The Zeroth Draft

MOVED

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 20:10:00 +0000

This space is no longer being updated. Instead, go here:

zerothdraft.wordpress.com

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sleepless

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 07:03:00 +0000

Sometimes there is no real explanation, I just can’t sleep. But I know there’s probably some kind of explanation. Something I ate. Something I didn’t eat. Too much to drink. Too little to drink. There’s so much about my own physiology that I think I should have figured out by now, but instead just gets more and more mysterious to me as I get older. And then there’s the questions that pop into my head, and there’s the jitter I get in my feet, and then sometimes something just aches or pinches or burns. Sometimes I lie there thinking about a ping or a pain and I start to wonder about my own mortality, and that just isn’t good going-to-sleep thinking.

Tonight it isn’t really anything that mysterious. It’s 12:44 AM and today — yesterday, actually — was the first day of school. Except I didn’t actually teach a class. I did go to school and I did do some work, but the daily ritual of teaching at 8:00 AM isn’t there this semester. Instead — and this is a good thing — I’m working on new things, developing workshops, hiring a secretary, managing a budget, hosting events. It’s all part of a picture I wanted to paint, but it’s all still mysterious. The “new gig,” as I’ve been describing it, as though I’m on tour in Europe with the band, is great. And it scares the shit out of me, not because I’m afraid of screwing something up, but because I’m afraid of not doing anything at all. It would be an easy rut to ditch myself for the next three years.

So there’s that, and then there’s also the next day — today, actually — when I actually welcome my first class. I think that either, 1. It’s the first day trepidation and excitement, or B. I don’t know what to do with myself after watching the “first day” pass without a single step into a classroom. Either way, I suppose it all resolves itself in a few hours, whether I sleep or not. It’s stupid, really. There are plenty of other reasons to be sleepless, but I’m still this way after countless hours of teaching, multiple times having taught these courses before, and a new pair of back-to-school pants. (I still have the nightmare of arriving to class without pants, although usually it entails me either teaching acting or coaching football.) Undoubtedly I’m thinking of the other things I’m thinking about besides teaching, trying to remember not to forget to remember to think about something. Part of me thinks that being in a classroom will be an antidote to this spiral, but the part of me that is still awake thinks otherwise.

filling up

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 03:48:00 +0000

This summer, while we were traveling through multiple states, several geological divides, and countless ecosystems, I would pull the car into filling stations, inserting a credit card and extracting a nozzle to replenish the fuel we'd burned and exhausted from mountain pass to coastline. Karyn and I were talking about our affinity for the coast, having each grown up only an hour away from the Pacific.

Now that we're away, there's that realization that we didn't realize what we had when we had it. Yet, it isn't as though we need to return to the coast to stay forever. Instead, Karyn suggested that there are small vials inside of us, and the serum provided by the place that is the Oregon Coast fills these up -- as though there's a fluid level that needs to be topped off every 3500 miles. Then, Karyn added this: "And I'd need to be in the red rocks about once a year, too." And then I thought about the mountains, and I added this to the list of essential fluids. (I offer this exhibit as an example of one’s attachment to the mountains, and perhaps all things wilderness.) Annie Dillard summed it up for me a few years ago when I read Pilgrim on Tinker Creek for the first time, a book I understood better after reading it a second time:

The mountains ... are a passive mystery, the oldest of all. Theirs is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given. Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.

I've wondered if there's a set of vials within that need to be filled for some specific balance, like some set of chemicals and vitamins and minerals and essences that all have to be right. Your potassium is a bit low so you eat a banana; your coastalness is running out, so you make your way to the beach. Or maybe it's like reservoirs of window washing fluid and coolant and oil. Big jugs of stuff that aren't just small spices in the grand mix, but the actual lubrication and thermostat and view-clarifying fluids that have to be filled, monitored, and topped off. I tend to think of it as the former, like little containers of those spices that make the mix just right. Yet sometimes it seems as though I really need to remove the grime from some windshield that provides my full perspective, and the wiper blades, no matter how frantically I sweep them, seem to just muck up the view. Some other fluid is needed to intervene and cut through the dead bug pulp that accumulates.I could quickly think that this is too romantic. I’m overdramatizing the reality, that maybe I just need a vacation once in a while. But when I look back on images of the coast:

Or of the desert:

Or of the mountains:

. . . I remember and feel that place, and I long to be back. In part, that might be because there’s something I am so fond of about that particular visit, but I think that there’s also the give-and-take of the space and the self. We each leave a little of ourselves with the other: the space imprints on us, and we leave behind a bit of our soul or psyche or essence on that land. As Dillard put it, we "heave [our] spirit" into the place. We’re forever linked back to it. Maybe this is just the romanticizing of an addiction, but I would rather we acknowledge that Karyn is absolutely right: There’s an essential need to reconnect with places, and sometimes we don’t even realize the need until we finally make our way back to the sea, the desert, or the ridgelines.

Tomorrow is “back to school,” an annual tradition that I’ve always loved. Even at the university, there’s a sense of energy, and even as we move more and more to an academy which operates in a continual, non-stop mode, the first day of the fall term still has a sense of “day one,” beginnings of new courses and new students and new backpacks and new shoes. There are, of course, other “news”: New chores, new jobs, new budget woes. But mostly it's a time that seems bright and shiny and new, full of possibility and potential.

This morning I headed up to the mountains, stepping out my front door and walking up the street to the trailhead with my canine companion. The skies were clouded over and the breeze came up, and as we made our way up into the hills the rain started to fall. Overlooking the valley and my city below, I imagined that the rain falling was part of that fluid that was doing the “filling up.” As my dog and I got continually wetter, I could imagine that I could literally smell my summer; and in fact, I realized that it was my hat, not washed after a backpacking trip last month, giving off the smell of campfire smoke as the rain stirred out this essence. It so happened that the cap was my favorite, well-worn hat with the words “half full” on its front, an icon with a half full pint glass just above the writing. As the rain continued to fall, I imagined that the cup was becoming even more filled, so that the script could have read “mostly full.” That seemed to me to be a good way to start the new year, as well as a good measure of the summer now past.

productivity; or, in which my neuroses spill onto the page as individual paragraphs

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 18:20:00 +0000

My Saturday morning has been a satisfying, sloth-like laze, enriched by a cup of coffee, blueberry pancakes, and a couch to myself while I listen to weekend NPR shows on the radio. Pleasant but not productive, the contrast to the rest of my week.

It isn't so much that other things I've been doing have really felt that substantial -- they could more accurately be described as lying on the blurred fringes between neurosis and busyness, but this all seems fine. I've cleaned out the lab that was the staging area for kids' science activities and other workshops, and simultaneously have been getting ready for back-to-school and turning the crank in the new office. Office #2 is still rather organized and respectable, in contrast to Office #1 that resembles a refugee camp for journal articles, stacked and scattered on my floor. I move, organize, and clean in bits and spurts, but it's still an embarrassing disorganization, though a pretty good metaphor for my psyche this summer.

Either office and their occupation of files and books, papers and trinkets, offers a contrast to the recent images of my insides. These are now a few weeks old, but I just recently pulled them out of my notebook and onto the glass plate of the scanner in Office #2.

The insides of my stomach are void of anything that shouldn't be there, and even the wrinkles throughout my upper gastrointestinal area seem to have an organization. Funny how some things just work without any deliberate action or thought on my part.

Yet, I have been deliberating about very (not-so) important matters, like blogspace. Recently I've been toying around with a completely new place to host this, and have now decided that it's all going to move to zerothdraft.wordpress.com. There are lots of little reasons for this, including the fact that my writing software could so easily upload the above image, something it wouldn't do as easily with blogspot. Most of these aren't really substantial, but they each added up. I think that the biggest reason to move could simply be for the sake of change itself. I'm not sure if that's really progressive as much as it's neurotic.

[I'll post exclusively to wordpress starting in September-ish, I think. For now I'll just continue to mirror this on both hosts.]

Other productivity happens serendipitously. This week, over Indian food, what started out as a joke got re-worked in the period of about 10 minutes until it became a pedagogical innovation for the senior seminar class I'm teaching this semester. The final outcome: Have a physics seminar given that would be a contest between five faculty members. Each participant creates a 10 minute talk and prepares the slides for the talk, but then puts the sequence of slides into a virtual hat. Then, at each 10 minute interval during the seminar, a name is drawn from another hat, followed by the drawing of a set of slides. The faculty member whose name is drawn then has to use the slides given to create the talk on the fly. Students in the class will rate the talk and the slides -- a chance for the to think hard about what makes a good presentation, and a chance for the rest of us to entertain and embarrass ourselves in public.

Later in the week, in the midst of lots of other things (meetings, interviewing for a secretary, hosting two workshops, preparing for classes, etc.) I learned from the liaison between the committee I'm now in charge of and the faculty senate that she didn't have time to create a draft list of charges to bring to the "executive committee" in time for them to prepare a final list of charges to me. So I offered to draft the charges myself, one more thing to do, but an opportunity. How often does one get to write the assignments that his "superiors" are going to assign him? I got to craft things exactly as I wanted them. And what did they do with this draft? Approved them exactly as-is, with the exception of adding a timeline to one of the charges.

This weekend there are a couple of syllabi to finish writing, some classes to plan, some papers to review, and some of my own writing to get done. And then next week it's "back to school," a time that seems to have its own order and tradition. In spite of all that needs to be done, I think that the regularity of the academic year is going to be a good way to structure both my thinking and my time. I'm hopeful that the natural order of things will be a good mechanism to organize my time and projects. If only I can get Office #1 as clean an organized as my stomach. Or, maybe it's simply not possible, since my office, like my stomach, always seems to be digesting so many things all at once.

longevity

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 15:45:00 +0000

"Can you believe we've been married fourteen years?" she asked me.

"I know. It seems like it's been eighteen, at least."

It turns out she meant that it seems like it's been so much less than the result of subtracting 1995 from 2009. I knew that; and she knew I knew that; but we bantered this way regardless. Because we're both right. It seems like just yesterday, but so much has happened since yesterday. Two cats, two surgeries, two kids, two houses, two apartments, two landscape projects, two hearts, and two minds, all wrapped into fourteen years or one day, depending on your perspective.

Between our four eyes (three on a bad day) and two points of view, the world takes on a dimensionality that neither one of us could have seen on our own. It seems like just yesterday, or it seems like forever, and we banter back and forth. In the exchanges I can see the naïve 19-year-olds, their youthful playfulness and lust wrapped in the shell of a wrinkled old couple in rocking chairs. On August 12, 2049 I can only dream that she'll ask, "Can you believe we've been married fifty-four years?" And I'll tell her that it seems like just yesterday.

"all that we can do"

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 04:11:00 +0000

In a meeting today I was told repeatedly by a representative from another office on campus that they would "do all that we can do" to help us. This is wonderful. Except that she meant it exactly as she said it. "All that we can do" could mean that such a group will do everything in their capacity to help. But what if their capacity really isn't so much?

"We'll do all that we are really able to do, but no more," is another way of saying this.

Or, "We'll do just as much as we have ever done in the past," is another, albeit less inspiring, way they could have expressed their work ethic.

Perhaps, "We are prepared to do only the things that we are sure we can do, like input phrases into a search engine and let you know what comes out; or, you could do this yourself, if you'd like."

But mostly what they meant to say was, "We've only done this much in the past, and we don't want to learn to do it any other way, and we'll continue to do just as much as we've gotten away with before because no one (including you) is going to change the way we do the things we do to help you . . . We'll do all that we can do."

Tonight I started reading The Phantom Tollbooth to the girls, because none of us had ever read it and it was there on the shelf. Milo, the main character, finds himself in the second chapter already arriving at a place called "Expectations." And, as the story sets things up, he's about to go beyond this place. I wish others, in real life, could sometimes be so bold.

tools

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 14:40:00 +0000

I seem to spend an inordinate amount of my time looking for things that will save me time. I quickly see the irony and I would give up on the madness immediately, except for the possibility that these potential tools might also make me more productive and creative. Some of the things I find and consume are really useful, like an iPod that keeps track of my calendars and email and music and free books all in one spot. But some things are really distracting, like like an iPod that keeps track of my calendars and email and music and free books all in one spot.

Trouble clued me in to this tool I’m trying out right now, a piece of software called Scrivener, that’s supposed to be a good way of organizing big writing projects. By the time he'd sent me a link to the download page, I'd already installed trial versions of the software on three computers. I thought that at least it would be a way of compiling essays, thoughts, loose ends, and the like. (It doesn't do anything to help with blogs, much to my dismay.) In the process of looking for other options, I found that there are all kinds of “word processing alternatives,” things that will do anything from creating giant structures to organize writing, to things that will remove all formatting and instead give you nothing to stare at but a black screen with green type. So I ended up downloading programs like Nisus Pro and WriteRoom and was well on my way to finding other aides before I pulled myself away from the futility of it all.

The problem I’ve run into is that there’s no tool that will actually just get my work (or play) done for me. In fact, it seems like there’s as much or more work necessary to put into finding the tool and learning the tool as there is in actually using the tool. For me, software is particularly troublesome, since I know that there must be things out there that could help me with ______ (fill in the blank: writing, organization, data analysis, great love advice, genealogy, etc.), but I generally don’t even know what the possibilities might be. At an accidental trip to the Apple store the other day, I came across a piece of software that looked like a fantastic tool for organizing data, mail, addresses, calendars, and to-do lists. The problem was that once I’d downloaded the trial version and started running it, I didn’t actually know what I was going to use it for. So, apparently there are tools out there which I can’t find that could help me do new things I have yet to imagine, but there are also tools out there that do operations for which I already have better solutions. At the same time, there are tools being developed that reform and re-form my lifestyle. Goggle, for example, has me by the earlobes, since it is responsible for keeping my marriage and family life in tact. Right now it has the multiple calendars of kids, spouse, work, home all synchronized and viewable together. If they ever decided to start charging me money for this, I'd have to bend over and reach deep into my wallet for whatever they asked. (As Google hosts this very blog for the time being, I might be afraid to admit this, but I'm pretty sure that they already know. This makes me think that they have some other plan, for better or for worse.)

The other day I walked into the library with a hammer in my hand. I had a big grin on my face, enjoying myself as I was playing a role in creating this image where the tool and the place were so paradoxical. What is the guy with the hammer going to do when he walks into the library? I could head to Q181 and start hammering away on shelves, finding new room for old books, or perhaps just beating on walls to wake up the sleeping students in their cubicles. If I Had a Hammer started whistling its tune in my head as I imagined the possibilities. And maybe that's exactly the fascination I have with tools of any sort: there are unrealized possibilities. One software tool might be the lynchpin to creating the Great Book; the new backpack that should arrive today could be what finally organizes my life without adding to this chronic pain in my left shoulder; the right pair of shoes may be all that's needed for me to take up trailrunning; a desk organizer to separate the files from the pens from the paper clips could suddenly shift productivity into high gear; the best combination of blades and clippers and philips and flatheads and files in a one-piece could be the survival tool that saves my life. It's all possible. But eventually I realize that the best tools are the simplest ones. Maybe the hammer in the library is what will really rock the world and reform society, but there has to be a hand swinging the hammer. And that hand is my own.

incredible

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 04:23:00 +0000

When I talked to Karyn on the phone tonight to check in, she told me that they were picking out a movie to buy from the "previously viewed" rack at the video store. It was down to four selections, a couple I don't remember as well as The Princess Diaries and The Incredibles. Asked for my opinion, I gave it with zeal, and the girls (I was told later) went with my choice because they wanted to make sure I participated in movie night.

I chose The Incredibles for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that I didn't think I could stand to see anything with "princess" or "diaries" in the title even once, and shuddered at the prospect of owning such a film. But the truth of the matter is that the story of the Parr family is more than just an animated action-adventure. It's about a family; and the heart of the family is clearly in Elastigirl.

Elastigirl holds my heart in the palm of her hand. On one level, it's admittedly completely physical. Who could resist the woman who could wrap her legs around (and around and around and . . . ) you? There's more than this, though. This is the woman who, in one scene, can be found foiling bad guys closing in from all sides:

And in another moment, she's separating her kin from killing one another:

Midway through the movie I told the girls the truth of the matter is that The Incredibles is based on the real lives of their parents. Anna rolled her eyes. Grace suspended disbelief, but kept her eyes focused on the movie for the moment. But we all know that I'm not any kind of Mr. Incredible. And there are no superhero powers in the home. The truth of the matter is that Karyn isn't really Elastigirl. But then she does have my heart in the palm of her hand, and she does keep the girls from killing one another, and she does foil evil as it closes in from all sides. The truth of the matter is that she's rebounded and bounced and stretched to limits that I never have had to imagine. The truth of the matter is that there are no masks with Karyn, no red and black suits, and no pilot's license. But the truth of the matter is that she is Elastigirl, only with better shoes and glasses.

perspective

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 13:16:00 +0000

Two days ago I starved all day so that a doctor could probe a camera down my throat and into my stomach. I think I was a good sport, but a lot of it was miserable, aside from two things:

The stuff they use to put me under "conscious sedation" was splendid. There was no break in between one thought pre- and the next thought post- procedure. Just total relaxation and a peaceful nap kind of feeling. One of these days, someone should start using drugs for recreational use.
I got pictures of my very healthy looking stomach. Everything looks fine and I get a prescription for some stomach acid overproduction. But more importantly, I get to keep the pictures of the wrinkled but uniform looking lining of my insides.

It was the pictures that I wanted the most -- the drugs were an added benefit. They're amazing in lots of ways, but after a few glances I realized that they pale in comparison to what I'm surrounded by everyday. Last week the teachers I hosted got to play with our scanning electron microscope, taking images like these:

Microbes nestled in between cells on a juniper.

The structure of teflon tape.

Sugar crystals

And just a few days later, colleagues and friends were taking pictures from a well planned launch of a giant balloon and payload into near space. This is taken from 98,000 feet, where you can literally peer into the darkness of space, as well as get some first hand evidence that the thing we stand upon is round.

The Earth (including the Green River) and space from 98,000 feet.

I suspect all I need sometimes is a little perspective. Recently it's been harder for me to step back and appreciate this -- or maybe it's been harder to have the time to make that step. So, I'm fortunate to get to work (and play) in a place that gives me such an incredible range of perspective.

advice to the writer

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

A dear old friend has recently been introspectively lamenting the writing process, and I've been wanting to give advice. As a blogger -- strike that -- as a writer of some fame, she elicits lots of support and response from readers, and so when she wonders aloud what to write about next and where to take the writing process, suggestions abound. So much, though, doesn't acknowledge that sometimes we get tired: moving across the country and starting a new job, for example, isn't just a new opportunity, but a complete rearrangement of the psyche. I advocate that people can and should take breaks, or at least acknowledge that sometimes we just need a sabbatical, even a small one. (Everyone and every profession should have sabbatical time programed in, but that's another editorial.)

Then again, I didn't want to actually stop reading what my friend had to write, so I, like the other readers, wanted to encourage more writing. Others suggested the author recounting some past events; some prompted her to start in the present; and still others imagined some other new exercises and topics. So much easier it is to suggest what to write about than to actually do it yourself. Some of us make an entire profession out of this act.

As I've been wondering myself, wanting to help and hoping to reveal some new truth in three paragraphs or less, I had gotten only to this point. The question is not just "what to write about," but a deeper question of "who am I?" and "where do I find meaning?" and "how do I connect to the rest of consciousness of this universe?" Who am I to think that I have even a beginning prompt, not to mention any real advice? And then this morning, in my daily email notification with a poem each day, came this advice (originally for "young poets," but I suspect it's good advice for any writer of any age):

Advice to Young Poets
by Martin Espada

Never pretend
to be a unicorn
by sticking a plunger on your head

Better advice you will not find, here nor elsewhere.

a day at the track

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 22:33:00 +0000

There are lots of things I could have been doing yesterday that would have had redeeming and useful qualities. There's my family, free of obligations on a Saturday; there's a stack of reviews yet to complete and send out; there are readings and preparations and lawn mowing and . . . well, clearly, so many things, all of which would have had more redeeming qualities than driving across state lines and spending the day at the horse track.

Strangely, I hadn't been to the track since I was a minor, when a high school friend's family were horse people, training and breeding horses (as opposed to being half horse, half human -- not that kind of "horse people"). I remember it being fun to watch the races, but the elements of alcohol and gambling were clearly things we missed out on. This time, the day trip seemed like a good opportunity to think about things of little importance, cheer for magnificent creatures with names like "Princess of Zoom," and drink beer. The pace of such a day, especially after teaching a weeklong workshop, seemed exactly like the thing to do.

The track is a fascinating place. This one was neither fancy nor filthy. Families gathered around blankets and hot dogs. Children raced on stick horses in between the more official competitions. My $2 bets were received without judgement. My combination of t-shirt, shorts, and cap seemed only slightly out of place in a mix of people where many fancied cowboy hats and jeans. Variety abounded, including not only me and the cowboys, but the families and the woman with a tattoo of a dolphin that arched across the topography of her left breast.

My first "successful" bet came in the first race, when my horse was disqualified. That meant that the $2 I'd invested would be returned to me, on pace for a break-even day. But then most other of my subsequent wagers to place and show garnered nothing for multiple races, and when they did pay out, I realized that the return was so small that it was almost embarrassing to cash out $3.20 and then reinvest only the $2 minimum. So, by the 6th race I'd decided that my $2 bets should be going to causes that, since they were likely to lose, should lose in grand fashion. Not completely wild, improbably guesses, but predictions of combination, such as the trifecta. I remember the "trifecta" from my high school track days, the remarkable boldness of suggesting that you could know the top three horses, in order. A physicist by trade, I could analyze data from previous races and improve my odds, I thought. And for the privilege of engaging in such a pursuit I'd gladly pay $2.

When this paid $299 in the 7th race, and my other wager on a quinella added a few more dollars I wasn't really sure what to think. In fact, it wasn't until the nice woman at the counter was counting out hundred dollar bills that I realized what a great thing gambling is. What to do with $300 that you are paid just for sitting around, drinking beer, and pretending like you know all about the sport of horse racing? Later I'd think of multiple things, like shoes and CDs and more beer. But at the time I thought (honestly) that this would pay a big chunk of my deductible on the medical procedure scheduled for Monday. There I was, Mr. Excitement, middle-aged physics teacher now able to afford to pay for a doctor to put a camera down his throat and into his stomach.

My second improbable trifecta of the day, on the last race, only paid $46 for my two dollars. But it was more exciting this time. First, I knew a bit more about what was occurring as it happened; second, the three horses (8, 2, 1) were clearly crossing the finish line in that order as I cheered them on; third, I had already earmarked my earlier winnings for medical procedures. This money could go to my kids college funds. Or dinner that night, where it paid for the special catch of the day and a sandwich, salad bar included.

non-sequitur goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 22:26:00 +0000

This afternoon I'm too tired to keep my head up off my desk, but fortunately I can type this way -- forehead on a box of pencils while arms outstretched pound at the chicklet keyed keyboard and (presumably) find themselves on the screen. Accurately?

I was about to finish a few other things, but should just go home to recharge. Today they measured charges and counted electrons. They also plotted some graphs and thought about second derivatives and first derivatives and all the relationships derived and what they meant. So no wonder we're all tired.

Yesterday had similar accomplishments, but the notable things about yesterday were the events that took place in between class events:

In the morning I installed and ran Windows on a Mac, the two operating systems side-by-side with one another. It was creepy and it felt wrong, but it worked. It even served a purpose.
At lunch got us tickets for Brandi Carlile. I would have easily paid twice what I did for the tickets. This is not only because I love her (Karyn understands), but because she loves me, as is clearly demonstrated on this autographed copy of a CD she gave me. Okay, I bought the CD and she was gracious enough to sign it. But I swear, she looked up at me, smiled, and then placed the heart on the cover. With a Sharpie.
After the day's workshop/class/death-march, I checked email to learn that my summer program has a donation from a foundation for next summer. This is great news because I haven't even had a chance to worry about anything besides this summer. Stress avoided (except for the part about now really being obligated to continue to offer the program, but that's a fate I've accepted and embrace).
And then I checked my voicemail. "You have [strange pause in electronic recording] one [another pause] new message," she (very small lady who lives in my phone) tells me. She went on to tell me it was "90 [pause] seconds" and then prompted me to listen to the message. Oh holy Christ, I think when bracing myself for a 90 second message. Generally speaking, 20 seconds is a really good message length, unless it's from a good friend with a voice I don't remember I've missed. But 90 seconds is usually from a student or administrator who should have only used 20 seconds, and I was bracing myself because I wasn't in the mood. Much to my delight and surprise, however, it was the Poet Laureate of Oregon, calling me up out of the blue to tell me that my messages had gotten through to him, and as he chuckled heartily he explained that he doesn't use email and the online form to contact his office doesn't make it to him. My personal visit to the Oregon Humanities Council had now paid off: he was genuinely happy to be invited to and participate in the conference. Calling him back I found that he was not only happy to play with us, but he was exactly the person and poet that we were hoping for. This sudden news came after months of trying to track him down.

No moral; no connections; no story arc. Just a bunch of completely non-sequitur events that were each unlikely and each good.

fishing for lessons

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 04:15:00 +0000

Some teaching days just don't go right. In the long run, the grand scheme, or the big picture, it doesn't matter so much, but it still justifies a deep sigh. The first time the power went off on campus this afternoon I knew it was a sign for things to come. Yet, I still sent the lucky 13 teachers off to the computer lab to engage in an online activity. Sure enough, the power went out again, leaving their partial results lost in the neverregions of the interweb. "Are you still in here?" I inquired of the pitch black of the computational lab. Meek voices and illuminated cell phones responded. I sent them home. It was the equivalent of punting on third down*, something you do just to keep morale from slipping further into a pit of despair.**

Conceding defeat, I reconciled a pile of receipts from June. As those who have to keep track of these things will testify, it's something I can easily put off for days. Weeks. Sometimes more. I took it as a sign from god herself that this meant I was supposed to finish this bit of work, and sure enough just about the time I needed to look something up on the computer, the electricity was restored. Perhaps She does exist.

This is all contrasted with how well and how easily things went last week. I was working with elementary school teachers, conducting a "field day" that was supposed to give them a sense for the ins-and-outs of science, how it's done, what makes it distinct from other pursuits, etc. I say, passively, that the field days "was supposed to give them" this sense, but I should be more accurate: I was supposed to design the field day to be this way. The field component itself was a hike in the mountains, and I assigned them the task of looking at and recording notes about the world from two perspectives: the scientist's and the poet's. What we see in the world is not only created by the direction of our gaze, but the nature of our lens. I wanted them to work on this and experience the contrast.

The challenge was to figure out how to give them an idea of where to start. These were elementary teachers, trained in how to diagnose reading issues, create mathematical manipulatives, and soak up vomit with some of that magic powder stuff. What they know how to do is artful and inspiring, but they haven't had a chance to think about how to be a poet nor a scientist. Yet, we had had some previous experience reading Samuel Scudder's 19th century account of observing a fish as a budding scientist. Scudder learned to see, scientifically, by doing it over and over again, practicing on a fish before he was allowed to pursue his studies in entomology. When the good professor Agassiz, Scudder's mentor, came back to check on the progress he

listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts whose names were still unknowns to me: the fringed gill-arches and movable operculum; the pores of the head, fleshy lips and lidless eyes; the lateral line, the spinous fins and forked tail; the compressed and arched body. When I finished, he waited as if expecting more, and then, with an air of disappointment, "You have not looked very carefully; why," he continued more earnestly, "you haven't even seen one of the most conspicuous features of the animal, which is a plainly before your eyes as the fish itself; look again, look again!" and he left me to my misery.

The moral of the essay eventually reveals itself as Scudder discovers that it was the plain, obvious symmetry of all the fish's organs and features that was perhaps the most amazing and important observation to be made. Yet he had all of these other observations to make in the interim, not simply looking at the fish but also feeling the fish, drawing the fish, and concentrating on it from memory. Even after all this, the "facts are stupid things," as Agassiz instructed, until they are brought together into something more coherent and meaningful.

The evening before my pursuit with these teachers, I was left with the problem of a poet's counter-example. Scratching my head, I took the unoriginal tack of opening up Billy Collins, starting with his most recent collection and simply diving into the pages somewhere in the middle. And where should my book open itself but to a poem entitled, The Fish. Collins has a distinctively different relationship with his fish:

As soon as the elderly waiter
placed before me the fish I had ordered,
it began to stare up at me
with its one flat, iridescent eye.

I feel sorry for you, it seemed to say,
eating alone in this awful restaurant
bathed in such unkindly light
and surrounded by these dreadful murals of Sicily.

And I feel sorry for you, too —
yanked from the sea and now lying dead
next to some boiled potatoes in Pittsburgh —
I said back to the fish as I raised my fork.

And thus my dinner in an unfamiliar city
with its rivers and lighted bridges
was graced not only with chilled wine
and lemon slices but with compassion and sorrow

even after the waiter removed my plate
with the head of the fish still staring
and the barrel vault of its delicate bones
terribly exposed, save for a shroud of parsley.

And so ended my preparation. It was one of those lessons that simply jumped out of the pond and onto my plate. Not only did I get to use this as an example and point for discussion last week, I now have a poetic companion to one of my favorite scientific essays, filleted and fully prepared as a course entree, complete with the parsley. Sometimes the power goes out and squashes even the most detailed plans. Sometimes, though, things work out better than we deserve. There's seldom an in-between.

_____

*As a kid I would go with my dad to Oregon State football games. I actually witnessed this strategy on more than one occasion, and it's stuck with me more than any other programmed play, an image that portrays "desperation" better than any collection of words.

**To be fair, the morning's activities went really well. We measured both the size of the Sun and the size of the molecule -- using rulers marked by centimeters, a little geometry and some inference. Most people have never done either of these things, and we managed both in the span of a few hours.

fatherhood

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 02:34:00 +0000

In retrospect it seemed more like something of a dream. All the women I'd ever really cared to impress -- my mother, my wife, my daughters -- watching and cheering and clapping. Had it actually been a dream it may have included a few others: the girlfriend from college who spent the day at the beach with me courtesy of a bright blue Ford Festiva, smiling just enough to make a good photo; my high school typing teacher, watching to make sure I kept my fingers on the home row; my creative writing teacher from college, standing there, arms folded, stoic and judging; and Dick Clark, because he shows up in these kinds of dreams ever since I was a five-year-old and he co-starred in a dream along with a brontosaurus. But this was real, so it was my family, and in a lot of ways that was much stranger as I stood ready, yet fully clothed, to conquer the slip 'n' slide.

It started simply enough, with mom giving the girls the orange sheet of vinyl to entertain themselves during the hot summer afternoons of their stay. Soon I became not just an observer and afternoon beer drinker, but a judge of olympic distinction, offering scores and advice to the sliders. The problem, though, was that most of these attempts were more slip than slide, feeble approaches and half-hearted skids on their knees. In sharp contrast were the pictures on the box showing kids splayed out on their frontsides, spraying water in all directions and sliding gracefully through the full 16-foot length of the vinyl sheet. Soon, I wasn't just giving 3's and 4's on the 10-point scale, but offering constructive feedback like "pathetic!" and "pitiful!" So I really felt the need to demonstrate both the spirit and technique of a full body slide.

And that's how I found myself, fully clothed, mother-wife-daughters watching, diving headlong onto the puddled sheet, splayed out and sliding the full 16 feet and spraying water in all directions. At this point in the story I'd be wondering to myself if this really happened just so, if the spray and splay of the dive were really what I remember and retell. But there was the clapping and cheering of all these women, like I said, as though it had been some strange dream. Then I pulled myself out of the last puddle and emerged, soaked to the bone.

Since the event, I've been wondering why. Why did I need to drench myself, not to mention risk humiliation and injury? There are lots of explanations, most of them tracing back to my middle-aged person trying to redeem his inadequacies of present and past. But I think there's more to it than this. Fatherhood is something I accepted long ago, unknowing of what it really entails. I've since figured out that it sometimes means teaching something or demonstrating something, but most of the time it's an effort to bring joy into the eyes of these other people -- those who ravage your home, eat your food, and consume all your resources -- and simultaneously see that joy through those very eyes. Without thinking about it, the risk my physical self* and personal pride were thrown aside, and in the end (I know because we have it on video) there are two girls jumping, clapping, and laughing as I went to find myself a place to dry off.

_____

*The risk was real, as for several days after my ribs and muscles ached. There's another lesson in there that I'm choosing to ignore for now.

adaptability

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 00:51:00 +0000

Consider the two adapter plugs shown below. One is that which protrudes from the taillight system of a State owned 1995 Ford Explorer; the other is a State employee's suggested "fix," an adapter whose other end plugs into a trailer that brings fun science activities to children across town.

Right. They don't match. But, as a State employee would later suggest to me, they're both round and the adapter "is brand new and it's made for a Ford," implying that there's no reason the solution could possibly fail. I politely volunteered that the two plugs were different, that I didn't think this would work. I got no response, the helpful equivalent of a lifeguard watching from her perch while the non-swimmer gurgles below the surface.

Back from a great vacation and a greatly needed break, I hadn't imagined that I'd be lying underneath the tail end of our substitute towing vehicle for the week, contemplating wiring arrangements and what-the-fuck? and haven't they used this for towing before? and if they did they would have run into this problem before? Being back from vacation, I hadn't imagined that I'd be in the doctor's office trying to understand why stomach pains keep coming back and that it's probably anxiety though we should drop a camera down there and see if there are other things to treat. But we adapt. And when the adapters don't fit, we find ourselves lying underneath the tail end of the State owned vehicle and we pull out a pocket knife, wire strippers, and electrical tape. A few years ago, I may have pounded my fist in the bumper in frustration, but today I serenely and decidedly and irreversibly cut, strip, and reconnected. (I'd never before contemplated the idea that seniority gets you more than just freedom academically, but also mechanically.)

And what do you know? It works. Vandalizing the State-owned vehicle and the State-owned adapter and connecting green to green, white to white, yellow to yellow, and black to black was surprisingly and satisfyingly straightforward, and the results are 100% what you'd want them to be: left turn, right turn, and brake lights all function completely. Sometimes things take more than a quick adaptation. Sometimes we just need to strip some wires and remove the very adapters that are supposed to be helping, because they're just getting in the way.

leaving

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 19:39:00 +0000

The stress
of leaving
everything behind
is replaced
by the emancipation
of leaving
everything behind.

have mercy

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 04:21:00 +0000

I recently read a poetic hypothesis by Anne Porter , suggesting what she might say to our Maker on a day of judgement. It's in contrast with the image painted for me during my upbringing. And that's in sharp contrast to John's belief that St. Peter will greet him at the pearly gates with a balance sheet accounting for all those beers bought for him versus all the beers he bought for others. If the balance is in the black, he's allowed in; if he's in the red, well, then he's in the red.

Being more and more plagued by a lack of confidence in what to believe, I imagine that there are too many possibilities for how I could be judged. Even here on Earth the possibilities are numerous and changing every five minutes or so. Porter's plea gave me another possibility:

A Plea For Mercy

When I am brought before the Lord
What can I say to him
How plead for mercy?

I'll say I loved
My husband and the five
Children we had together
Though I was most unworthy

I'll say I loved
The summer mornings
I loved the way the sun comes up
And sets the dew on fire
I loved the way
The cobwebs shine
On the tall grass
When they are strung with dew

I'll say I loved
The way that little bird
The titmouse flies
I'll say I loved
Its lightness
Lilt
And beauty.

Given this suggestion, I wonder: What would I say? My answer is the result of the tug of war between two sides of the spectrum. I suspect, pulling from the right, would be my tendency to blather on and make things up as I go along. I'd sputter out some kind of panicked reply, the fires of hell licking my feet from below. On the other hand, I could call upon my educator instincts and have prepared for the inevitable and most appropriate means of assessment: a rubric. The trouble is that there seems to be some disagreement regarding what exactly this rubric looks like. I suspect it's a simple pass/fail evaluation, although there may be a score reserved for purgatory. At any rate, it's still hard to image (or maybe I'm not committed and faithful enough) exactly what the criteria are for a passing grade. Being kind? Being pious? Being devoted? Being prophetic? I don't know exactly, and that's why I imagine that it would go something like this:

First, I'll start apologizing: I'll say I'm sorry that I yelled at the dog. And that I lost my temper with the kids. I'll have to admit that I kicked the dog, but never the kids. I'm sorry that I would even feel the urge to throw something, usually a piece of technology through a window. I'll say it was wrong for me to use that bookstore gift certificate that I found, knowing it wasn't really mine, to spend on myself. I should have been more patient; I could have done more to help others; I should have listened better the first time.

And then, because I'm me, because I'm human, I suspect I'll make excuses. Maybe because of my training in academe, I'll try to find explanations (just like the "Maybe because of my training in academe" preface to this very sentence) for all of my inadequacies, as though it would help me at this point: The dog wouldn't listen and was about to get mud all over the house; the kids' room was such a mess. And I didn't actually throw anything through a window, so perhaps that counts for something? Patience, helping, and listening -- I believe I was getting better at these, slowly. And the gift certificate I spent on two books of poetry, which I suspect You can appreciate.

But if I really had my wits about me -- and who's to know that I would -- I might cut myself off and just cut to the important parts. It seems likely that a trap door would fall out from beneath me well before I get to this point, but if I had the chance: I loved the poetry, and I shared it with a friend. I loved how the land I stood on fell out from under the face of Earth that towers above me to the east. I marveled and I laughed and I cried and I was more privileged than I deserved to have the family and friends that I do. And, more than once, I saw a child's face light up in a smile, and I think it was because of something I did. And maybe that's the rubric: How many smiles were there trailing behind you? In essence, it's not any different than John's hypothesis of the tabulation of beer debt. Either way, I hope I pass, not so much because I understand what I'll enter into, but because of what I'd leave behind.

love

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 22:10:00 +0000

Anna, at nine and a half years of age, disarms me completely sometimes. Her pixie-esque voice, from out of nowhere, has created this habit of saying so convincingly "I love you" as she is dropped off for dance, as I'm leaving for work, as she's being tucked in for bed. I don't know where she's gotten this. Sure, we say this in our home, but it isn't the ritual that Anna's established. Actually, it isn't even a ritual for her, but part of her nature, so that it comes out of the blue but simultaneously fits her, just like her red hair, her gangly legs, and her tendency to have a book wrapped around her nose.

Grace is different. Grace explained to me the other day as we were listening to a Billy Joel favorite of ours that It's Still Rock and Roll To Me "used to be my favorite rock and roll song before I heard [Kanye West's] Love Lockdown." Grace sings along with the electronica infused rap hip-hop from her booster seat in the second row of our car; and when her 6-year-old flute of a voice emotes, "I've been down this road too many times before," I smile every time.

I could try to further describe the difference between my daughters -- hair, eyes, voice, tendencies, posture, interests, etc., but the contrast between "I love you" and "love lockdown" mostly sums it up. Nor does it even scratch the surface.

archives and anthologies

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 04:03:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago I spent time paging through papers in folders in file boxes. I'd never imagined that when I was told that the records of the office I'm taking over now/not-until-July (long story) were "archived in the Library" that this was going to amount to more than a two-inch binder. Imagine my surprise when the archivist wheeled out two large boxes filled with file folders that documented only the first two years. I sat down and started paging through things that had been long forgotten: hard copies of emails exchanged and workshops announced. It was amazing how much information was there, literally in my hands, right before my eyes. After half an hour (25 minutes more than I'd thought I'd be spending) I realized that I needed to come back, but now with a new appreciation of the archived record.

On the weekend of my birthday, Karyn gave me an expansive volume of poetry, complete with CD recordings of the original authors' readings, ranging from the late 19th century to present day. It's like a tomb of poetry with the corpses of Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Robert Frost and Sylvia Plath, their own voices called out via CD from the grave. I sit down with just the book and open it, randomly, and begin paging through. Where do you start? Page 1? Or in the middle? Or at the end? And then once that's figured out do you start by reading or listening, or both? Or back and forth? So far, I've mostly just been pondering the presence of "Nothing Gold Can Stay" somewhere not at the beginning nor at the end, and considering the lives of the poems themselves. I have a sort of awe for this book because it feels to me like some kind of preservation of something that people got just right, just so that you'd want to read them again and again.

Back to my new office, down the hall from the archives of the library, there's a giant shelf of books belonging to the office itself. These are all books that have been used in faculty discussion groups and other workshops. A few I've read, although most of these are in hardback and I wonder if I could trade them out with my softcover versions. Mostly, though, I realize that these are here not as archives for something we need to preserve, but a trail of breadcrumbs . .. or maybe cobwebs. There is a pile of suggestions for other books that we could read for professional development, and I wonder where I'm going to find room for them. Which perfectly good book needs to get moved away to provide room for the latest up-and-comer? I suspect the copy of Dewey's Democracy and Education is the oldest title on the shelf, but I'll protect it and let the other fly-by-night philosophers get discarded long before.

Down the hall and up the stairs and around the corner, in another office of the library, I found myself paging through a stack of books from Q181. Our librarian asked me to see which of these we absolutely needed to keep, because otherwise they were on deck to be discarded . . . because nothing gold can stay, I suppose? Some have sat there for eight, nine decades, watching the university itself move lumberingly through the 20th century and beyond. Many, many texts document the late 1950's and '60's, and in particular it was interesting to note those dated to 1956 and one with the prologue dated January of 1957. These were printed immediately before the launch of Sputnik, and being texts in science education, they seemed almost as though they had a false start. Each text for the next decade or more notes the "post-Sputnik" world and all that's associated with such a new political order. I wonder if the pre-Sputnik books felt foolish, as though they arrived at a party too early and in the wrong clothes.

I started saving these refugees from Q181, some returned to the shelves for some historical significance -- like my own anthology of poetry, they tell a story that documents where we've been, with voices that probably aren't too different from what we utter now. And a few other texts have made it to my personal collection, rather than the trash bin. I saved these because a few are historically significant, but most of them are just irresistible. How could you throw away a text with diagrams and full instructions to make your own overhead projector? Nothing gold can stay, but I'll do what I can.

potential, or a lack thereof

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 23:24:00 +0000

The trouble with poetry, as Billy Collins says, is that it encourages more poetry. "Like baby rabbits," it propagates itself by instilling the desire of the reader to write his own poetry. On a recent trip into the desert with some teachers of writing and science, I experienced exactly this. But on return and upon looking at my own writing, I realized the other trouble with poetry: It reveals my own work for the pedantic blather that it is. Collins himself is but one example of this. I further made the mistake of reading Robert Frost, who not only paints a picture, sets a mood, parables a lesson, but does it all with elegant meter. Nothing Gold Can Stay is brilliant not only because it retains meaning through generations (I continue to associate it with The Outsiders), but because it is so lyrical. As I was working on my own piece, an assignment from our class trip, it became increasingly clear that it was not to be The Great Poem I dream about, the one I thought it was when the first seeds of it were planted in my head. The beauty of so much already written, so much to read, set amongst so much yet to be written, so many empty pages, became the final theme of the verse. A great poem? No. I'll admit that the writing is just as inspiring (or less so) as the moral of the poem itself. And maybe that's where the potential lies, and the other trouble with poetry: so much room for improvement.

Potential

the chime of brass
opens the door
and I plod into the bookstore
on 78 N. Main,
a floorboard creaking,
welcoming my presence.

where

the potential of print within
all the darkness between
the closed covers of
books written,
neatly organized,
calls to me.

while

the potential of space within
the leather covers around
the stark blankness of
unfilled pages,
acid free,
begs for fulfillment.

so

after some thought
and furrowing of brow
and pacing of feet
I decide,
and order a
cappuccino
to go.

reflection

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 17:45:00 +0000

I wonder if we aren't anything without reflection. This comic, displayed for me today, reminded me of this idea:

An old friend, visiting for the week, asked me about my writing and this space in particular. She asked, kindly, if I ever wanted to do anything else with this kind of writing. And my answer is, sheepishly, "of course." But I couldn't begin to imagine what that would be. The point of having the space right (write) now is to have a place to reflect upon myself. And maybe to make fun of others. But mostly to look at myself so that I remind myself of who and where I am, and maybe a little to figure out where I'm going. The trick is to not become too transfixed with my own image in the puddle or the journal entry, so stuck to this that nothing else gets done. This reminds me that I have some paperwork to get signed, a shopping list to flesh out, and some papers to review; so I need to step away from my puddle.

a list of words I wish I understood

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 04:33:00 +0000

Some words are just on some cusp of almost-understood for me, some zone of proximal verbal development. If you say the word in context, I kind of understand it, and I like the word so much that I'd like to be able to use it myself more often. I just don't get them well enough to spit them out, and sometimes I'm not even sure how to pronounce them. These words include:

glib
solipsism
fortuitous
recondite
taciturn
munificent
indolent
banal
sagacious
incipient
salacious
tenebrous

Tomorrow I leave on a science and writing workshop. As I'm a co-leader, it seems that I should try to put some of these words to good use. And others as well. But perhaps I'll just be using words like "spaghetti," "windy," and "tent stake."

And there are other words that I can use just fine, but I still don't understand them. These include things like:

cholesterol
menstrual
subduction zone
wave function [even though I teach it]
condensation [also, even though I teach it]
carburetor
learn
love
life

two hands

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Sun, 31 May 2009 04:38:00 +0000

My good friend and colleague talks about a guiding hand that we find pushing us along in much of our work. Recently, though, I've been reminded of the importance of two hands. Lately it's been especially important to consider this because I've felt scattered and slightly panicked, preoccupied with the packing and preparation for leading teachers out into the desert. Fortunately, Carl's leading the writing exercises, but I'm making sure we have the right food to eat, the right supplies, the right key to the right trailer. In the morning, when I wake up, things seem clear and fine (and I'm sure they will be); but as night gets darker and I should be thinking about nothing -- just sleep -- my head spins. What about firewood? What about the tire pressure in the trailer? Can I use the firewood to place under the wheels of the trailer? Did I write that down? And then someone asks if we'll have decaf. Of course we can have decaf. But I need to write it down. Write it down write it down write it down. I've written down enough that I'm fairly certain that I'm going to forget to wear my own pants. Or shorts. But I did pack extra sunscreen, thank god. And a hat.

At times like this I need to have something steering things -- a central goal to concentrate upon -- and a way to do the steering. That's where the guiding hand idea came into my psyche. The guide, whether external or internal, is useful and often even crucial. But sometimes we need more, and this is where the advice of my two-year-old nephew has come to bear: Use two hands.

Just over a week ago I was taking care of Nephew #1 while his brother, Nephew #2 (sometimes mis-typed as "new-phew") was being delivered by the stork. (As said nephews are my sister's children, I'd prefer to imagine the stork.) One of the fun things about having a two-year-old nephew in my care is the process of maintaining the newly learned potty techniques. Nephew #1 is adept at going #1 into the potty, even though there is plenty of prompting and escorting and cheering. As I was helping him with all of the details (there's a stool and a seat and an entire process which includes a flamboyant kicking off of the Thomas-the-Train underpants), my proud nephew proclaimed the superiority of his technique. "I use two hands!" he told me. He went on to tell me, midstream, how one hand wasn't as good. Two hands was clearly not only preferred, but superior in all ways. His aim, true like the line of an Elvis Costello song that popped into my head, demonstrated the wisdom of his technique.

Rather than a single guiding hand, I've realized that in many cases we need a leftward and rightward push and pull, simultaneously guiding our aim. I've been fortunate enough to have engaged in projects that require two voices, two inputs, or two hands. A push or the guidance of a single hand might be effective in some cases, but, as my nephew points out (and I imagine he's clearly demonstrated it), the use of two hands is not only useful for motivation, but for a sense of direction and deliberate guidance. So, the trip with 10 teachers to Arches National Park is not only launched and guided by my ambition to get myself and a group outside and in the sand under the sun and within a speck of geological scale, it is also steered by Carl and his thoughtful writing prompts. Or perhaps we each know that the other is there, and even if neither of us knows what we're doing, the faith that the other is leading this trajectory is a good feeling to have. Certainly, other successful projects I've worked in have had the same sense, whether real or imagined, and that sense has ruled the day.

A few days later, I realized another important lesson in the potty-training regimen. While over at the Nephews' home, I heard their dad cheering on #1 while going #1: "Get the cheddar bunny!!! Get him!!! Get him!!!!" What was taking place was the use of a motivational target, an organic-all-natural cracker placed into the bowl to be used as a goal. Guided by two hands, Nephew #1 was both motivated and set on his target. It sounded like so much fun that I was tempted to use the same technique. Instead, I just intend to leave crackers on the floor in random corners of my sister's home the next time I visit.

Again, another life lesson from my most recently toilet trained relative. I'm lucky to have such a good model for life's focus. Even as I write this, I struggle with how to portray the meaning I'm taking away from a two-year-old's urinary habits. What I have to remember is that there is one goal at a time: a cheddar bunny, making dinner, writing a page, portraying an image, filling out a form, finishing an email, scheduling a doctor appointment. I tend to throw a dozen cheddar bunnies in front of me -- fun for a while, but ultimately disorienting. I need to see the one goal, and with two hands, feet planted, steady aim, focus on the cheddar bunny.

possibilities

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Sat, 30 May 2009 06:46:00 +0000

"I keep telling people that anyone can do science anywhere and with anything, but I never really believed it."

"Yeah, who knew that bullshit was true?"

My statement and Larry's honest response was in reaction to how some middle school students had discovered, on their own, an insect. Not a big deal, except that it is a non-native and non-flying insect, and only lives in one other known place in the world. How did they get here? Hitchhiking? Remarkable. More remarkable still, students at this school were being given the resources -- a few tools and some mentoring and some freedom -- to do other independent work. Matt and Larry started telling me about the student who did the most boring, overdone science fair project known to humanity: testing what treatments get stains out of a piece of fabric. Except this student used a light sensor that he'd learned to use for another project in class and quantified the stain removal by measuring how much light could get through it after the various treatments. The result? One of the most potentially boring science fair projects on earth was now the winner of a regional competition.

These weren't the only extraordinary things. There was the room of telescopes and the giant physics lab for next year and the courtyard that the middle schoolers were designing into a xeric landscape and the mini-museum that students were designing and filling with specimens they themselves had done the taxidermy work for. (In addition, a bull elk already stood tall in the middle of the museum space, and a cougar is en route.) My favorite part was the bike shop, though, where a classroom set of bicycles was ready for use (to be complemented by kayaks next year), students did the shop work, and community members could get their bikes worked on for free or a donation. A reconstruction of a newly painted frame together with a new set of handlebars and an imminent cogwheel all were in the process of being matched together when we walked through.

It's all enough to make you not only want to teach eighth grade, but dream about it. All this was the brainchild of a couple of people, and then a few other good people came along and a few others and before you'd know it, the good things just kept happening. How? I think simply because it was possible, and because the right people believed it was possible. So, to quote Larry, "Who knew that bullshit," the possibilities for dreams to become a middle school, "was true?" Larry and Ken did, apparently, and Matt and others were just bright enough and naive enough to follow along with it. I suspect that any good thing just takes a faith, generally encouraged and supported by those you bring to the workshop with you, that the possibility is worth working on hard enough to make a reality.

potential

noreply@blogger.com (Adam) — Thu, 28 May 2009 05:34:00 +0000

In our backyard is a giant maple tree that was planted at the same time that the house was built, we're told. Pushing 70 years old, it could pass for something much older still as it dwarfs the house with its branches and pulls the Earth up as its trunk and its roots continue to expand. Somehow it negotiates the space with the house and the plumbing. Even more kind, it shades the house from the south during the summer months, in addition to giving us something to appreciate and inform us of the season.

One of the fascinating phenomena of this monster deciduous tree is that it drops its seeds in late May. During the spring we watch the leaves come back to life, a set of flowery things burst out, and then in May we see the seeds at the end of a wing begin to sprout. Fair warning, they let us know well in advance that we'll see them come raining down on us, fluttering to the yard and roof (and gutters). This year they've done a particularly good job of falling down evenly throughout the yard, and I've done a good job of using our manual-push reel mower to trim the grass, leaving not only the grass clippings behind but the seeds unscathed. So now, in the backyard, I appreciate all the potential of thousands of "helicopters," seed-side-down and wing-side-up in the grass.

What if all these seeds took root? A part of me wants to see what could happen. Every year there are at least a few seedlings that begin to sprout from the bare dirt on the sides of the yard or in the garden. But what if we let each seed have its own fair shot at it? Could I have a backyard filled with seedlings, the beginning of a maple leaf jungle? Probably not, but I love the idea of the potential.

Tonight I returned from a high school graduation of about 50 students from the local public charter school for which I serve as a board member. While I don't want to push the metaphor too far, for fear of the anxiety I'd feel the next time I bring out the gas-driven lawnmower that bags all the grass clippings and seeds in the yard, the enthusiasm of this group of graduates seemed like they had finally landed and were ready to sprout. They celebrated not so much the accomplishment of graduating high school (although there was plenty of this) as they seemed to talk about what they were yet to become. The diploma in hand, they seemed poised, confident, and giddy about what potential futures they had yet to fulfill.

Potential surrounds me lately. In the lab, Ryan, a graduate with a teaching position offered to him this week, is laying out the science activities that we'll bring to the parks this summer. On lab benches sit familiar old toys from previous years, but also the experiments with new things: a pinhole projector, a new bubble recipe, a soda-vinegar rocket, and plans for a new expanded PVC instrument. Or there's my "new" office. Finally with a key in hand, I began installing the new computer and taking down the 2008 calendar. On the shelf is a library of teaching "self-help" books from discussion groups past. A new calendar, a new operating system, and maybe a new way of doing things are all potentially being planted in the office, but first I need to clean out the old computer, the old dying plant, and the arrangement of synthetic still life fruit. The latter can't be a good role model -- there's no potential for anything but dust collection.

Now almost 10 days old, my new nephew Samuel is the epitome of potential. And as I look at him and look to my 9-year-old and look back to him I realize how quickly it all turns (and is turning) from potential to reality right before my eyes. Anna just received accolades for scoring in the 90th percentile or above on almost all subsections* and composite scores of a national test. (The random chance of doing this, by my calculation, is one in ten thousand, but I know that there are correlations between scores that make this an exaggeration.) So, here's this kid with a gift that she seems to be well on her way to putting to good use, and it all started with a bundle weighing in at about six pounds with a swirl of hair that only had a hint -- a potential -- of being red at the time. Looking at Samuel and looking at Anna I see a progression from one to the other in a heartbeat of an instant of a moment. The potential is not only there, it's being realized right before my eyes.

This all was never more apparent than when we went to Anna's dance recital last Friday night. There was the typical bar work and waltz and ballet, but this year she began practicing contemporary and jazz routines. Through three costume changes, I saw the one who was previously swaddled in blankets now dancing. And not just "dancing" like she used to or like I still do, but really dancing. And all the while she smiled. And I swear, that once, as she bent her legs and raised her arms I was sure that she was about to leap into the air and do a backflip. Of course she didn't ... but then when she made the same motion a second time, I was still sure, again, that she was about to do a backflip. And frankly, I don't remember her not doing a backflip. Through the smile and the dancing and the image of what this child has become in only 9 years or 9 minutes, there was not only the potential of something, but the realization of it. Anna's found joy in herself and in what she does. I only hope I can look to her example for this in my own tasks before me.

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*The one subsection she did not score in the top 10%? Science. It's a funny irony in the household of the science educator.