerged from my midlife crisis down one Wal-Mart-shopping boyfriend and one suburban tract house, but as my kids would say: I am not about that life.

Life in with the suburbs was pretty fucked up.

You, who choose to lead, must follow
But if you fall you fall alone.
If you should stand then who’s to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.

This week was my fifth repatriated birthday. The birthday itself was not particularly eventful, but at this point in one’s life, that seems like a win. A dear friend I have known since the 8th grade said to me, “I hope you feel how much you are loved.” Yes, L, I did. And here I am, in a great city, with great hair, a few new wrinkles, amazing friends, no involuntary responsibilities, and I am alive.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

So, happy birthday to me: good hair, good shoes, wrinkles, and a potty mouth, but crisis free. That’s livin’: L-I-V-I-N.

That seems like a lot to write about.

I’ll get back to writing in no time, I am sure.

In search of मन्त्र.

The Sanskrit word mantra consists of the root man- “to think” (also in manas “mind”) and the suffix -tra, designating tools or instruments, hence a literal translation would be “instrument of thought”

It would seem that the search for mantra begins early in life. Or, at least it did for me. The ubiquitous words to live by, maxims offered in children’s books, sayings… words of wisdom were always right there at the ready, waiting for me to try them out. I let the roll around my mouth, coming tumbling out in various ways and contexts. I thought about them and considered their gravitas. I endeavored to create my own.

People are people no matter how wierd they are. (Spelling, words, and attached art – not pictured – are mine, circa 1976)

I don’t remember when I started collecting quotations, song lyrics, expressions, lines from movies… and the collection has comprised all sorts of representations; collages, repetitive script, artwork, photos, memorization. I definitely was looking for instruments of thought.

It makes sense at a young age to rely on the words of others. People who have more experience in life, or art, or the world, or something, can serve as guides, or teachers. The words can provide validation or support whether or not you even know the person. And it’s nice to feel like someone has been there before – someone really *gets it*. I think that was my first motivation in the search for mantra.

A silly beginner, basic apprentice aggression
In the absence of a master, trying to make up my own lesson – Astronautalis, Oceanwalk

Eventually, my search for mantra had a different purpose. Rather than validation it was more a search for kindred spirits: one’s tribe. Again, this is not for a lack of a tribe of my own, but more of an effort to somehow identify the reach and significance of the tribe. Here came the words of the masters; great poets, singers, novelists….

  • All who wander are not lost!
  • Carpe diem!
  • And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make!
  • Do not go gentle into that good night!
  • Rage rage against the dying of the light!
  • Oh! The places you will go!
  • The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return!
  • Emancipate yourself from mental slavery!
  • Live! Laugh! Love!
  • Dance like no one is watching!
  • Shoot for the moon, you might land in the stars!

ओं मणिपद्मे हूं

This led into my efforts to really study mantra – in the traditional sense. I began to think much more seriously about the power of words and the power of manifestation – like how words can so often become reality, for better or for worse, and how words can provide a path to deeper more effective thinking, concentration, or better yet, a truly quiet mind. Considering that mantra is also defined as “a word or sound repeated to aid concentration in meditation” this too makes sense in my continuing coexistence with, and search for, mantra.

Om mani padme hum has been a staple for me. This mantra has far too much depth to be covered here, but as the lotus mantra, and the lotus is that which can emerge with beauty and grace from the mud may indicate a bit of its direction. I love studying the yoga sutras and the mantras of the Bhagavad Gita because the relevance of these ancient texts underscores so much of the interconnectedness of life that my age has been beginning to show me.

And as I continued to embrace mantra I started to see how everyone else I saw around me was too – sometimes consciously, other times less so; looking for the perfect tattoo, identifying the perfect quotation for the college essay, or with which to begin each chapter of the new novel, or to get through the next overwhelmingly sad/challenging/devastating/heartbreaking circumstance that will surely come up.

Mantra is also believed to be a spell or weapon of supernatural power…

I think maybe the reminder of mantra can also be protective and maybe that is what drives a lot of people to search for mantra. It certainly drove me last year to a point where I felt compelled to put mantra on my body – out of my mind, my mouth, and on to my skin. This was new for me, and definitely reactive. At a time in my life when I was feeling overwhelmed by all that was happening around me, and needing a reminder that not only could, but that I would, stay the course.

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In hindsight, I am not sure I would have actually gone through with this commitment to mantra had I not been reeling emotionally on so many levels… which is not to say I regret the decision, I do not. But I have found myself feeling shy about it in a way I never anticipated, which makes me wonder.

I chose to get two mantras tattooed on my back in the last year. One, the lotus mantra was less surprising, and somehow, people seem not to ask about it because: I do yoga. I guess that excuses the cultural co-optation. I also chose to represent the mantra in a form that is not generally scripted because I wanted to include a traditional ॐ. I suppose this could be construed as an error – but it is just intentionally archaic. Somehow, that feels apropos for me.

The second piece of mantra I chose to put on my body was a refrain from a song that I listened to on repeat for nearly three months after the sudden loss of three friends near the end of last year. Because the words are in English, people are much more likely to ask about them. And it feels really silly to explain that I have put a song lyric on my grown up body. This is a shyness I am not familiar with. But that bit of mantra – like everything – is so much more than the tattoo. I am not sure if I will add to the tattoo, or change it, or grow into it, but I am so glad for the reminder that in spite of terribly sad times, I do maintain my belief in the good things coming… that nothing is irreparable, or lost forever.

Mantra brings comfort, and is powerful. We have seen this always, prayers, chants, superstitions, cheers, spells. I think even for people who would say they don’t believe in mantra, they would find, upon closer examination, that they actually do. From positive self talk and affirmations, to songs of empowerment and resistance, to calls to action, mantra is there.

And we could do far worse than to seek out interments of thought.

I am no master, I know nothing…
I am a servant and I know something…
I am a witness….

Some observations on yoga as lifestyle.

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I just came out of a really nice yoga class, and I feel really good. Yoga has been doing that for me more and more, leaving me feeling differently from how I felt when I went in, but also very distincl from the feeling I used to get after a really satisfying gym workout, or run, or competitive athletic endeavor. It is interesting to pay attention to how I respond to different activities in my life, and as of late I have been really trying to look at how yoga makes me feel. This has been inspired by a number of things not the least of which is my physical well-being. I have not been able to put my finger on to what it is that is different about the yoga feeling, but I have been thinking about it a lot and I have a feeling it may have something to do with this idea of a “yoga lifestyle.”

I find the phrase “yoga lifestyle” hilarious. However, I think it bears consideration that yoga is a lifestyle.

  • If your yoga lifestyle means wearing $100 Lululemon and drinking wine – that is a lifestyle, and it has its own kind of balance.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is putting your freaking amazeballs body in a tiny (probably very expensive) bikini and taking some photos of yourself in impressive asana, that too has its own sort of balance, and is a lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is pretending you have a sanskrit (or you thought it was sanskrit) name and chanting and teaching yoga to other people who feel good in this environment, then that too is a yoga lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is aggressively athletic: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is rigorously ascetic or disciplined: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is loud: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is quiet: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is expensive and opulent: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is homemade and in the park: lifestyle.

Hippe, hottie, gay, straight, earthy, commercial… it is all a lifestyle. So, I find it really strange when yoga people find it necessary to judge all these other lifestyles. And the judgement comes in so many guises, I honestly think that some people think they are not judging, or that they are fooling people into thinking they are not judging (no.) I have been thinking about this a lot lately as so many entities are taking it upon themselves to educate us about what a yoga lifestyle is. (I suppose that is some sort of lifestyle too.) And it is weird because I do not see this intra-community judgment between sports and gym traditions, or Zumba and spinning or something. This is yoga people telling all sorts of other yoga people how they are “doing it right” or not.

What really got me on to this was trying to picture my first yoga teacher participating in this kind of ‘education.’ I had to laugh trying to picture Veer telling people how what they were doing was not yoga, or had the wrong intentions, or was spreading the wrong message.

As if.

Now, to be fair, I began yoga in a unique way, I came to it later in life (I was 37) while living overseas, and I began with a group of teachers who could not have been more authentic: they were native Indians who actually speak and read sanskrit, and had been practicing yoga as a daily element of their lives since birth for no other reason than it is a fundamental part of their lives. That is a lifestyle. These men – they were all men – were extremely orthodox. They were not burning sage, or telling me about my moon cycle and my divine feminine, or being self deprecating and silly, or having live music, or wearing fancy clothes; and they would have never criticized another tradition or practice (read: lifestyle) because that is not their focus. They came to class. The opened with mantra. They instructed and guided the class. They ended the class. Certainly they explained the benefits of poses and explained how women should not practice certain asana and pranayama at certain times, and no one should practice certain asana and pranayama at certain times. They were unforgiving and diligent in their dedication to the practice, and if you wanted to be under their wing, to your practice as well.

This was the yoga imprint I came up with. As a result I happen to have a very orthodox practice. I have strong alignment. I know the sutras. I know the history. I understand how to listen to my body. I also enjoyed the traditional and disciplined nature of my early teachers. They sent me to India and I found myself in an ashram that would never make the cut for my current studio. Simply put, it is too Indian. This too, is a lifestyle.

The thing is, I still like the #whitepeopledoingyoga thing that is going on here in the US. I do not find my yoga background and the myriad interpretations of yogic lifestyle mutually exclusive. Different, yes. But I think the combination lets me get more out of my practice.

These days as I continue to grow my own practice I find myself observing a lot more. This is a big step for me to be able to relax and look outward rather than be fraught with concern about whether or not someone (who I have a 99% probability of not even knowing based on my reluctance to make my yoga lifestyle overly social) thinks I am “doing it right” or “good enough”. When the teacher says “Okay Level 2 and Level 3…” and the ego kicks in desiring to be Level 2 or Level 3, I am better at knowing what is Level Me. (This whole levels thing? So #whitepeopledoingyoga.)

As someone who has always considered herself somewhat of an athlete (save for that 18 month period in which I took a seriously over-zealous approach to the Freshman 15), and also someone who simply does not know how to not be self-conscious about her body, I have found yoga to be a salvation. I love the physicality of it, and I am stronger now than I have been probably at any other time in my life in spite of a less functional body. I love the way I feel when I go into the studio and that I no longer have that feeling like yoga is on my to do list for the day – but that it is a part of my day. I love that I can do some crazy hard asanas and I am earning to accept that I may never be able to do some others. I love that I can surprise my students by beating them in a handstand contest. I love that I am learning  – after eight years of effort – to actually meditate. I love that I have a life that allows me to do yoga whenever I want. I love wearing yoga pants… all the time. I love looking at amazing and beautiful people doing insane asana in beautiful places. I love that #whitpeopledoingyoga in San Francisco underestimate my yoga knowledge all the time because they just finished a 200 hour teacher training. I love that yoga is so dynamic that I can see the changes in my body, my classmates, the demographics and styles of the classes.

And the things I do not like about yoga it turns out are the same things I don’t like in the world: inauthenticity and falseness, insecurity, inaccuracy, gimmickry, arrogance… But the best thing about yoga is I can look at those things now and not like them and let them go. It is like my own little serenity prayer: yoga grant me the mindfulness to accept the things I cannot change, the focus to change the things I can, and the balance to know it is probably all my perception anyhow.

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“The worst kind of people…”

I was on Bart yesterday, only anomalous in that it was a weekend, generally a more Bart free situation for me, and was feeling a little agitated because the trains were running late and I was trying to make a connection to CalTrain to head down the Peninsula to Palo Alto. Of course, I missed the connection and was feeling supper annoyed about this and had to remind myself that I was not actually “late” for anything, and that another train was coming (albeit in almost a half an hour – oh American public transportation how I wish you could pick up the pace a bit) and so I sat in the sun and waited. This turned out to be a good thing, because as I sat in the sun in Millbrae waiting for my train, it gave me time to do some conscious consideration about why I was feeling so out of sorts. Suffice it to say it was not about the missed connection.

Earlier, while I had been on Bart contemplating the likelihood of missing said connection, a gentleman had come through the car. He had a prepared announcement that he was making. The gist of it was that his son was stuck at the airport and could not board a plane because he had no money for luggage fees. This man gave quite a lot of details, the airline info, that he had been talking to Bart police, that he was desperate because if his son did not get back to Chicago he would lose his visitation rights, where he worked, and various assurances that he was telling the truth. And then he said he had a military ID because he was a veteran.

A couple of things to note about this: just about every day that I ride Bart, at least once someone will be working their way through the cars of the train asking for some sort of assistance. It may be food, or money, sometimes even clothes. Every day. Just about all of them have a story they share. Some are long, some are short. I sometimes listen, I sometimes do not. I also have a tendency to assume that the more detail that is offered the less likely it is that the story I am hearing is really true, like, in a factually accurate way. But I am pretty sure that is not the point.

Yesterday, as this man, John he said his name was, finished his story I gave him a $1. I might have given him two. I happened to have some singles in my hand and I was on the way to meet some friends in a bar to spend far more money than that on things I really and truly do not need. As I handed him the money he gave me the regular “God bless” and all that, and that is nice, or at least better than the “fuck yous” we so often get from our fellow humans, and I nodded and went back to thinking about my inconsequential missed connection.

The next thing I knew a young man sitting behind me was demanding to see the military ID that John had said he had. “I just want to see the ID!’ He yelled out as John worked the car. “It doesn’t look like a real ID!” John kept on going and this man was getting really annoyed. “This is a scam!” He yelled out. “I know! I am a veteran. It is a really good scam but he is lying to you!” He was treating this like a PSA for the car. He continued, “You people are getting robbed, this is a scam – it is a good one, but it is a scam!” He took a breath. “These are the worst kind of people!” He yelled. “Impersonating military personnel. The worst.” By this time John had moved on to the next car, but the orator behind the PSA was really wanting to make sure people knew that he knew what was up.

The worst kind of people? I thought. In a world with the Westboro Baptist church, this guy was the worst kind of people? In a world with racist young men who chant they “would rather see a nigger hang from a tree than be an SAE”, and then cry that their entire group is painted in a negative light for the actions of a fewthis guy on asking for money on a train was the worst kind of people? When we see organizations televising beheadings, or individuals going into schools with guns and killing everyone they see with automatic weapons, a hustler on the train is the worst kind of people? Surrounded by scandalous lying politicians, greedy corporate entities that are profiting on the ruination of the environment, animal abusers, child abusers, spousal abusers, rapists, murderers, and fucking plain old mean people…. this guy asking for money on the train earned the label  the worst kind of people?

I don’t think so.

I don’t know if John was telling the truth. As I said, the more detail I hear, the less of it I cling to as fact. But that is hardly the real issue. If someone gets to the point where they are publicly putting themselves out there to ask strangers for money – something has gone horribly awry. Regardless of the situation, something is no longer working. And if I see people every single day at both ends of my commute and throughout it who are in a situation where they have to ask people for money – the reason they are asking for the money is not my concern. Maybe Mr. PSA thinks that there is a more virtuous way to be poor. Maybe he thinks if someone is busking, they could rightly ask for a handout. Maybe he thinks if some one is a drug addict or a drunk they do not deserve a handout, but if they are quietly holding their hand out for alms, they are worthy. I do not really know. The fact is, that by the time someone is asking strangers for spare change, something has changed in their life in such a way that they have arrived at a place very few people I know could ever understand. Do the reasons matter? I imagine John and others like him have worked out that people like a story – a reason or a justification, for giving. I imagine saying, “I am a man who cannot meet his needs today because circumstances suck,” is not such a great story. I imagine that as people decide who to give money to they do a lot of thinking about whether this person “brought it on themselves” or is “scamming” or “working the system.” I cannot imagine that given the choice many folks would choose to beg over self-sufficiency, though I certainly have friends who say it is so.

I am far more concerned about the fact that I live in a country with the greatest wealth ever known and am faced with unbelievable poverty on the daily. I gave John two bucks because I do not care what his story is. I do not care if he is going to use those two dollars for a beer, for a room for the night, for a burger, or to pay a luggage fee for his kid, or he just needs some cash. I care that we have so many people who cannot meet their daily needs that it is no longer fair, accurate, or relevant to say that “they brought it on themselves.”

The worst kind of people? Oh, I have a list for you… and I can assure you John is not on it.

Gifts.

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Once you give someone a gift, you no longer have the ability to influence what they do with that gift. You may think that you have a “right,” or that you could exert some influence on the eventualities of the gift, but if you truly give someone something, you have actually let it go fully and entirely.

You may endeavor to provide care instructions: hand wash only, or, water twice a week… that sort of thing. You many offer suggestions for use: it makes a great paperweight, or, it can be worn so many ways. You may highlight features and benefits: the second chapter is really amazing, or, if you use this function you will save so much wear and tear.

But ultimately, in giving, you are letting go.

I think that is really the gift.

So, if someone returns your gift, or re-gifts it, or ruins it, or puts it up on a shelf and forgets about it, or uses it so much they wear it out, that is not about you. You chose to give, and in so doing gave over influence on the outcome as well.

This is hard for people. Like, watch adults give kids presents and how weirdly control-y they get about how the gift is dealt with. If it weren’t such a painfully futile endeavor, it would be amusing. It is this strange experience of seeing the child appear to be the patient sage, juxtaposed against the adult as a yammering, infantile sop control freak.

It is the same when you give someone your heart. You may endeavor to provide care instructions: please be careful with this… that sort of thing. You many offer suggestions for use: be not afraid. You may highlight features and benefits: if you let me I will love you. But in choosing to give someone one your heart you have given a beautiful gift to them that comes wrapped in trust, hope, and fearlessness, and you cannot mandate its place in their life.

It is always a possibility that the person to whom you give your heart may not receive it as you would like. They may hold it in their hands for a while and consider it, like a pound of flesh, or a new pair of shoes. They may take it with joy and reckless abandon, and then decide later that it is not really what they were after and cast it off. They may take it in exactly the way you had hoped, and then crush it into a million tiny pieces because they are afraid, or broken, or maybe dishonest, or perhaps they are just too busy to deal with it.

You will never know on giving. And the reception of the gift has nothing to do with you, or some sort of strange valuation of the quality of your gift.

Interestingly, in choosing to give this most precious gift, you actually were the one who received the gift… You became more loving. More hopeful. More open. And the heart is unlimited, even though it certainly doesn’t feel like that always.

But it is. There is always more love to give.

If someone didn’t want the love you had to give, consider for a moment what a shame that loss is for them it is they did not want to receive more love in their life. And when you are done experiencing the inevitable sadness that will come from the exchange, remember, you were true in your feelings and intentions, and so there has been nothing lost.

And you will feel your heart grow bigger.

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Professional crisis of faith, in pictures.

I teach. Or at least, I have until recently, believed myself to be a teacher. Implied in this is the idea that I am also a student, dynamic conditions both.

Lately, what I have been learning has all but made me want to leave the building. Not quite like Elvis.

But kind of.

When I embarked upon my career I hoped to be like this:

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Or even like this:

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When I actually started working… way back in 1995… I actually thought I might be like this:

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Not kidding.

Lately I have realized that I am really turning out to be more like this:
“‘C’, ‘D’, ‘F’. ‘F’. ‘F’. For three weeks we have been talking about the Platt Amendment. It was passed in nineteen-hundred and six.”

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Although, it seems a lot of people really see me like this:

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And I am really afraid I am heading toward this:
“The kids haven’t changed, Dick. You did.”

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And frankly… I am just a little over it all because of this:

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And this:

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Everyone keeps telling me I just need a vacation – which I am fortunate to get. But It is not just that I need a break (I do.)

It is something much bigger than that.

Much.

Bigger.