Thoughts on the Recursive. And Thank You.

© 2010 David Parker

Apparently, with no focal point (like a sun or a star or a you or a me), and with every intention to walk in a straight line, people walk around in circles. But, whether we’re blindfolded or just stumbling through the thick pitch of night, while we’re doing all of that wandering, we think we’re walking in a straight line. Without that external corrective, something inside of us, something about the way our atoms fit together, something about our biology, will not stay straight. I think part of what Souman’s study might reveal is that the human journey is not the shortest distance between two points. Rather, it seems to be the circle that connects one point back to itself.

This resonates with me. Maybe even validates my very existence. Because I do things, the same things, over and over, expecting different results. Someone once told me that this is the mark of insanity, but now I’m thinking maybe it’s the mark of humanity. Because don’t we all fall into patterns of behavior, patterns of thinking, rhythms of the everyday that are impossible to break? At least, they seem impossible to break. Especially without some kind of focal point like a person or a plan.

There are certain places in the geography of my life that I have been circling for the past five years–one of those places is the beginning of my teaching career. Another might be the day I met Ruthie. Another might be my divorce. Another might be the death of my grandfather. Another might be who I am in my family and who I am for real. And we all have these events, these anchors. Like the novelist Darin Strauss , who ran over a teenager when he was a just a teenager and wrote about it in fiction without knowing he was writing about it. (Now he’s finally written about it on purpose in a memoir called Half a Life.) And the only way that I’ve found to move past these events (or move through them the way one might move through a forest with trees thick as thieves and no light of day) is to write about them. With intention. The story of the event becomes my focal point, the external corrective to my inner recursive nature. And the sifting through those events reveals more and more of who I am. And that reveal is such a relief. Because for too long I’ve wandered around with these stories, these fragile stories, that I had to guard and protect and wear wrapped around my face. And now, here they are. Public and unapologetic: my stories.

And STORY is what carries us back to ourselves. Odysseus receives his ship home in return for a story. He tells a story in exchange for a ship that will (finally) take him back to where he came from, where his identity began. And I think it’s important that he tells his story. He doesn’t get the ship home in exchange for thinking of his story, but in exchange for sharing his story. And in telling my stories, I feel like I’m kind of giving myself back to myself. Owning not only the parts that are uncomfortable and awkward, but especially the parts that I’m proud of, the parts that were hard, the parts where I became. That ownership comes from sharing, and with each sharing, I’m peeling away pieces of my blindfold that hide me from my home.

All this is to say thank you. Thank you for reading and for watching me walk blindly in circles. I’d have no hope of home or a ship to carry me there were it not for your listening, allowing me to share. Just. Thank you.

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Faith and Baby Steps

© 2010 David Parker

About a month ago I met Faith, and ever since, I’ve been carrying it around like a new born baby swaddled up in mind-maps and golden tickets punched by me. I’ve discovered that faith (in people and in my own ideas) takes a lot of trusting and a hell of a lot of baby steps.

Today I counted and I have about eight projects in the works. Several of them will appear here, as baby steps. The first is a series of installments about how I became a teacher. Last year was a very discouraging one for me as an educator. I started off this year feeling frustrated with the educational system in general and defeated in particular by the experiences I’d had in my classroom. I used to feel like my career choice was meaningful, that I was accomplishing some truly humane purpose, but as I met people in industries outside of education (especially artistic ones), I became increasingly disenchanted with my profession.  From this disenchantment came the founding of an interdisciplinary arts organization and the beginning of a writing project. Because I’ve only ever understood anything through story, and because I can’t do anything well that I don’t perceive to be meaningful, I decided that the only way for me to make sense of my profession and find the meaning I have been missing was to go back and tell the story of how I arrived here. You can find those installments under the category “Becoming Ms. Reed.”

Sight-Seeing on Lysithea

© 2010 David Parker

For the past few days, thoughts have been popping in my head like Christmas ornaments: delicate implosions that crunch underfoot. Their tiny shards have embedded themselves in the folds of my brain, glittering like secrets. I’ve been opportunity’s call girl, chauffeured around my own town. See! Look! There! The world around me has graciously collapsed, and is now speeding, tumbling towards a fate of my own making. A fate I brewed from melted stars, metal birds, and horizons devoured by the fiery mouths of setting suns.

So this is what it feels like, doing what you love? Like you have a secret moon in your mouth? Like the world is hugging you while you walk around inside of it? Like listening, on repeat, to the liquid sound of your favorite person’s voice and the laughter that shatters it?

Like when you realize that your favorite person’s voice belongs to you.

Home Sick & “I Believe the Writing is Someplace” & If So, Then Where?

© 2010 David Parker

Last night we spent some quality time reading Mercy Watson Goes for a Ride on the bathroom floor between the hours of 1:30 and 4:00 am. Ruthie had her head propped up on her little hands that were folded one-over-the-other on the edge of the toilet seat. “Waiting on the throw up,” she calls it.

The morning came too fast. In anguish, I scribbled out my lesson plans for today and made the mad dash up to the school to make ready for the sub. I returned home to find myself on the brink of a day that spread out before me like a glass lake. Ruthie spent most of the day sleeping and coloring. (She’s particularly keen on drawing “machines” that do things like “suck up all the bad people.”) This means that I had a great deal of time on my hands to read and to write and to do laundry and to scheme up schemes that make me excited about teaching. But especially to read. And, of all the things I read, this one has me coming back to it again and again. I don’t know how I landed there, but it’s Wendy S. Walters writing for About A Word about writing “In These Times. For me, her words are daunting, mesmerizing, captivating. Her message resonates with me even though I don’t exactly understand just what it is that she’s saying. (I think) she’s talking about how writing helps us make sense of things we can’t make sense of. And how (maybe) going out and looking for a poem is less about arriving at the poem and more about how you get there.

As I’m writing this, she’s sleeping in a chair next to me, her face flushed with a fever of 103. I just got finished Cloroxing the white-tiled bathroom floor, which left my finger tips feeling squeaky and dry. Since the fever has not yet broken, it looks like I’ll be another day at home. Here’s hoping a poem is hidden for me someplace in the geography of tomorrow.