Showing posts with label transitions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transitions. Show all posts

Thursday, March 24, 2011

And Now For Something Completely Different

It is Concert Week right now, with the Symphony performing back to back concerts this Saturday and Sunday. For those of you out of the area, you can watch it live-streamed. Go to this link. The concert starts at 3:00 Eastern Daylight Savings Time, so do the math and figure out when to turn to your computer if you don't live in this time zone. As for me, I am in the middle of week two of my new job. The great news is I love the new job. The not so good news is that it has thrown my schedule and our household into chaos, especially when combined with Concert Week.

My personal time has taken a back seat to everything else already in the back seat. I think about writing, try to set aside time for writing, and then find myself a day later down the road saying "what happened?"

Thank God for Quote Snack's writing prompts. For some time now, I have been doing them, especially when I fail entirely at my personal horological management. Blogger E.A. Able sets you off with a short quote, sometimes just a phrase, and a five minute limit.

Even on my worst days, I can find five minutes. I can always find five minutes.

Her most recent writing prompt was this sentence: I didn't have anyone around for whom I had to put on a cheerful mask. My response is below.

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All the masks were lying on the floor. Brightly colored ones, dull ones, grim ones, cheerful ones. Feathers, bangles, glitter on some. Curious inlaid rims on others.

Christ, it looks like a Mardi Gras carnival float wrecked here.

I squat down, picking up one from the floor, turning it in my hands, the light glinting off its smooth polished surfaces. It was one of the most cheerful ones: upturned eyes, a broad smile, glowing pinks and yellows.

I didn't have anyone around for whom I had to put on a cheerful mask. I set it carefully on a shelf, giving it a little pat.

I turn to the dance masks. These are the Great Carved Masks. They were done carefully over many generations, carvers telling stories as they huddled around a fire, carvers breathing the magic of the Spirits into the faces. Here is Raven. Here is Wolf. Here is Salmon. Here is the Hamatsa.

The masks are heavy. They are freighted with meaning, freighted with magic. I pick one up, weighing it in my hands and my heart. I carefully put it on and look at myself in the mirror.

I have become the Cannibal at the End of the World and Whoop-Szo will send the avalanche to destroy me.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Changes

"New Occasions Teach New Duties."

Those words, from the hymn "Once to Every Man and Nation" by James Russell Lowell, are inscribed on the façade of what used to be our community's high school and is now one of our two middle schools.

When I was in high school (the "new" high school), Mr. Felts, the quintessential math teacher who'd begun his career decades earlier at the "old" high school, would sometimes look at the class with a glint in his eyes.

"Mr. Wilson," he would say, calling on a student. "New occasions teach new duties. And now I need you to rise to the occasion. To the board, Mr. Wilson, to the board."

That motto and that scene are echoing in my head these days.

This coming Monday, I begin a new job as a mediator for our county Juvenile/Probate court. For the first time since I last practiced law in May, 2005, I will have an office. For the first time in over a decade, I will have a supervisor, a schedule, a regular paycheck, and (drum roll, please) medical insurance.

New occasions and new duties, indeed.

For the last five years, almost to the day, I have been the special projects administrator (a self-coined title) for David Sunderman, one of our two Municipal Court judges. David and I had been colleagues at the bar and friends for many years and he had actually asked whether I would be interested in working for him back in late 2004, less than a week before I was diagnosed with bone marrow cancer. I began in March 2006 once I was well enough to start working and have never looked back. 

Working with David Sunderman has been a blessing, professionally and personally. By any measure, it has been a successful collaboration. I have had my hand in a variety of projects over the years. The two I am proudest of are the establishment of a mental health docket for criminal defendants with mental illnesses and the establishment of a civil mediation program. The last five years epitomize what I recently took to heart: "go where your best prayers take you."

My new position first came to light last summer when I fielded an email from a good friend and employee at Juvenile County telling me one of their two mediators would be retiring and asking me whether I knew any mediators who might be interested in the position.

If memory serves me, I replied, "yes, I do." As in "Yes, I do know mediators who might be interested."

My friend immediately responded with "Good! I was hoping you would be interested!"

To this day, I still don't know how "yes, I do" became "yes, I am," but it did and, as it turns out, I was.

I kept "my" judge in the loop from the outset. It wasn't until this February, however, when the job officially opened and I applied and was given an interview that it suddenly became apparent that I might be leaving Municipal Court.

And then it changed from "I might be leaving" to "I am leaving."

This past Monday my "new" judge, Ken Spicer, made me the formal job offer. I've known Ken for years; I've practiced in front of him. (I've known many of the people I will be working with, including my new supervisor, for years.) I accepted.

On Tuesday, I sat down with my "old" judge and began discussing my transition. Because the new position is part-time and the two courts are only a half block apart, I will have the ability to move out of projects over the coming weeks and not have to do it abruptly.

I am about to experience a new occasion.

This new occasion became real - more real than saying "yes" to Judge Spicer - when I drafted notes to my co-workers at Municipal Court announcing my new job. One to the Mental Health docket team, one to the deputy clerks in the Civil division, one to the mediators, and the last to the court staff. 

I was a little sad, but reserved, with the first.

I was sad with a lump in my throat with the second.

I had a larger lump in my throat as I did the third.

It was the fourth note, though, that brought me to tears. In sending the note to the administrative staff in chambers, I added a post script asking Pat to please make sure the bailiffs got a copy of my announcement. I wrote: Especially the bailiffs, since I have been a "Junior Bailiff" on Thursday afternoon for months now.

That's when the tears started rolling. I hit "send" and cried. Not long, not hard, but I baptized my new occasion with tears for the old.

Yesterday I was at Municipal Court to manage the small claims mediation program. My space at the court check-in table was covered with chocolates, courtesy of the Mental Health Docket coordinator. Dave, one of the bailiffs, announced with a grin, "oh, I see our Junior Bailiff is here." Throughout the afternoon there were comments ranging from "gee, I'm sorry you are leaving" to "just wait until they find out over there what you're really like to work with - you'll be back."

It just about killed me.

Last night Warren and I were en route to a Symphony concert-related event with our good friend (and Symphony Board member) Dave, who happens to be the person who asked me many months ago whether I knew anyone who would be interested in the mediator's position. As we drove along in the dark and the snow, Warren and Dave talking Symphony matters, his children having a verbal tug-of-war over a small flashlight, and me sitting in the back of the van remembering my children having similar skirmishes, Dave suddenly asked "so, April, are you excited about starting on Monday?" I answered back immediately that I was and Dave replied with an emphatic "Good!"

It is good. I am excited.

New occasions teach new duties. My five year stint at Municipal Court was a wonderful occasion with many great learning experiences. The new one awaits.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Morning Notes

I am eating breakfast alone this morning as Warren is giving a talk to an early morning Rotary group. We almost always eat breakfast together.

He just drove off and I am sitting at the kitchen table, with the early morning light just coming through the trees, listening to the birds outside.

My notebook is open in front of me and I am writing these lines out longhand.

The day promises to be hot - the last hot one of a short string of them. I plan on walking to the library first thing this morning before it gets hot to swap my books.

Right now, though, it is cool. There is just enough breeze to clatter the kitchen blinds a bit and stir the wind chimes hanging in the dogwood tree.

I have a lot on my mind. There is a blog post or two stirring around. There are bills to pay and chores to do. My hours have dropped off at court due to changing projects and priorities, so I am stretching already tight dollars a little tighter. I am missing my far-flung children a lot. Little things, big things. The kitchen table still holds a few empty canning jars and I wonder, idly, if I could can my thoughts and put them on the shelf.

I smile at the thought of canning up my cares and concerns.

There is plenty to put my hand to, and I know I need to start the day. But for now, for this moment, I am content to sit here, watch the morning light rise, and welcome the day.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Saying Goodbye

I have been saying "goodbye" to my boys since they were little.

"Goodbye, I'll see you after school."

"Goodbye, have fun at camp."

"Goodbye, let me know your plane got in."

Being a parent and watching your children grow up is one long series of goodbyes. Everything we do to guide them to adulthood is aimed at one day saying "goodbye" as they step into their new lives.

So why does it still hurt so much when that day comes?

When we were out in Montana for Ben and Alise's wedding, I had to say goodbye to both of my boys at the same time. The wedding weekend was over and Warren and I were leaving early the next morning to start our trip back to Ohio.

Ben now lives in Montana with Alise and I would be saying goodbye to both of them for who knows how long. And Sam was staying on in Montana for a week with Ben and Alise before heading further west to Oregon, where he will start at Portland State next month.

I've said goodbye to each of my sons many times and under many circumstances. But this time was different. Here was Ben, stepping into married life. Here was Sam, making some new and important life choices.

Our last day in Helena, the day after the wedding about which I hope to write soon, most of us went to Lake Helena for an afternoon of boating. Alise's father, Joe, took my parents and the boys' father and his fiancé out first, while the rest of us stayed on shore and talked about books and other things. Then Alise, Ben, Sam, Warren, and I joined Joe and Jenna, Alise's younger sister, and we went out on the lake for a couple of hours - my farewell tour, as it were, with the boys.

It was wonderful. I got to see Ben and Alise in a setting familiar to them, unfamiliar to me. I got to watch Sam, who back on shore said he was ready to experience life directly instead of through his computer, try out a new experience. We all got the chance to laugh and talk and joke and relax.

After we came in, we caravanned back to Joe and Mona's house for one last meal of wedding reception leftovers. We ate, we talked, I watched my boys.

And then it was time to say goodbye.

Sam was first. Sam, with whom we had had a most excellent time (well, if you didn't count the last ten minutes when we arrived in Helena and were looking for Ben and Alise's apartment) driving cross-county. Sam, who'd stood on the rail at the Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the North Dakota Badlands, gazing endlessly, saying "I want to come back here and hike." Sam, who'd just yesterday stood by his brother while Ben recited his vows and then broke into a loud cheer when the wedding was concluded.

That Sam.

Sam gave me a hearty hug. "Okay, mom, goodbye until whenever! I love you!"

Oh, I love you so, Sam.

A goodbye hug from Ben. A long, hard hug from my firstborn, who I have watched over from afar for so long. "Thanks for coming out to the wedding, mom. I'm really glad you did. I love you."

My dear Ben, how I love you!

Then goodbyes and hugs to everyone else - Alise, no longer my almost-daughter-in-law, Jenna, their parents, Joe and Mona.

I told Warren I was ready to leave. And although there was a large lump in my throat, I was in pretty good shape as we left the room.

Joe and Mona live in a tri-level house, and to leave the living room where we were, you walk down a short flight of stairs to the front door. As we were walking down, I glanced back and saw Ben standing at the top of the stairs, watching us leave.

He had followed us out.

That killed me.

I have seen Ben only three times in the last five years. I don't know when I will see him again. He's almost 25, he's married, he and Alise are forging their own paths. Yet there was my boy - all grown to manhood - watching his mother leave.

Maybe it occurred to Ben that he wouldn't see me for some time. Maybe he just wanted to see his mom for a minute more. Maybe it was just coincidence (but I don't think so).

I held my tears until I was in the car, and then they came. I cried much of the way to the hotel. Not torrents of tears - more like a spring that fills a basin slowly until it wells over. I cried the same, slow way through the night while Warren held me close.

The next morning we left Montana early, driving into a golden sunrise. We exclaimed over the trip so far, we talked about the wedding and the reception. We told each other "I love you."

The road was brilliant before us. Adventures lay ahead.

And I silently bid my boys goodbye one more time.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Transitions

After the pace and complications of August, I have reached September like a shipwreck survivor, washed up on shore, lying there with my face against the wet grainy sand, grateful and incredulous that I am out of the churning surf. I need to rise to my feet and get above the tide line, but for the moment, I am thinking only "I made it."

Helping me make this transition to where I want to be is the time of year. Our summer has begun to melt into fall, a little earlier than in recent years. The nights have been cool - cool enough to reach for a sweater or shut a window. The noonday sky has become so blue it makes my throat ache to look at it.

Fall is just a breath away.

We get up at about the same time each morning, and with the slow wheeling around of the seasons, that means we now are up before the sun has cleared the horizon. There is a different quality to the light these days. The brassy harsh gold of the summer sun is gone. The sunrise is now long shafts of cool, clear colors before the sun finally appears.

I am invigorated by autumn and find it a season of renewal. I know: it is the season of the earth decaying, readying itself for the long sleep of winter. But to me it is full of energy. Maybe I am fueled by the chill air. Maybe it is the brilliant autumn colors that sustain me.

I know I need to take out my compass and determine where I am following the tumult of last month. For today, though, I feel akin to Emily Dickinson, who wrote:

The morns are meeker than they were -
The nuts are getting brown -

The berry's cheek is plumper -

The Rose is out of town.


The Maple wears a gayer scarf -

The field a scarlet gown -

Lest I should be old fashioned

I'll put a trinket on.