I am very allergic to cats. To me they are not cute and furry balls of fun. They are balls of dander and hair that makes my nose and eyes water. I avoid them and the homes where they reside. Cats and I can not be in the same room.
This weekend I invited some friends over that I had not seen for 6 months. Not long after they arrived, they began to tell me about the litter of kittens that had come to live with them. I was not surprised as my nose and eyes had already begun the process of dripping and running and watering. Even without bringing those little monsters creatures that God made into my home, the dander and fur tagged along on their clothes.
It is like a vicious cycle, once one allergen starts, the others take advantage and come on over to play. West Texas decided to blow into town on Saturday. Mountain cedar is blooming. I have become a walking medicine cabinet with decongestants and antihistamines galore. I am drinking glasses of peppermint tea and sucking on cough drops. Now, if I can just keep this from turning into a sinus infection it will be awesome.
Needless to say, there was no school today as the teacher was sick and we will have to make up some time this weekend. My toddler made huge messes but I just did not feel like following him around. I will have to regain some control of this house tomorrow but for now I am off to feel my head drain from side to side and I turn over in bed.
Honey and I have the same birthday. He will always be a year older than I am. Happy Birthday Honey!!!
Apropos of my life, I was in bed asleep. I was teaching MWF's at TCC at the time. Dad came up to tell me about the first crash, suggesting that it was an accident. I went back to sleep, but when Dad came to tell me there was a second crash, I came downstairs and sat glued to the set for several days to come.
Reflecting on what has happened since that time, I see some unusual bright sparks. Monday, I was trying to be sensitive to my students, watching for signs of distress or sadness. About a week earlier the subject had come up in my senior AP class as we were discussing Art as a Product of Tragedy. Almost every student shared his or her story of where they were; most of them were at school. (They were 12 or so at the time.) I noticed that most of them said they didn't really understand the import of the events, but were reacting to the way the adults--teachers and parents--were reacting.
As I said, I was particularly observant of my students' emotional states on Monday. At the end of the day, I saw one girl walking toward the exit after 6th period who was clearly on the verge of tears. I asked her if she was okay, and she said no as the tears started to flow. I put my arm around her and led her to my classroom to let her open up. As it turned out, she was upset about her boyfriend who was being particularly mean to her.
I found this so refreshing, so brilliantly positive. She wasn't scared, terrified by the thought of annihilation; she was worried about staying with a boy who wasn't particularly nice. She told me "Life is too short to waste time on someone who won't treat me nice."
I have the privilege of working with and helping shape teenagers on the precipice of adulthood and I am constantly amazed by the optimism and verve with they fling themselves into the future. Say what you want about kids today, but even in their solipsism, they offer terrific lessons for me as to how to face and embrace life.
Another paradoxically positive reflection I had has to do with Mother's death eight months after 9/11. It occurred to me that the events of that day and the aftermath may have helped Mom to let go, not to have to fight and cling, to see death not as a "undiscovered country" but as a sweet release.
I know that sounds morbid, but I don't mean it as such. Just as so many people reclaimed their spiritual lives in the aftermath, Mother embraced her fate, the fate of us all.