Wordsanctuary Revisited

Styles of online commenting

2012-01-27T19:58:00.001-05:00

Here are some styles of online commenting. What style do you prefer?

1. e-bullient

This is an enthusiastic response by a colleague or someone you would not mind as one.

2. e-ccentric

Defined as: a posted comment that has little-to-nothing to do with the original topic…it seems to have floated down from another planet, not upward from e-arth. Possibly see also: e-lliptical.

3. e-ffusive

Short and snappy reigns on the net. Ornate may suit the Bronte sisters, but in the novel world of cyberspace, the only taboo is a steady stream of compound-complex sentences. Example: Although some might venture to criticize me for my shameless and/or even peculiar verbosity, I nonetheless feel compelled to enter this spirited discussion here with my erudite colleagues, and I must incorporate the best of my experiences and perspective on higher education…

4. e-ven and odd

Although pleasant on the surface, do watch out as you read such a comment. This commenter may begin by laying it on quite thick; however, this may be just be to induce a gentle trance in the writer—or, less cynically, to build common ground. A sudden zap may be next, so beward. If you wrote what’s being discussed, don’t forget to keep your -elmet on.

5. e-gocentric

What’s wrong with a little self-promotion? Yes, that’s right: a little self-promotion. Repetition works in marketing, or so they say. They say. So plug your book, article, side business, college, or blog … whatever.

6. e-loquent

Something to strive for, and there are such posts in almost every discussion unless some the others listed here dominate the dynamic.

7. e-pidemic

When you start seeing the same type of comment over and over, perhaps it’s the beginning of one. Or perhaps it’s already too late, and there’s no stopping it. It’s endemic to the medium and social behavior, after all.

8. e-quanimity

This is rare cyberspace and possesses resonance. It sometimes makes people really mad, as in "what are you so calm about." Stay the course.

9. e-rased

If a comment is typed, edited, reflected upon, proofread, and even left for an hour to marinate -- but ends up deleted by the writer due to some second or third thought – will a ripple of communication still reverberate somewhere in the universe? Maybe not. At least the writer vented and got needed finger exercise.

10. e-rudite

This type of comment adds grace and eloquence to the discussion.

11. e-rythropsia

Think: Bull--the animal, not the other kind. Although, if the shoe fits…No matter what the topic, this poster sees red. And redder. And is not happy, paradoxically, until the whole queue of readers has eyes and veins bulging and hearts pounding and is digging into the ground with angry paws. ready to charge. If you prefer a less rustic image, think: blasting imaginary horns one after in a traffic jam, when there really is nowhere else to go. It’s the electronic equivalent of road rage.

12. e-scapist

This commenter adds a brushstroke of humor or whimsy to a discussion. Real names are rarely used, so there is no way to compliment the person.

13. e-stoppage

Legal readers may counter that this is really stretching it; however, very, very roughly I suggest that amounts to: Say it ain’t so, first, before the other poster does. It really works best if you read any posted comments from the bottom up.

14. e-viscerating

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the keyboard can be meaner (and faster).

Mus musculus (or a close relative). House mouse.

Ethics for lunch: SPJ program at City Club January 11, 2012

2012-01-15T15:37:00.008-05:00

After an exhilarating trip to the beautiful city of Seattle for the Modern Language Association's annual conference, I returned to Cleveland eager to beat winter doldrums and squeeze in new insights before my schedule is ruled by my writing classes.

So it was off to the City Club for a light lunch and filling serving of food-for-thought as County Executive Ed FitzGerald, Harlan Spector of the Plain Dealer and Lynda Mayer of the League of Women Voters compared the county's ethical climate one year ago to now. "County Government Ethics: A Followup One Year Later" was sponsored by the Cleveland chapter of Society of Professional Journalists." Carrie Buchanan, assistant professor of communication at John Carroll University and chapter president, did the introductions.

FitzGerald followed a compare/contrast structure for his comments, which made it easy to take swirling notes in a dimly lit room. And the rapt attention of attendees gave me some hope that this is a topic that will sustain civic focus for some time, with not just an expectation of ethical behavior, but also enforcement and engagement.

“Thank you for embarrassing me with the cover of the [Inside Cleveland Business] magazine,” Fitzgerald quipped to Buchanan as he began. (She held it up as she introduced him.) FitzGerald appeared in the Power 100 issue and acknowledged that the public’s trust was at “an all time low” when he took office. “We’re starting to restore some trust,” he said. FitzGerald offered the terms “opaque,” “insular,” “inefficient” and (hesitating) “anti-intellectual” to describe the former administration -- though he was quick to say that he was not calling himself an intellectual. He offered that nuanced policy debates in the past were lacking and collaborations with local universities
untapped.

There were what he called "big personalities” in county government "[but] I would defy anyone to tell me what their philosophy was.” He added that “there was very little public discussion of why policies were enacted in the first place.” FitzGerald stressed that now there are stricter codes of enforcement of county employee behavior, with two times as many employees disciplined as before in the past year, even though the work force is leaner. A department-by-department review led to streamlining some positions, with about a 7 percent cut, down to 320 employees.

Looking into the future, he said that even if a future county executive is “lax” there needs to be teeth enough in ethics’ code that there is somewhere for a future whistle blower to go. In the past, “the system was overloaded with patronage,” he said. Even summer jobs of minor responsibility were often doled out without sufficient oversight, and these have been replaced with competitive fellowships.

He offered a nod to the media spotlight pointed at the county during the sometime “murky” November to January changeover period between 2010 and 2011. There was less of the “usual mad shuffle to change job titles” and other processes that complicate the changing of administration, FitzGerald said. “That is a sea change difference. We are as transparent as we can possibly be,” he said. “We try to post everything on the net.”

Job performance has been scrutinized, he suggested, and “we’re trying to switch to a merit system . . .[and] every employee has been evaluated.” In the past, he said, personal relationships -- even “a club atmosphere” -- was the norm. He was somewhat surprised that postings for new jobs were not met with as many applicants as he anticipated. In addition, clear benchmarks for job performance were lacking.

Spector said that he “was there for the sausage-making that went into the ethics ordinance” and that “it came together without a lot of terrible bickering.” He felt that putting a conservative Republican, David Greenspan, as chair of the ethics committee “was a pretty good move” and added that “it’s probably the toughest ethics ordinance in the state.”

Mayer served on the transition team that prepared the ethics ordinance and said that Pittsburgh, Jacksonville and Milwaukee had particularly relevant ordinances but she had pored over perhaps 20 more. “We agree that we really like the ethics ordinance [we drafted],” she said. “Right now we are really among the best.” She is now in "a wait and see mode,” explaining “we don’t have an ethics board." In the future, if fewer officials are focused on ethics or a vigilant inspector general has his/her position, budget and/or staff cut, conditions could deteriorate.

“Should the inspector general’s office be more independent, and how is that going to happen?” Buchanan asked during the Q/A segment.

Worth pondering.

Links:
Tom Troy, "Cuyahoga boasts strongest ethics policy of Ohio's 87 other counties"
Toledo Blade 1/12/2012

Maria Shine Stewart, "Leaders ponder effect of election"
Tri-County Business Journal October 2010, page 1 jumps to 16

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blog Post

2011-07-25T23:48:00.000-04:00

I
Among twenty random comments,

The only moving one

Was the first by the blogger.

II

I was of three minds,

Like a post

In which there are three typos.

III

The blog queue whirled in the crackling winds.

It was a small part of the power line.

IV

An essayist and a blogger

Are one.

An essayist, a blogger, and a journalist

Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of smart aleck remarks

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blogger raving

Or just after.

VI

Sharp words filled the long comments

Like barbaric glass.

The shadow of the blog post

Crossed it, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the typeface

An unintelligible cause.

VII

O thin men of Blah-Blah

Why do you imagine golden words?

Do you not see how the blog posts

Wind around the necks

Of the writers before you?

VIII

I know noble accents

And flaccid, indecipherable rhythms;

But I know, too,

That the blog post is involved

In what I know.

IX

When the blog post flew out of sight,

It marked the edge

Of one of many listservs.

X

At the sight of blog posts

Vying in a green fight,

Even jaws filled with jujubes

Would cry out sharply.

XI

He texted over Connecticut

On a small phone.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he mistook

The shadow of his GPS

For blogposts.

XII

The river is moving.

The blogpost must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.

The monitor was glowing

And it was going to glow.

The blog post sat

Near my weary-limbs.

Photo credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Trailblazer (reposted with permission from e-Falcon)

2011-07-14T19:51:00.000-04:00

One of Notre Dame’s first males on campus was shy his first day here—in fact, he hid behind a partition. But soon he was romping with his peers and playing with colorful toys in the basement of Harks Hall.

He was often on campus in his denim cap and T-shirts with animal pictures, running up and down the ramp outside the Administration Building with his flock of friends, or chasing sparrows across the grassy field that now includes Quinlivan Circle and Legacy Walkway.

I still have some of the crafts this trailblazer created at NDC, including a replica of a 32-cent stamp and a picture of himself inside a popsicle-stick frame, both attached to my kitchen cabinets with magnets.

He was generously treated by co-eds at the Connelly Center before Halloween, getting candy and lollipops. He liked to visit the children’s section of the Clara Fritzsche Library, especially to look at his favorite book, “Animals of the Bible,” which he checked out over and over.

This precocious student was my son, Andy. NDC is near my home, and I stopped working at a larger, more distant college a few months after he was born. After Andrew’s birth, NDC was a place of refuge for me. The same feel of our campus that has probably attracted many staff and students drew me, too.

For a time, I served on a volunteer committee to help English and communication students prepare for jobs. More often, I would go to the library to write, read and think, Andy in tow. Some days, my son would return home with pockets filled with animal stickers, courtesy of library director Karen Zoller. Kids and books: not a bad combination.

As my son’s kindergarten year approached, I was hired to teach some English classes. Enrolled in Tot Spot, our former daycare center, Andy’s days on campus were happy. It was like a pleasant neighborhood or an indoor playground in an era in which play dates need to be strictly scheduled and even socializing with other young children spontaneously is rare.

One day around this time Andy told me, “I dreamed that the kids on Barney came to life.”

Peggy Bona-Anzo, director of Tot Spot—which then was the smallest college daycare in the state--had also worked at Ohio State University, which had boasted the largest daycare in the state. She and her warm-hearted staff, which included students, simply loved kids.

It’s understandable that campus growth leads to change. But a look back doesn’t hurt--nor does a look ahead. Peggy told me one day that she had put Andy’s picture in the NDC time capsule, to be opened in (then) 75 years. How did that happen?

One day during “Week of the Young Child” in 1997, a Plain Dealer photographer stopped by to take pictures. Andy and he had instant rapport. The photographer captured my son working on a sidewalk drawing right outside the Administration Building. Other kids in rainbow-colored parkas that match the chalk are in the distance.

The story behind the story: That day I had a very hard time dropping Andy off, as much as I liked Tot Spot. He had just gotten over a respiratory illness and had a rocky health history since the day he was born.

But when the picture ran in the paper, showing a contented, absorbed child, I had a tremendous sense of relief. “That’s proof that a child is only entrusted to a parent for a short time,” I thought. “Ultimately, he or she belongs to the universe.”

That short time is already fading. My son is 17 and independent and would probably cringe if I told him I’m writing this. But the early years – his prematurity and sometimes unpredictable health problems—imprinted me. After another crisis, I had a hard time separating from him again but felt that a child with challenges needs his peers even more.

“I’m back!” he shouted as he swung open the Tot Spot door one day after another lengthy illness. Any of us overcoming an obstacle might show similar passion upon resuming daily life.

Several years later, I brought Andy to English 101 to visit; he was in second grade. Students were writing poetry. He wrote: “I see birds on the wing, flying over Burger King,” a line which definitely took the class by surprise. I ran into a former student recently who remembers that day.

My son’s most recent visit to campus was to an event sponsored by the Tolerance Resource Center (now the Abrahamic Center). Now preferring to be called Andrew, he came to observe the creative work of Orange High School students in response to a unit on the Holocaust.

It is a complicated world my son—and my students--will inherit. The pain of the past and the promise of the future…students will need to find ways to bridge both.

Before NDC went co-ed, I used to dream that there were dozens of male students on campus, streaming to and from classes. Maybe I was imagining what Calvin and Hobbes would call a transmogrifier, with images of seekers popping up everywhere.

But then again, some dreams do come true.

Half the Sky (guest blogger Nancy Dudwick)

2010-06-26T15:39:00.005-04:00

It was my challenge to lead a community discussion of this gripping book at the Beachwood branch of Cuyahoga County Public Library on Monday, June 21. Nancy Dudwick, a member of Writers Circle (a Beachwood-based writers' group) offers a summary of her thoughts following that discussion. She calls her meditation, "Half the World."

This past Monday Maria reviewed one of the most interesting books I have ever read. Half the Sky, by husband-wife writing team Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, describes how women in Third World countries are mistreated. During wars, such as those in Darfur, women of all ages are the victims of rape, assault and even murders. In addition, they are subjected to horrendous torture by members of their own families. They are often forced into marriage at a very young age, and their husbands are free to beat them, force them to have sex, and in some instances have them killed when they refused to comply. In fact, they have no rights at all. Moreover, many families often sell their little girls into prostitution because they are desperately poor and need the money to feed their families.

However, today many individuals and organizations--like Women for Women International, Grameen Bank, and American Jewish World Service--have set up programs where they train women and provide loans to help them start their own businesses, thus enabling them to become independent. Moreover, many of those women have been quite successful--and when the woman is a breadwinner, her whole family benefits. According to one report, "'when women are given the opportunity to earn a livelihood, their children are fed, families are supported, and communities thrive.'" Consequently, when their husbands realize that their wives are making a major contribution to the family income, they begin to respect them and no longer beat them.

In addition, women who have their own businesses are now sending their daughters as well as their sons to school.

Yet, millions of people (including women) do not realize that even in the modern, non-Third World nations like the United States and Canada, women don't receive completely equal treatment. No! Mutilation of little girls is completely unheard of and women don't suffer from the horrendous and debilitating injuries caused due to lack of medical care and sanitary surroundings in childbirth; women and girls who go to the local store to purchase food aren't in danger of being raped and assaulted as they often are in Darfur. However, many women in the United States still don't receive equal pay for equal work and over 20% of all women are girls are still subjected to domestic violence. Moreover, poor women often don't have access to effective family-planning methods or adequate pre-natal care.

Yet, women are beginning to become more assertive and standing up for their rights. They have established shelters for victims of domestic violence and in many areas men are arrested for committing acts of domestic violence because it is being treated as a crime. More and more women are entering the professions previously open to men only--law, medicine, engineering, architecture, etc. In addition, they often own lucrative businesses.

Even in the religious arena women are making great strides. They are entering the clergy and becoming ministers, rabbis and cantors. In addition, they are participating in previously all-male ceremonies which, due to their gender, were once forbidden to them. A prime example of that was our own Ethel Adler, a lively senior citizen, who became a Bat Mitzvah one week ago at Montefiore--an example to both women and seniors.

So, while women of the world still have a long way to go before achieving equality, women have already made progress, even in the Third World countries, and some very close to home.

Clara Fritzsche Library Co-sponsors "Half the Sky" Book Discussion | Notre Dame College

2010-06-17T09:17:00.000-04:00

Clara Fritzsche Library Co-sponsors "Half the Sky" Book Discussion Notre Dame College

Return to the Wild

2010-06-10T20:19:00.024-04:00

Getting the simple postcard in the mail made my day. It was from the Kevin P. Clinton Wildlife Center, part of the Penitentiary Glen Reservation in Kirtland, Ohio.

“Dear Friend:

This . . . is to inform you that the American Robin brought in for rehabilitation has been released. The time taken to bring this animal to the Wildlife Center was the first step to its return to the wild. . . .”

This was certainly not the first time I had seen an injured bird, but it is the first time that my emergency action led to its actual rehabilitation.

Trying to save a tiny, injured creature--to some--might seem insignificant in the grand scheme. Some reading this might accuse me of being sentimental. Or wasting time. Or even upsetting nature's balance. Survival of the fittest, the biggest, the least injured -- that's the way of the world, right? And don't birds carry West Nile?

But this could happen to any of us. A sudden jolt of fate. A wind too fierce for our structures. And those we rely on can't help. Then what...

A fledgling was stranded in my driveway after very heavy winds. It chirped. And chirped. One would have to be tone-deaf not to hear “help me” in the call.

Just one bird.

Maybe it's because I sometimes feel helpless to push for change on a grand scale that the little details matter to me. I avoid stepping on ants. Even if they make their way to the kitchen, they are airlifted out. I once attempted an all-holistic mouse catching campaign. If you want to chuckle (or get shivers), click on "A House Mouse Speaks."

That day, two onlookers, whom I took to be the robin's parents, chattered at me from the power lines above. Other birds seemed to also be witnessing my deliberation. They seemed to wait expectantly.

As I walked close to it, this hungry fledgling opened its gaping, golden, trusting mouth. This was an action that I felt showed not mere instinct but, rather, its will to live. Further incentive for me to do something.

I lined a small box with soft towels, put holes in the top, and called the Wildlife Center. I was told they had room. I prepared for the delicate “pick up” and then transported “Robin” safely there. A broken wing was diagnosed.

I was told that if it was set and began to heal, the bird would not be euthanized. They would give it about five days to see if the bird had the strength to go on.

And as I headed back home, I thought about birds that hadn’t made it. As a camp counselor many years ago, precious “Tweety,” a house sparrow, died despite the ministrations of my first grade campers and me. I had hoped to impart to my campers the joy of helping to heal. Instead, we learned to grieve together.

Several years ago, my son awakened me when a thrush lay knocked out on our air conditioner; it had flown into the picture window. “Do something, Mom. Do something,” he urged. I did not want to fail then. It was the week that a beloved student had died and I thought: “Now this.” An omen.

But then, with the wonder of the internet, I became familiar with the Wildlife Center at Penitentiary Glen and called. I was informed of a watch-and-wait protocol for birds knocked out by dives into windows. I was given instructions on how to transport that thrush if it did not regain consciousness or mobility.

That time, the thrush recovered on its own – amazing to behold – and offered an unbidden message of hope to me while grieving my student's death.

This past week of Mother’s Day, I stalled calling back to find out how my robin was doing. I finally mustered the courage and was relieved to learn that Robin had a chance, and had—in fact—“just been fed along with a lot of the other birds.”

That appetite.

The skilled hands of the wildlife care specialists impress me. They know how much to intervene, and they have the wisdom to watch and wait. They also know, I suspect, that we are not only stewards of nature. We are interconnected.

If my American robin made it, that would be one more song in the world. One more splash of color. And even, a continued lineage of that particular creature's DNA. Who knows who that bird might grow up to be?

Will it remember the trauma and the mercy: thrown out of the nest by the wind…laying flat and helpless on a bumpy driveway … approached by a foreign creature on two clunky legs … transported by that alien in a noisy vehicle on four wheels?

A second chance at life in a wildlife center.

Reborn free.

May this robin--and all those tossed by rough winds—somehow find their way.

For Paula, My Cherished Student

2010-06-02T22:28:00.002-04:00

I thought of Paula vividly today. So often she would say, "Maria--when are you going to write about us?" I waited too long, Paula -- but your example of creativity and service has stayed with me.

She was a long-time member of my memoir writing class, and -- I learned at her memorial service -- a tireless community volunteer.

For anyone reading: Don't put off writing the reminiscences that matter: whether they be yours or someone else's. Chances are you might always be a bit too busy, but don't let that deter you from spending time with someone who has a story to tell.

Carve out a little time, and return to that project regularly.

Even in a rushed day, pause to look around and listen to the birds. In their color and song, they just may inspire you.

A Walking Doll Waking: Summer Project

2010-05-20T07:00:00.005-04:00

I am going to try to get my once-favorite Walking Doll fixed. Every one of her limbs is hanging loose. She is wrapped in two bandannas on my bed at this moment.This once-stunning doll still cries and shows the careful manufacturing of a day gone by. Her eyes are still luminous. Toys in childhood carry so many of our dreams and so much of our imagination. What happens if we revisit them? I give this as a journal writing prompt from time to time. It's a welcome relief for college students and for senior citizen writers as well. It's somehow very natural to rewind the mental clock and remember those hours of concerted play.

A golden oldie from my other blog, Wordsanctuary

2010-05-19T23:58:00.001-04:00

Click here for my musing on academic blogging. I was a new blogger then. Just where do the years fly? Maybe the hummingbird pictured knows.

Not child's play but women's work

2010-05-19T23:43:00.001-04:00

"Adjunct Barbie," in second person, was a departure. Although there were few posted comments, I did hear from others privately. I hope that it might be a gentle call to action.

Out of School and Back to Blogging

2010-05-19T23:02:00.001-04:00

It was an exciting term with so much to do. I am barely catching my breath. This winter in Cleveland seemed to drag a bit. I was able to write while tutoring and teaching, and I'm very grateful that a number of these essays and articles saw publication. Here are three, for the curious:

"Words to Live By"
"Spice Up Retirement"
"Afterglow From the MLA"

I love to teach, but writing recharges me in a private, creative way. Each project completed -- with its movement up, down, sideways, forwards, and back -- gives me another "case study" I could use some time in class.

But, even if I don't, it allows me to work in tandem with students--a parallel process, even if they don't know about it. I can remember the copy negotiations, the work to get an audience to understand, the struggle to capture ideas into words.

A moment or two of wonder goes a long way, also.

As a writer, I work with my hands. Right before Mother's Day, I got to pick up something truly amazing and a bit sad to watch, a fledgling robin that had broken a wing and was tossed from its nest after some fierce winds in Cleveland. It is recuperating at Penitentiary Glen in Kirtland, a wonderful place for birds and for people.

Not Bad for a (formerly) Shell-Shocked Stray

2010-04-22T09:20:00.007-04:00

I attended an awards' ceremony at my son's high school this morning. Even at this tender age, there is a bit of politics to awards. And that's sad but, I guess, goes with the territory. Let me share my entirely subjective awards for the dear dog that has been a part of our lives for about one year. She was picked up on the streets of Cleveland, as they told us at the shelter, and spent three weeks in the pound, shaking, with bare skin exposed due to fur loss and flea allergy, and totally voiceless. She was not the dog that anyone was racing to adopt. She was not "our first choice" either. But something spurred us on to meet her, and -- as the cliche goes -- she adopted us.

The following may seem to be "just the basics" for any dog. Why reward the basics? However, through Robin, I re-learn that the basics might not be so taken for granted. Each step along the way of her adjustment (and rehabilitation, as it appears she was traumatized and/or abused) has been a victory.

I. Award for Wettest Nose in the House:

Robin

II. Award for Most Fur:

Robin

III. Pavlov Award for Quickest Response to Mealtime:

Robin

IV. Award for Best Indoors Hunting Simulation with Squeaky Toy:

Robin

V. Award for Most Smiles of Admiration and Comments like "Aren't You Pretty?" by Drive Thru Staff:

Robin

VI. Real-Time Award for Sprint in Response to Human Whistle:

Robin

VII. Dogtopia Award for Dreaming in the Sun:

Robin

Raving Alphabetically

2010-04-10T22:01:00.002-04:00

Adjunct acrobat: One who stays supremely flexible
Badjunct: Unfortunate stereotype
Cladjunct: Colleague with scheduling luck
Dadjunct: One balancing parenting and teaching
Egadjunct: Typical reaction upon hearing course load
Fadjunct: One who follows the trends
Gladjunct: Opposite of "sadjunct"
Gradjunct: One completing an/other degree while teaching
Hadjunct: Remember position you had before reassignment, budget cuts, etc.
Idjunct: One given to too much self-indulgence
Jazzjunct: One who recharges with innovative music on longer commutes
Kitkadjunct: One who stops at the vending machine for lunch
Ladjunct: The newbie
Myriadjunct: One who works in multiple departments of the same school
Nadjunct: Someone who gives it up
Operadjunct: Your colleague with the big voice
Plaidjunct: Your color-coordinated colleague
Quadjunct: What you might be called if you conference with students outside
Rapidadjunct: Colleague hired at last minute
Sadjunct: Opposite of "gladjunct"
T.a.djunct: See "gradjunct"
Unsinkableadjunct: Got zero hits
Vegetarianadjunct: One whose compassion extends to animals
Wadejunct: What you became the day you forgot your boots
Yaddayaddayadjunct: What you sound like to someone who really isn't listening to adjunct issues
Zigzagadjunct: What happens if you forget the day of the week and drive to the wrong school

On Finishing the College Process

2010-01-15T20:11:00.007-05:00

A new semester has begun. At two of my four locations classes are up and running. Three and four will commence this week. I discovered an article that touches on why some students do not finish. Click on it, if you are interested. Best wishes, learners in school or out. Why many college dropouts say they left: the need to work

Posted using ShareThis

Photo: Public Domain

"Everything is urgent": Haiti

2010-01-09T20:35:00.010-05:00

The scope of the disaster in Haiti seems unreal, but it is all too real.

May survivors make it through. May helpers not be overcome. May flowers bloom again in Haiti.

I found a scholarly paper online that might interest some.

Beginnings, First Days, Initiations, Setbacks

2010-01-08T21:09:00.015-05:00

I have asked my memoir group, snowed out and unable to meet, to write for next week about "Resolutions: Kept and Broken." One member said, "Already?" Yes. We don't get enough sunshine in Cleveland; we have mounds of snow.

The expectation of a first class is shattered. Skiiers might like the snow -- and energized wolves -- but some of us get dispirited. We must find ways to shed our own light.

Robin, our stray, seems exhilarated in snow. In Robin's honor, I post the wolves.

A critical habitat is a specific term explained by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Without pushing the analogy over the edge, for anyone to flourish, we need appropriate contexts. May readers find such places for themselves and remember to consider their importance for creatures on our planet in 2010 and beyond.

Photo: Arizona Game and Fish Department, Part of the Mexican Wolf Recovery Program

Compassion in Every Language

2010-01-07T22:05:00.012-05:00

I chose this title, "compassion in every language," because I googled the phrase and wanted to see if anything would appear. Nothing did. "Compassion is a universal language," by contrast, garnered 27,000 hits. I like to be unique, but (above all), I sincerely wish I knew the word for compassion in every language. Love may be too lofty an aspiration for humans. But compassion ... how richer our lives are or could be for genuine encounters of it.

Photo Credit: Another fabulous picture (chipping sparrow) in the public domain, taken by Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Click on it. Get a bird's-eye view. Notice the cute little cap. This was a bird I learned about from my son, when he was tiny and enamored of birds. He had innate compassion for creatures. Most children do. Why can't we hold on to it, universally?

A Master Teacher

2010-01-06T23:12:00.002-05:00

This moving story is in a recent Chronicle. So much of teaching is heart to heart, mind to mind. Technology is a tool, but if passion isn't there, no teacher, learner, or class will achieve its potential.

Will Thinking Make it So?

2010-01-04T19:12:00.007-05:00

For a fascinating article in Chronicle Review, click on this. I had not heard of the counterclockwise study, either. I very roughly paraphrase: Aging men were put into an environment that simulated that of another, positive time...a time of their youth. Before entering the controlled environment, they wrote about their memories too. (The writing part of the experiment especially interested me, as I've observed such interesting reactions in students of all ages revisiting their past on paper.) In the study, the men's bodies, minds, and spirits responded well to this shift in place (and time). A movie starring Jennifer Aniston will come out about the counterclockwise experiment soon. I wonder how that script came to be!

Image: Clip Art

Happy Birthday, Louis Braille

2010-01-04T15:00:00.009-05:00

What do Jakob Grimm, Sir Isaac Newton, and Louis Braille have in common?

They were all innovators and creative thinkers and all born on January 4th.

As much as I am a packrat, I do not have the memorable reports I wrote in childhood. One, on Louis Braille, I remember in vivid detail. Pushing graphite pencil to paper, I ended the paper with his name in Braille. I remember , also vividly, his own eye injury in childhood, with an awl from his father's leather shop. Very sad, and his vision gradually diminished. The other eye also lost sight. Here is a brief online source.

I attempted a unit on creativity and innovation at JCU this past semester. There were some ups and downs along the way. In a college setting, many students are "implicitly" creative -- trying to weave together course loads, multiple responsibilities, work, and so on. Making what is implicit, explicit takes some time. I'll keep working with the unit in 2010.

Photo Credit: This beautiful picture is taken from the website http://acharya.iitm.ac.in/disabilities/br_intro.php

Packrats, Unite!

2010-01-04T13:55:00.004-05:00

Now that I have at last (at least?) learned to link, I can have fun with images. I can also shamelessly self-promote articles you may have missed the first time around (assuming that any of my readers have checked this blog before).

An American Dream ...

2010-01-02T19:51:00.059-05:00

This semester at Notre Dame College, I taught an op-ed by Nancy Mairs, a disabilities activist with an impressive writing record. Mairs' op-ed originally ran in the New York Times and was reprinted in the Bedford Reader. The provocative title Waist-High in the World is one of her books and a curriculum by the Unitarian Universalist Association.

In teaching Mairs' op-ed, I wanted students to consider the impact of disabilities as well as sensing the possibility of translating their own close-to-home ideas into public discourse and even, in some time and in some way, social action.

I sometimes teach through demonstration. I wrote and rewrote, wrote and rewrote--about my cousin and her family's private dilemmas that do indeed reflect social conditions at large. The Cleveland Plain Dealer ran the op-ed I wrote; I am grateful. I have not yet followed the fine print of what's happening in Washington, D.C. I know that many people have worked hard on the health bill, and others are opposed to it...I don't quite know what the answer is...My gut feeling is that it may not go far enough on affordability and access. I truly hope that I am wrong.

Image: Public Domain
Read about Betsy Ross's creativity and life here

Multicultural Musings

2010-01-02T11:15:00.018-05:00

One of the highlights of the past semester was a course in multicultural education that I took at John Carroll University, taught/led by Joan Steidl. The text by Derald Sue and David Sue, Counseling the Culturally Diverse, was a launching pad. Reading the comments about the book on Amazon is a spirited mini-course in itself.

We thought about issues of older Americans, Native Americans, African Americans, Arab Americans, Hispanic Americans, Asian Americans, women, immigrants of other groups, people with disabilities, people who are gay . . . and many other populations. The intermingling of insights of the class was fascinating and, I feel, opened some interglobal understanding, too. Even if more questions were raised than answers, that is fine...

For many weeks, classmates who are community counseling and school counseling students did carefully researched presentations on the history, conditions, and interventions helpful with various groups.

I considered myself "multiculturally savvy" before this class. I grew up in a multiethnic neighborhood, with different languages spoken all around me. I have worked in environments in which a variety of backgrounds is the norm. I teach students who represent the world at large. I use literature and creative nonfiction in the classroom, works penned by creative souls of many races, eras, and experiences.

Yet -- and maybe in part because of this awareness -- the course led to an explosion of new insights and more and more questions. It was a challenging, illuminating, and even heart-rending experience.

I revisited my interest in American Indian/Native American studies, especially history and trauma; I have just scratched the surface again. I sensed echoes of what Taylor Branch said in a talk I covered once for the News-Herald; I'm paraphrasing loosely; he said that all history might be considered, in a sense, a chronicle of what happens between insiders and outsiders. Those of us living on North American soil might have a special reason to learn a bit more.

In 2010, I wonder if anyone still reading this far might consider just one more mode of insight into the "other," however you choose to define it. Another article. Another conversation. Another class.

Photo credit (public domain): Coastal Area 51 (Pacific), U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Blue is believed to be a good color to promote creativity, I read in a Psychology Today article recently. Sadly, no source for that--but maybe experience is enough. Click on the picture. Say: Ahh!

A Bit of Humor, Just a Little Bit

2010-01-01T21:39:00.009-05:00

At Inside Higher Ed, one of my pieces of gentle humor ran recently.

See "A Syllabus Syllabary" at http//www.insidehighered.com/views/2009/12/29/stewart

The piece was borne of procrastination last fall. I had developed several syllabi and had one more to go.

I began to play with the syllables of syllabi.

There's a lot to play with.

Photo Credit: (Public Domain) U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, University of Kentucky, Pearl crescent and American painted lady butterflies atop black-eyed susans

A stunning picture, really.

A Canine who Runs with the Deer

2009-12-23T23:45:00.029-05:00

I bought my stray dog a pair of reindeer antlers. Cute, right? She tolerates them for a few seconds, with a chagrined expression, before shaking them off.

But today, Robin flew.

She had whimpered to "go out," and -- naturally -- I thought it was . . .

But it was something else. From the corner of her eye, the crevices of her ears, the heart of her nose, she sensed a herd in our neighbor's yard. Before I had the time to process all this, she decided to become a canine that runs with the deer. I had the leash, yes, but she darted away.

I'm guessing that she had been sensing them for days. They wander into our yard because their habitat, tree by tree, bush by bush, leaf by leaf, step by step, is being destroyed. She is curious about them. At twenty pounds soaking wet, she may be small, but her ancient bloodline of mighty huntresses pulses on.

I remember how she had stood, silent, the first time she saw deer in our yard. Robin had been "picked up on the streets of Cleveland" -- that's all that the humane officer knew. She was given a new name. She had shook, continuously, in her crate at the Valley View pound--shook so hard, I thought she had a seizure disorder.

But when the dog we actually had wanted was adopted a moment before, we thought "why not?" And this chocolate brown, lab-terrier-britney spaniel, adopted us by going into deep relaxation as soon as we sat with her.

We all have three sides, perhaps. As the new mutt on the block, she has been working on the extreme anxiety--too many fears to list--since we brought her home in June. One of the three vets she has seen has called her "the most frightened dog" he has seen in thirty years of practice. What was she exposed to before? I have no idea. But she was so timid that she moved out of the way when a squirrel scolded her this summer and she was reclining in the sun.

Yet, when she is with her own pack of preferred humans, she is the picture of tranquility.

As the snow builds, something is changing within her. A deep hunting instinct? Six months of TLC? Perhaps what I saw in her dash across the yard was a bit of the spirit within us all -- untamed, joyous, free. Herd and canine: almost airborne. I also saw within the true pursuit of passion. She is a researcher...can follow a hunch...on the leash or off...follow the trail wherever it leads.

But there are leash laws, for good reason. I gently called, "Robin, Robin, treat!" at least a dozen times. The snow was too deep for me to brave. I can't walk, let alone run, sideways down a steep hill...

After she had roamed to her heart's content, she returned. She lapped up snow on her way into the house. She was exhilarated.

Time lapse: seven minutes?

If Santa gets a glimpse of this post (and why not), here's my wish:

Can you help people remember that animals need some room, too?

And kindness?

We all share the same earth.

Photo: White-Tailed Deer
Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

World Is Witness

2009-12-22T00:04:00.009-05:00

My shock at the theft of the Auschwitz sign near the end of Chanukah left me speechless. I will try to put some of what I felt in words, elsewhere. This event closely corresponded with the 65th anniversary of my father's mother's death at Stutthof Concentration Camp, four months after other relatives, women and children including my half-sister and my father's first wife, perished at and/or en route to Auschwitz. The ambiguity is because without complete records, one must put pieces together...

I wondered, in the light of my shock, what I can do to help people understand that we all are one: Where one suffers, the earth suffers. With hate, we are destroying ourselves.

I offer this resource to anyone interested:

http://blogs.ushmm.org/WorldIsWitness/

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

2029 (Predictions of an English Class)

2008-09-16T20:26:00.002-04:00

Have you ever wondered what the world will be like twenty years from now? Our team of student experts at Cuyahoga Community College offers these predictions based on past experience, conditions in the world today, intuition, and imagination. If the forecast scares you, work hard to create a reality that might lead to a better outcome. On the other hand, if the predictions please you, don’t get too complacent. Things could still change in ways that defy our wildest dreams.

Technology will proceed dramatically. Even seeing rudimentary robots today, one might envision “robots of the future,” perhaps helping out in hospitals or other settings. Smart homes with automatic access and temperature control might be standard. Materials such as recyclable Plexiglas would reduce privacy, an ominous thought, but would reduce the emissions and preserve trees. We may be charging our cars, as we do cell phones. Innovative or “space age” means of transportation may boggle our imaginations today. Would you be shocked if you could look into a time machine and see traditional reproduction replaced by a high-tech laboratory? I will leave the details to your imagination.

What we call “food” may be revolutionized. How does this sound: A meal in one. One capsule contains everything you need to sustain yourself with an appropriate calorie and nutritional count for one meal per day, week, month, or year (depending on what you can afford). Even nursing the next generation may carry its perils; depending on our environment, basic functions might carry a risk. Remembering the way it was—raising crops, harvesting, packaging, shipping, and cooking food—will only be memories of the aging. Climate changes may dramatically reshape the world as we know it, altering the way we eat by necessity. Unless we are careful, the natural world (trees, grass, crops, animals) may be drastically affected. On the other hand, science and ecological awareness may preserve the best of what we have.

Due to environmental catastrophe of the year 2018, all paper money was collected and recycled and all the metal of coins was melted down to create the robots we depend on for help. Money may be obsolete, replaced first by plastic cards, and then by an implantable chip. The stock market was “the old days,” some predict. Others suspect that the differences in economic status will widen in a global economy.

Local, national, or international authorities may “speak” to us from mysterious screens. Officials will be everywhere, in touch with you and vice versa by technology. On the one hand, that means you don’t have to worry about being lost in a future disaster. On the other hand, privacy will be a concept of the past. On the political scene, large changes may happen: perhaps even one political party that emerged after a series of disputes internationally.

Some optimistic forecasters predict that cures for illnesses, such as cancer, AIDS, muscular dystrophy, Alzheimer’s disease, Sickle Cell Anemia, and heart failure, may be prevalent. Pessimists may counter that in twenty years, the population will be substantially reduced due to illness, disaster, changes in relationships, and other crises. Aging may be deferred through “powerful drugs,” but these will not be available to all.

“Distance learning” will not be an option; it will be a requirement. Due to other innovations in education, holding a doctorate at age 13 will not be the sole domain of prodigies. On the other hand, some may predict an overall decline in education due to over-reliance on technology and unpredictable power interruptions. Teaching in a traditional sense may be replaced by methods of mind control and technological transplant.

Just about every aspect of life as we know it may change. “Be careful what you wish for,” cynics might say. The good news is: It hasn’t happened yet. The bad news: Unless we take the reins to preserve what is best about our times, traditions may be lost forever. Hope to see you there!

Tolerance Talks Reading Group

2008-09-15T21:58:00.005-04:00

The Tolerance Talks reading group at Notre Dame College of Ohio is dedicated to the study of human rights and tolerance as well as roadblocks to understanding. Current and historical conditions that support or erode freedoms of groups and individuals will be explored. Resources of the Tolerance Resource Center open doors to mutual understanding and respect.

This group is interdisciplinary and will explore issues from historical, psychological, spiritual, sociological, cultural, and other perspectives. Planned readings are a springboard to discussion and reflection.

The theme for Fall 2008 is Native American issues
of the past, present, and future.

Wednesday, October 15: History and Trauma, 7-8:30 p.m.

Suggested reading:
Deschenie, Tina. "Historical Trauma." Tribal College Journal 17.3 (Spring 2006): 8-11.

Wednesday, November 12: Outreach and Action, 7-8:30 p.m.

Suggested reading:
Lehman, Russ. The Emerging Role of Native Americans in the Electoral Process. Sponsored by the Evergreen State College Native American Applied Research Institute. January, 2003.

Wednesday, December 3: Spirituality and Healing, 7-8:30 p.m.

Suggested reading:
Portman, Tarrell A.A., and Michael T. Garrett. “Native American Healing Traditions.” International Journal of Disability, Development, and Education. 53.4 (Dec. 2006):453-469.

Readings: Are available via EBSCO or your local or campus library.

Location: Seminar Room, Clara Fritzsche Library, Notre Dame College

Contact: To reserve a spot, call (216)373-5267. The community is welcome but seating is limited.

Sponsor: Tolerance Resource Center at Notre Dame College

Questions? Call Maria Shine Stewart (216)382-4628 or mstewart@ndc.edu

Cleveland's Heights

2008-08-15T21:01:00.011-04:00

I grew up on the first floor of a duplex on Coventry Road, but my writer’s imagination was sparked in the third floor attic of that house. Other children have their getaways too—stuffy, overly hot, achingly cold, yet private and far enough away from family clamor to allow for meditation on profound subjects, or at least to hold a marker without fear of jostling.

The attic is where I painstakingly lettered the poster for my fourth grade project about the Mayan calendar. It’s where I illustrated the mysteries of cells for a demanding junior high school teacher. It’s where I researched Gothic architecture, with a book I grew to love so much I never returned it to the library.(I did pay for it, claiming it was lost.) It’s where I heard screeching tires when our beloved APL dog was hit by a car. But Happy recuperated, a bit of luck.

Just a small pair of windows, and three stories, separated me from the world.

Almost weekly, I liked to walk to Forest Hills (Rockefeller) Park to stop at the pond our family called “Moon Lake”—because I once saw the moon’s reflection in it, coined the term, and the name stuck. There were elm, oak, maple, and beech trees I thought of as woods and a hill scaled slowly even by my scrambling, faster, older sisters, and which I climbed with steady determination as early as the age of one (according to family legend). No wonder my baby shoes are bronzed.

Why climb? The reward was a lovely, not-usually-misty view of Cleveland. Highlight: The Terminal Tower. The days with cloud cover—well, at least we still got to sit on the crumbling, venerable stone bench nearby. It made us feel that we were touching history to know that John D. Rockefeller had owned this land and new Americans like us could traverse it on foot. I was born in Cleveland shortly before my sisters and parents become naturalized citizens.

In a nondriving family--in any struggling family--muscle power in the legs is a key to survival. And so is having a lofty view--something that frames the world from a perspective radically different from what is in front of one’s nose. It adds a sense of possibility.

Some days, we’d shop in East Cleveland, another sizable walk. The best part was pacing ourselves to go downhill slowly on Superior Road, toward Euclid Avenue.

“Look, you can see the lake,” my mom would say, never loosening her grip on my tiny hand (traffic whizzed, even in those days), pointing into the distance with her free hand.

Not quite sure where sky and water met, seeing shades of blue and white melded together far, far away, I’d simplify matters by pointing to the sky and saying “Lake Erie.”

I am old enough to remember when the Terminal Tower, was—in fact—the tallest structure in the city. In grade school we ascended its 52 stories on a field trip. I remember less the actual view than the sense of being tightly sandwiched among classmates and wondering if the dizziness was due to the “thin air” I heard was a drawback of living in Colorado. Though logic told me that the Union terminal was nearby, I would reflect on the pun: Terminal. Did that mean nothing could go further? Was it not to be surpassed?

It’s one thing to be miles away from a tower, looking down at it from a hill in a park; it’s quite another to be at the top, looking down.

Fast forwarding my life, I spent several years working on the 18th floor of Rhodes Tower at Cleveland State University and, later, the 12th floor of Fenn Tower, which boasts a history dating back to the 1930s. Graceful seagulls that circled campus epitomized the vitality of a great lake, nearer to me than I would have thought possible on my childhood jaunts.

Driving to Cuyahoga Community College Metropolitan Campus from the east side recently, I took the route down Cedar Hill. I have walked it many times. “This is a foothill of the Appalachian Mountains,” I told my son as we cruised down the curving, steep hill—an amazing fact I’ve shared more than once. Usually the response is: “Yeah, I know.”

But this time, he responded: “And we’re not all that far from Tornado Alley and the Great Plains.”

What heights and hills are to me, extreme weather and stretching expanses might be to my son. Imagination must truly be the shortest distance between two points.

Meditation: Tisha B'Av

2008-08-10T15:45:00.010-04:00

Tisha B’Av is a commemoration I did not know about growing up. Although I attended a Conservative synagogue--where generally, these days, there is some awareness--it is the Orthodox that observe the most comprehensive remembrance, with three weeks of reflection and mourning leading up to the 9th of Av. This year (2008), the 9th falls on the Sabbath, so it is being observed on the 10th.

Tisha B'Av remembers the destruction of the first and second Temples; both happened on the ninth of Av (the first by Babylonians in 586 B.C.E.; the second by Romans in 70 C.E.). The expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 was also on the 9th of Av. My paternal grandmother's lineage dates back to that. Reading the Book of Job and from the Book of Lamentations is traditional.

Surfing the internet while sleepless early this morning (which I admit is not the best spiritual practice, but it does help at times) I reflected how the distant but enduring memory of the destruction of the first and second Temples in Jerusalem and the expulsion from Spain relate to my lineage within Judaism, my brief life here. My thoughts converged on the destruction of the Lodz ghetto synagogues barely seventy years ago, tragedies that members of my father's family, and my father himself, would have known about because they were interred there, trapped in a setting that is most accurately described as a labor camp. To see one's house of worship go up in flames. An omen. A travesty. To be banned from practicing one's faith. To be denied life, continuity...

Every day, I look at pictures of my two grandmothers, Hedwig and Sura Rosja, on the bookshelf in my living room. I regularly ask myself how best to honor their memories and to work in the world for a tolerance, mutual understanding, and radical kindness…forces muted by the evil, hatred, suspicion, and cruelty that separated these two women during the Nazi regime. I do not always, or often, have an answer. The eyes of both grandmothers are very, very sad. They remind me that in a political or ideological situation in which there are insiders and outsiders, no one is really safe. It is delusory that what happens to one people does not touch all.

My grandmothers were typical women and remarkable women, from the stories I have heard. I can only imagine what they would say about the world that has emerged since their deaths. Do they wonder, as I do, why neither of two valid paths toward peace--reason or compassion--seems to be able to prevail?

My grandmother Hedwig’s photo was taken long after the war, long after she lost her first daughter to a sudden death and my mother, her middle child, to a quest across the ocean to a new world and a new faith. My mother embraced Judaism. My grandmother's Lutheran faith was dear to her, but she agreed to raise her daughters Catholic. The values, prayers, and genuine piety of her mother, my maternal great-grandmother, have been preserved in a letter I cherish. I think for several generations, faith and love have been felt deeply and able to bridge seemingly unresolvable differences in my lineage

My grandmother Sura’s eyes are sad as she stands near her eldest daughter as she is married at the age of sixteen; a bit of my aunt Regina’s veil is showing. Regina's marriage crumbled prior to the Shoah, and her attempt to save her four children by hiding them saved just one...my cousin Fanny, who is now deceased...but there is a family story that, perhaps, one of the others, a young man, ultimately escaped to Russia. My grandmother died at Stutthof Concentration Camp in December 1944. I received notification from the historian Danuta Drywa this summer--a facsimile of an actual piece of paper, a death record, processed at the time. I am grateful to Dr. Drywa for this help. My grandmother died in abysmal conditions at Stutthof, a lesser known but brutal camp.

The violence in Georgia and Russia this week again reopens for me the wound of violence against the human family. I have no knowledge of the historical background to the Georgian/Russian conflict. But I see in the eyes of the wounded and the brief news reports another outbreak of the disease that threatens to destroy us all in the long-term if we cannot learn other ways to solve disputes of land, belief, property, ideology. A sample of one, I can speak to what happens in the next generation when the previous one is scarred by violence. The dislocation remains, the mourning continues: although one may seem to "put it behind."

The murderous attack during a children's play at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church two weeks ago saddened and shocked me. I have found solace among the tolerant Unitarians at several times in my life. My dear friend Elizabeth, now gone from this world, was a Unitarian who urged me to teach her Hebrew while growing up on our walks to and from school. The national news coverage of the in-sanctuary violence in Tennessee seemed unusually light to me. I was amazed at the courage of the parishioners who tackled the gunman. Yet I know that where there has been this type of vicious assault on freedom and on the sacred, there will be a slow process of healing and--for some--traumatic repercussions that may last a long time.

For fall, I have been asked to coordinate a reading group on the themes of Native America. I am very ignorant of those people on whose original lands I live, walk, work, and play and whose place names surround me almost everywhere I go. I have been reading as much as I can. Sadness and continuity. Historical wounds and future growth. Families lost; a remnant remains.

On this Tisha B'Av I grieve for the cyclical, recurrent outbreaks of violence against groups and individuals--outbreaks organized or impromptu, cooly rational or emotional. There must be another way for humanity to express itself.

To readers who have skimmed this and feel overwhelmed: Do what you can for human rights for the group(s) you hold near and dear to your heart.

If you have been the victim of violence, recognize that you are not alone and that what affects one, affects all. Please do not lose hope.

See My Other Blog for Occasional Updates

2008-06-11T23:39:00.002-04:00

At the risk of confusing everyone, I've decided to post some things there at my original blog

www.wordsanctuary.blogspot.com

and some things here.

Maybe that's good.

Your fingers can get some exercise!

Hints for Writing Teachers

2008-05-29T22:34:00.003-04:00

Teacher

With a nod to Jamaica Kincaid, whose work "Girl" provided structural inspiration.

I wrote this poem for the John Carroll University CompPost, an internal newsletter, Volume 3, No. 2 (March 1998).

I share it now for any novice teacher or any seasoned one seeking to recharge. Good luck, and let me know your mantras!

Be muse on Monday, critic on Wednesday, just another writer on Friday; don't assign topics you don't want to read about; try writing the kind of essay you hope to collect; give yourself a break from all that hard work or you will not have the strength to become that teacher you hope to become; remember what it feels like to get an F or a C; if you never got one, take up a hobby at which you might fail; stay humble; boost your confidence; try reading one batch just for the good lines; use the green pen to build rapport, the red pen to assert authority, the black pen to blend with theirs, the blue pen when you're not sure; last resort--post-its...

take a weekend off; learn the value of TBA; if you need a break, they do; skip salty snacks on grading weekends; take a water pill if you can't; don't arrive to class too early--let them say what they want out of earshot; don't arrive too late--they will lose respect; write a comma splice just for fun; imagine it looks right; let them hate English; let them enter the flow in spite of themselves...

enjoy watching them write; witness their minds through their hands; see them swirling in the currents of a surging pen; they can feel it--so will you; observe them tapping on the keys; don't count typos; hold your breath till the printer prints; cherish their random thoughts; peer over their shoulders; help them navigate the blank page, the darkened screen; let their minds be cursors, blinking in the dark; revel in their drafts; make sure they can write when the power is out and they are stranded...

remember when you were big sister, cousin, now mother in age, relative to them; go undercover in class; not really teacher but reporter; be editor again, then writer; be marketer--accentuate positive; be gatekeeper for standard, ambassador for knowledge, actress pretending to teach English, midwife at labor, boot fantasies, send glasses for adjustment; update teaching persona...

carry a thermos; if you wait, the quiet ones will talk, the talkers will listen; if no one participates, you can write together; if writing, then growing; notice their shoes--enter them; make them think of yours, even for a moment; don't worry if they miss your jokes; don't cry if a few seem bored; read what they have written; read great work; read anything that helps...

sit in the back of the room at least once; always have plan B ready or make up one fast; spend a whole class listening; acknowledge any of their strengths and all of your weaknesses; expect to go gray, but vow to go slowly.

Requiem for a Building

2008-03-31T13:41:00.000-04:00

As a child, the story of “The Three Little Pigs” disturbed me. But that didn’t stop me from asking to hear it read over and over. Maybe I was preparing myself.

My childhood synagogue has been torn down. In its place is a car dealership. My elementary school has been razed. In its place stands a modern school that is about to close. My junior high is no more. Manmade hills and weeds have sprouted on the land. The party room where I married morphed into a bargain store; we exchanged vows between bundled sweat socks and a pyramid of plastic pails. But marriage is a process, not a place.

A lifelong Clevelander with a soft spot in my heart for Cleveland State University , I’m also an alumna (class of 1981) and a former employee who worked as student assistant, secretary, writer/editor, and part-time teacher. I am also about to experience the loss of another landmark—at my alma mater.

An email from a fellow graduate announced that on March 20 a farewell bash was held in CSU’s University Center--for the building itself. But I did not feel like singing, dancing to the tunes of a band called Demolition, or celebrating another bit of crumbling plaster.

I know there are compelling reasons to improve CSU’s infrastructure. An urban campus needs to be up to date. I spent close to one-third of UC’s concrete life navigating jigsaw puzzle buildings and promoting communication across distant city blocks.

But I grew accustomed to the place—even an imperfect one.

I recall the first time I entered UC and walked straight through to the library. I liked UC’s five-story windows. It felt like walking through a house of light. No doubt, UC reverberated at times with railway-terminal noise. The hustle and bustle was energizing--unless one had a headache. There was insufficient elevator space when visitors converged; there were brutal nooks and crannies in the often-empty stairwells. But scaling those steps, I stayed in shape. Heating bills? I can only guess.

I asked another alumnus how he felt about the building’s planned demise.

“I never went in there,” he replied.

His education was incomplete.

That is where I was stood up for dates, fell asleep in the lounge after studying late for tests, bought donuts and coffee to fuel my work, played pool, listened to speakers like Noam Chomsky, performed as Hercules in a play. It’s where I lost my purse the day after I got engaged—to be rescued from panic (department keys were in it) when a maintenance worker found it in the trash. UC was where anyone could dream, whine, people-watch—and observe engineering students’ annual egg drops in shockproof containers flying from upper floors over the railings and down. And where bands blared on Fridays and banners hung brightly.

I will have to remember CSU without University Center . Main Classroom Building remains. Rhodes Tower stretches. The Wolstein Center flourishes; the Music/Communication Building thrives; and designer dorms in Fenn Tower make me drool. A college of health science pushes up from the ground like the first crocus of spring.

I have read that University Center was too expensive to fix. Perhaps so are my memories.

In “The Three Little Pigs” there is a progression of challenges. The wolf gets to blow down two houses that are weak—one of straw, one of sticks. But the solid brick structure prevails. The wolf then tries to get in through the chimney, only to be outsmarted by the pig who sets a fire on the hearth and puts a kettle of water on to boil. Psychologist Bruno Bettelheim wrote in “The Uses of Enchantment” that the story models ego strength and planning. A child hearing the tale learns to steel his or her will and adapt.

What if the wolf that stalks places we once called home might actually be progress, spurring us on to greater creativity and resilience?

The International Conference Center . The Kiva. The Game Room. The Shire. Never heard of them? That’s ok. The building at 2121 Euclid Avenue is going down. They’re places I remember that are no more.

What are yours?

A CSU Alumna Listens

2008-02-17T20:17:00.002-05:00

It’s 9:30 Sunday morning. It’s icy. It's cold. I’m still drained from trying to get in to hear Sen. Hillary Clinton speak at a campaign rally at Brush High…hours of waiting…not finding my son….only to arrive at an overflow site where, eventually, my son appears…and later, the profound surprise that Hillary will add a second talk for those who were relegated to sit here like second class citizens to watch her on TV…still better than those who grew tired of all the confusion and went home.

Back to…the room this Sunday morning that fills gradually with bright-eyed, mainly gray- and white-haired men and woman who greet one another with smiles and gentle jokes that I can’t quite discern because my ears are still blocked from the rally.

A mirror stretches the full length of the extreme left of the room, revealing the room’s “other” function as a dance studio. The arts are alive and well at First Unitarian; my son studies violin there at a branch of CIM. You won't catch me looking in the mirror. The right hand wall has an array of religious symbols; only in a Unitarian Universalist church will these dwell together in silent harmony, and perhaps only in a UU church will a room be packed with people so very early on a weekend and so genuinely eager to hear about the fledgling/mature university down the street.

The featured speaker was distinguished CSU president Michael Schwartz, who took the reins of the college in 2001; as most know, he had served as president of Kent State University and was supposedly in retirement when he joined CSU. 2001. A full eight years after I quit my full-time job in the News Bureau at CSU but during the point when I still had connections there as an occasional teacher through Urban Affairs and Continuing Education Division.

I am a 1981 graduate of CSU and worked in four different jobs there from 1980-1993, loving the campus with a zeal that made leaving to tend to a frail, premature child extremely difficult.. I always maintained the highest idealism about CSU’s potential and a realistic view of its glitches and contradictions. I had been a student. A secretary. A publications editor/writer. A public relations’ liaison. A member of the part-time faculty. There was not a day in my career there when I felt bored or underutilized. I have maintained a concern about CSU, and have been delighted with the reports that internal morale is high, improvements being made, growth happening….though they are tearing down my cherished University Center, spot of dates in the game room, the best donuts, couches on which to collapse from exhaustion after studying all night… When you work the jobs I did, you get to know the rank and file employees, the administrators, the students. To me, it is like a city and--as such--can be as welcoming or frustrating as any city.

Back to topic: Dr. Schwartz has a dry sense of humor coupled with a no-nonsense, no-fluff manner of speaking. The topic was: University of Akron/Cleveland State University Merger? And he answered that simply and directly in the first few sentences: No. It wouldn’t be his preference.

But he took his attentive listeners through sprawling anecdotes about the prospects of greater collaboration among institutions, chiefly Akron, Youngstown, Kent State, Northeast Ohio Universities College of Medicine in Rootstown, and CSU.

He brainstormed a big dream of faculty of information science or technology across institutions collaborating and forming a team if not as good as MIT’s, almost as big.

He tempted us with the thought of a fully refurbished Allen Theater—not only to help the CSU theater department but possibly, some day, kindred programs at the other nearby institutions. Apparently dance thrives at Akron, piano at Youngstown, theater at Kent…and I know from my CSU days, the artists were few in number but powerfully creative. The music building today is filled in every sense with energy and opportunity—for musicians from campus and far beyond.

And Dr. Schwartz stressed a phrase I remember from my old days at CSU “centers of excellence,” acknowledging that universities may wish they could deliver every conceivable program to every students, but the fact is: less can be more.

He said that CSU hopes to add and or further support components of health to almost every college of the university: law and health; urban studies and health; education and health; and so on. A questioner from the audience asked: Wouldn’t that have been a good idea from CSU’s inception, given our local health centers? Dr. Schwartz’s answer was good, but I would have added that many moons ago, there were plans for a college of health sciences at CSU. Roaming archives, as I used to love to do, I saw a report about that. Somewhere along the line, as in a wild and flourishing garden, other enticing varieties of programs developed. But the seeds for a health focus were there, fallow.

A bold thought from Dr. Schwartz came in the form of one central board to oversee the four schools. I can imagine the impossibility of achieving that, but it’s good to dream big. That would allow for a broad focus, “thinking across and out of the box.” I don’t personally know any trustee at any college, but I do know that these are posts served by appointment. Many who might have the savvy to make good contributions may not be anywhere near the list of appointees.

Speaking of contributions, of course a fundraising campaign will soon occupy CSU’s attention. Dr. Schwartz said that the theme will be helping Cleveland…not making the coffers of CSU bulge in pitiful self-interest. In other words, spreading the idea that investing in CSU is directly investing into an organization whose faculty, staff, and students are committed to using their talents and insights to serve and better greater Cleveland.

May it be so.

One of those Days

2008-02-05T18:03:00.000-05:00

At least here I can choose my color, my typeface, and my degree of rant. It should be red, but I'll choose a soothing green. It should be a spiky type, but I'll let my fingers sink into a soothing Verdana. I could be shouting here in all caps out of sheer frustration, but I'll keep it down. Those who know me a little expect a little restraint. Those who know me a lot have observed that even upon great provocation, I still maintain a lot of restraint. And those who know me the very best know that once every long while, I bubble over with the best of them.

In the car last night, the following conversation unfolded:

Andrew: "Mom, you need your own radio show. You have so much to say and need someone to listen to it."

Me: "So you don't have to?"

Andrew: "Yes, that's right."

We used to play a game called "radio show." I had several talk show personae. My son would be the caller, and I had great fun provoking him and he had great fun mimicking the type of stock figures that call radio shows.

At the moment, my son has shut off that play-with-Mom station (probably permanently) but he keeps another permanent appointment with the radio and music. At least this generation doesn't lack auditory stimulation.

Gripes du jour

1. The latest violent acts in Cleveland schools reported in the PD. My tolerance level for violence is waning--in part because of the extensive Holocaust studies I've been pursuing. Violent children are destroying school--and traumatizing many for life, including their own classmates and teachers. The "bystander syndrome" of children standing by while others fight sickens me, but they are worried about their own protection. This is a prescription for a society aobut to slip even more deeply into the abyss. Is there a way to reach the hearts of children and parents? Or has multigenerational poverty made this impossible. I've observed fighting at economically advantaged schools. So, maybe people just have to go at it....regardless of age....and we have to accept that it is too late.

2. My own college students in one particular class who refuse to buy the textbook in a reading/writing course. Such a small gripe compared with the above. But they sabotage their own learning and make it awfully hard for me to create a common context...

3. Being turned down for a summer venture I really wanted to be part of. I know others were ahead of me, but it still hurts. I put so many hours into the application packet. What was I thinking? That there would be a chance?

4. Hearing how many friends are out of work and/or underemployed or seriously in debt and barely staying afloat. I have no good news for them. Traditional job search strategies don't work. I believe we are in danger of losing the middle class, even the working class. Is anyone listening? Does anyone care?

My Writing History (Excerpt)

2008-01-11T23:13:00.000-05:00

How many people would be willing to step up and look into the kaleidoscope of my life as a writer and reader? Few. But if they would, they might see indigo seeping from my fountain pen in junior high; red, undulating teachers’ comments; orange and yellow circus spirals made with my thick crayons on our dining room wall; green felt-tip comments I made in margins as an editor; pink and white chalk like icing squiggled on the sidewalk, graphite storms on tear-drenched paper in second grade ...
I teach writing; I have written for a living. This is not because the process has always been easy for me. I was the little girl in second grade who couldn’t write fast enough for her stern teacher, Mrs. Higley. She would pull the paper out of my hand when I was the last to finish – actually, not quite finished– and I would cry. Mrs. Higley was unemotional, with cold blue eyes. Wouldn’t you cry? Sweat from my fist blurred faint blue lines on my paper as I agonized to be perfect. That was part of the problem: I knew that handwriting was important. I was a tug of war between the ideas tumbling forth…and the too-slow penmanship. For years I associated writing and crying.
However, I had also been the four-year-old who regularly “wrote” on our dining room wall. With crayons. Our walls were celery-green. I was small--but here was a vehicle that gave me power and might. Some muse (or demon) within compelled me. Orange, yellow, red, blue, green…I didn’t have the fanciest crayon set, but I made the most of it. My mother would take out cleanser and sponge and try to scrub off the marks. Shadows of crayon remained, interspersed with streaks of—bleach? One day, exasperated, she asked the woman who lived above us in the duplex what she should do. Should she punish me for my exploits?
“Get her a blackboard,” was our tenant’s wise response.
First it was a small rectangular blackboard, not much larger than a notebook, with a yellow duck sponge. I can still feel the dryness of the sponge and how quickly it absorbed water…flooding words and pictures on the board into grey oblivion. Not long after, I got a real blackboard on an easel-type stand. Thus, a teacher was born. I held school in the basement, and the neighborhood kids showed up—even Gregory, who tortured ants and teased me on the street. In my school, he was a model student.

What to Eat on the Campaign Trail

2008-01-05T23:35:00.000-05:00

1. Be prepared to swallow your own words. If you are unwilling to do so, you will look arrogant and few will relate to you.
2. It’s not only what you eat, it’s what’s eating you. It will show, especially if your face is broadcast on TV.
3. Anything that makes you look younger, older, thinner, fatter, warmer, colder, or whatever your most trusted advisor says the public wants.
4. Lots and lots of those chalky, round antacid products that contain calcium. I won’t give their name. Rhymes with mums. I think if there are people like me listening, you should keep your strength up, and calcium soothes the nerves.
5. Cliches. If you can come up with a fresh expression, you’re more likely to be elected. In a flash. Like lightning. Quicker than quick. In the blink of an eye.
6. Secrecy. Are you applying for this job? What will you do, if elected? Don’t hold back, ok? I can’t vote for a maybe this, maybe that. On the other hand, if you don’t quite know what you’ll be able to implement, please say so.
7. Anything that smacks of “poor, misunderstood me.” Would that fly in a job interview? No.
8. Sharp criticisms and/or mindless praises of your predecessor(s). We’ve heard both; we know both; we are lucky to be able to make up our own minds. Get elected on your own strengths and promise.

A Non-Political Blog

2008-01-05T23:03:00.001-05:00

When I explain to the rare person who is interested that I have a blog, I am quick to point out that it is not political. That limitation, of course, is part of what leads to the "O" comments for most of my entries.

Well, I just finished watching a large chunk of the New England primary Democratic debates. I could make observations on styles of rhetoric...as I'm a word watcher....but I won't...

I will offer only one remark that I felt was important for my 15-year-old to hear: It began with the dangerous: "When I was your age..."

"When I was your age, I could only dream that among the candidates would be such diversity."

Self-Help from the Afflicted

2008-01-03T20:33:00.000-05:00

The lessons we learn in childhood are among the most enduring. Here are some of mine:

Identity

1. If you don't know where you come from, don't brag about it.

2. If you can't say something nice about yourself, don't say anything nice about anyone else either.

3. Go ahead. Risk the impossible. Put an apron on your dog and make her walk across the kitchen on her back legs for a dog biscuit. Then, give her chunky peanut butter. She will love you anyway.

Indulge

4. The cookies in the jar are finite. Your appetite is infinite. By eating as many as you can in record time, you may enter: The Glucose Zone.

5. Given the choice between a storebought Halloween princess costume with sequins and a homemade one made with love, pay the 79 cents. You may get an itchy rash but you will fit in with everyone else.

6. The following foods are essential to your healthy development:
________
________
________

Self-Esteem

7. Stop hating yourself. There are plenty of people in this world who are happy to do so for no reason whatsover.

8. Keep your demons in the attic. That way, you'll know where they are. But lock the door, and don't misplace the key.

9. Keep your dreams in the basement. Play house, play school, make friends with spiders. Some day, if you're lucky, you may get to play upstairs.

Confidence

10. Don't drink purple water from that little cup when everyone else is painting unless you are absolutely, positively sure that it is Kool-Aid.

11. Valentine's day is the best day of all. The whole class smells like chocolate, and you will see how much better your printing is than everyone else's.

12. Dance like everyone is watching. Put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.

Ethics

12. If you love something, set it free. If you love something a whole lot, put it in your mother's purse. You will someday recover from finding twenty fireflies on their backs in the morning.

13. Always do the right thing. Drinking milk straight from the bottle was not the right thing. You have the chipped tooth to prove it.

Conviction

14. Cultivate your inner child. You had measles in fourth grade, mumps in fifth grade, and chicken pox at age 42. It's never too late to feel utterly miserable.

15. Innovate. Pink and purple do make a good color combination, and never let anyone tell you otherwise.

16. You will win the spelling bee even if you ate three brownies instead of lunch.

17. The child you thought was a bully, is. Don't believe the rumor about his plan to become a priest. You saw what he did to those ants when it rained. He drowned them and gave them the last rites.

18. Do not forget that if you run fast enough, you will indeed fly. Do not believe the naysayers, even the family members who had to run down the street after you.

Authenticity

19. Wake up and smell the coffee, the herring, the Limburger cheese...and all the other disgusting things that grown-ups eat.

20. Accept reality. Although you would have preferred to play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, the role of the cowardly lion was better than no role at all. It was the one day of your life when your thick hair was an asset and you were allowed to wear a tail made of brown yarn and old nylons to school.

Education

21. E = mc 2
Energy equals the speed with which you eat the cookies times the total mass of the cookies, squared.

22. If a tall, blonde first grader wants to walk you home and carry your report card, let him. This is as close to greatness as he will ever get.

23. If your neighbor wants to teach you to draw, let him. Twenty years from now he will change his major from engineering to education.

24. Forgive. Happy (your dog) ate your four favorite crayons. You were the one who left them out.

25. Be amazed at color TV. Butterflies. Your mother's fox fur. But don't try to put them in your mouth.

26. A blank wall cries out: "Write on me!" just as the sidewalk begs for chalk. Do not let your inability to write keep you from leaving your mark. Your mother just may buy you a blackboard.

Why Having a Refrigerator Break Down on New Year’s Eve Is like Writing

2008-01-03T00:26:00.000-05:00

1. Because you have to quickly salvage what’s good and pitch the rest.

2. Because it forces you to consider how you will preserve what is good.

3. Because the silence will give you a bit more space in which to hear the chatter in your head. That can be good--or scary.

4. Because you have to take a cooling off period from the idea of having a refrigerator. You must be willing to tolerate emptiness. Stores are closed.

5. Because once you finally get to the store, guess what? The model you want has to be shipped from Columbus. That means: More time to incubate ideas and keep them fresh (somehow)…That means: more waiting.

6. Because you will risk damage to your hands if you spend too much time handling ice, grasping your pen, or typing in awkward positions.

7. Because you can move from frenzied food storage (accumulating words) to giving food away for free (blogging), even if others don’t need more words. And you will wonder if the gifts of food or words are really appreciated--or people are just humoring you.

8. Because the man selling refrigerators will be as disinterested in your former refrigerator as most people are in your writing.

9. Because there is no discount. You will always put more into it than you will get out.

10. Because it will force you to do research, as in: How cold is a refrigerator, anyway? And: how hot are my ideas?

Reflecting on Family History

2008-01-02T23:47:00.000-05:00

This year: Consider people who are important in your life. Elicit the stories they know about who has been important to them. Write the memories down, even imperfectly. (I wish I had started much sooner.) Listen with your heart. Each story and each human is utterly unique. But the cosmic heart that connects us beats in unison.

Happy New Year 2008

2008-01-01T04:20:00.000-05:00

January 1, 2008, marks the 130th birthday of my maternal grandfather, Georg Viernekas. He was the oldest of nine born on a farm in the German countryside, sent early to the city of Karlsruhe to earn his keep and help support his family. Catholic and eventually marrying a Lutheran woman thirteen years his junior, Hedwig Giess, Georg worked for years as a porter at Hotel Germania.

The bridge separating the two faiths was not a small one to span at the time.

Hedwig was a maid and helper at a neighboring hotel. She caught his eye; in order to take an uninterrupted walk with him, she gave a bribe of chocolate to children she needed to watch at the same time. The children later revealed to their parents that they had been given some chocolate to eat--"and it's a secret!"

These are the types of family stories that kids half-listen to, a little bored. They are the same stories that--as we grow older--we wish we had taken time to absorb more carefully.

My grandfather served in the Bavarian regiment before World War I, gaining officer status. He voluntarily gave this up to be a cook in the German army when he was called again to serve in World War I. Hedwig found in Georg maturity, a strong work ethic, and gentleness.

By the time World War I demanded his service, Georg and Hedwig were married, my aunt (also named Hedwig) had been born, and my mom was on the way. My father felt that working as a cook might allow him to occasionally send a little food back home, helping the family survive. My grandmother had rejoined her mother in the countryside where "at least we'll have potatoes to eat" was (and still is) the family mantra. Georg also knew that surrendering his officer status meant he would not have to shoot.

I have my grandfather's pewter ration box and cup, and I share the green of his eyes though with a touch of hazel at the center ...

My mother tells me that whereas Georg was quiet and reflective with a dry sense of humor, her mother was livelier and more expressive. But the worries of living in a land at war twice in her lifetime would eventually etch worry lines into her beautiful face.

When Georg was called to serve in the Army, a relative of my grandmother’s (her godmother, in fact) was distressed that she had married a Catholic. She asked her: “What will you do with those Catholic children if he does not return?" My grandmother had promised to raise the children Catholic--though she maintained her Lutheran faith. My grandmother’s mother (my maternal great-grandmother), Katharina Henriette Giess--Lutheran herself and deeply spiritual--put a stop to such talk.

She said: "A promise to G-d on the altar is not to be broken.” I have seen a letter that Katharina wrote on the occasion of my mother's birth, full of joy and spirit. Her graceful handwriting reveals another era, when each word, each thought, was expressed on paper with a measured grace. Could she have imagined that her great-great-grandchildren--my son, my niece, my nephew--would live in a time when words flash across the world in an instant? Would she have changed her view that cars are "Teufelsmaschinen" (Devil's machines)? When I was hurt in an auto accident, I thought of that phrase often. And when she looked into the eyes of my mother, who born after a ten-month gestation, she said definitively: "Zu gut fur diese Welt" (Too good for this world.)

My grandfather enjoyed feeding birds; when he drove the luggage cart for the hotel back and forth to the train station, birds would descend upon it to retrieve crumbs he left on top. Even from a distance, when the birds saw the cart coming, they would flock toward it. My mom recalls that they always had a canary, "Hansel." (The name was passed on to several canaries.) Upon hearing my grandfather's key in the door, Hansie would go straight to his feeding dish. Imagining Georg as a boy raised on a farm--conscripted by circumstance and necessity for service to hotel and army--I feel that his taking precious minutes to tend a small creature is deeply revealing of his character.

And Georg loved music. The waltzes on TV this time of year transport my mom into the world of memory, and I used to not "get it." I do now. She could play the piano energetically in her youth, and still plays favorite tunes by ear though her eyesight has dimmed. In my mother's piano bench is music her father purchased for her to play at family gatherings; it's yellowing, taped together to ensure its survival by my late father, but still legible. A violin that Georg bought for his youngest daughter (my late Aunt Hannelore) made its way to the U.S.A. in 2002, nearly one hundred years after it was crafted. When Hannelore was dying, she worried where the violin would go. (She had no children.) A first cousin (now deceased) insisted that my oldest sister and my mother--who flew to Germany to attend Hannelore's final hours--would take it back home.

A neglected violin in a dusty case? As it turns out, it has joined a quartet of instruments (piano, guitar, accordion) and the affinity for nature (flowers, birds) that carries the spirit of hope in our family. As fate would have it, my son began to play violin. Through music, I sense: Universal love. Sacred memory. Enduring joy. And pain.

Circa 1879 or 1880, just a year or two after my grandfather Georg was born, my father’s mother—Sura Rojsa (surname: Koppel, Kopel, Kopla) was born in Kalisz Gubernia, Posnan Province and entered a world of European Jewry that was to be decimated during World War II. She had long, wavy, dark hair and dark eyes; one strand of her family’s path goes back to Spain and the Inquisition. They were either expelled or chose to leave; I don't know. There were roots and branches of her family in lands including Poland and France. They journeyed in search of work, acceptance, survival.

Sura had a lively intellectual life, even reading philosophy--especially Spinoza. Though as the mother of a large brood (and bearing her first child perhaps as early as age sixteen), she carried many daily responsibilities: she made time to read. As my father entered dating years, I’m told that she’d stay up to hear "how it went"... and then he would ask her what she had been reading. This was before the horrors of the Third Reich--

I know little of my beloved grandmother Sura Rojsa, who died at Stutthof concentration camp in December 1944 after being interred in Lodz ghetto with other family members and "shipped" through Auschwitz. She knew my father's first wife, Silvia, and helped care for Eugenia, his daughter (my half-sister) born in 1935. I am still seeking verification of where and how Silvia and Eugenia died. Was it Stutthof? Was it Auschwitz? Their fate haunted my father his entire life.

Sura's three sons--including my father--and one of her daughters were sent for slave labor in Dresden in the final months of the war. One of the three sons, my uncle Leo, later disappeared.

Sura survived probably longer than the odds for a woman over 60. But by that point, her youngest grandchildren had been killed; wives of two of her sons had been killed; one of her daughters was killed; her husband had died in Warsaw; another daughter (Regina) was in hiding, we suspect.

What happens to a grandmother when she sees her kin disappear one by one? A family story tells of the time she protested and was beaten up in Stutthof, a hellish labor camp that also was used for annihilation. This story paradoxically gives me strength because, though defeated, her words ring through history. When asked "why didn't more Jews resist?" I can know in my heart that my grandmother, widowed, over 60 years old, tried. Perhaps the anguish and outrage of her shouts pierced the soul of the person(s) taking the children and/or grandchildren away. I know this story from a first cousin, a survivor, and the rare testimony of my father.

In recent years I have learned through web resources, the names of first cousins who perished: Mayer, Isak, Abram Josef, Maxy, Bella, Gitla, and a little older: Moritz, Milli, Benjamin...there are others, all of whom I hope to someday commemorate.

If a world leader--supported by willing believers of a rabid ideology--asserts that a group is subhuman, such a belief can destroy three generations of the same family. That is genocide. Hate paired with a technology of annihilation devours young, old, strong, weak, pious, secular: anyone deemed unsuitable. I cannot even imagine the size of my family had these cherished young ones survived.

I have not recovered from this terrible knowledge of human possibility, and I never will. It cannot be expressed in words--though I occasionally try. I sense positive potential for humans, of course--or I could not go on. Regrettably, the world has not abandoned hate.

As this new year opens, hushed by a blanket of snow here in Cleveland, I wonder: What would Georg and Sura say to each other if they could meet? Could they even speak? Would they, in the reverberations of that epidemic of horror known as the Third Reich, maintain mutual, conditioned suspicion? Or would their loves of music, nature, cooking, and reading spawn curiosity and rapport? Would they be surprised at the twists and turns that brought my father and mother together, in post-war Europe.

In another dimension, can my paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather see their unlikely grandchildren--my two sisters and me...? In such a place, can family trees truncated by war and tragedy grow again, sheltering ancestors like mine who emerged from disparate worlds? Are the souls whose lives were cut short still grieving? Can they--or the world that failed them--heal?

In the sole picture I have of Sura Rojsa (taken at my Tante [Aunt] Regina’s wedding...her oldest child who was on the run during the Third Reich...there is sadness in her dark eyes. How this picture was preserved, I don't know.

In pictures of my grandfather Georg with his wife Hedwig and three beautiful daughters, I see a tender smile despite harsh realities that became even harsher as the Third Reich raged. In Hedwig's eyes, the sadness grows deeper with each picture. Let no one underestimate the power of political extremism and economic adversity to shatter lives. Georg had saved enough money to open his own hotel; with the depression that hit Germany, the money lost its value entirely. But there were other challenges. Georg's eldest daughter had a chronic illness; the family was strongly Catholic. Two black marks…or, in someone else's mind...two distinguishing factors that would guarantee that our family would be different, outsiders whose home was not entirely safe from Nazi poison. Work was thus not easy for Georg to get once the Nazis were in power. There were struggles for many years.

My grandfather accepted my father, without question or hesitation, when he fell in love with my mother.

As Georg aged, his final joy was to tend a small garden despite serious back problems incurred in a bombing of a hotel near the end of the war.

The woman that my mother became--a woman brave enough to marry a Holocaust survivor who had lost his wife, his daughter, and others ... a woman daring enough to accept differences of faith, age, and personality ... a woman bold enough to cross the ocean with my father and my cherished sisters (age 3-1/2 and 2 years old) to embrace a new land, a new language....a woman gentle enough to just keep loving us all through many family struggles... carried the legacy of her own courageous ancestors within.

These loving hearts included: a bright, sensitive Lutheran grandmother who said we don't revoke promises to G-d and tutored kids discreetly so that their teachers didn't know they were getting help; her Catholic father who chose to cook rather than shoot, and who loved birds and boxing, and who founded a community soccer team that (I'm told) still exists in Germany. And other relatives of both faiths who lived on farms, close to the earth, and maintained rugged independence of thought despite an evil ideology ravaging Europe.

My mother embraced Judaism.

If families can blossom with members of different faiths, why can’t nations? Will there be a day when most can accept religious differences as naturally as varieties of plants, languages, colors in the rainbow? Not a patronizing or suspicious acceptance, nor one with an ulterior motive (as in: "Let me get your trust, and then I'll convert you"). Rather, a genuine affirmation: "Yes, there is room for both you and for me on this planet."

Forcing religion into narrower and narrower chutes may seem on the surface to perpetuate traditions and create close-knit communities, but it leads to most of the world being labeled “outsider.” I do not believe that the world can afford that anymore, if it ever could. Either we are all kin, or none of is connected. Either we acknowledge our interdependence, or we each must ultimately go it alone.

With love and appreciation to (Oma) Grandma Sura and (Opa) Grandpa Georg for the gift of life. May your memories be preserved. May your scattered descendents serve truth and promote healing of this troubled world.

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

The Sprite of Technology

2007-12-29T14:50:00.005-05:00

If you ask me—the Sprite, I mean Spirit of Technology—I’m much like a Gentry, I mean Genie that does all kinds of tricks once unleashed from the bottle--or unpacked from the steel-stapled, bulky box of knuckle-busting Styrofoam and popcorn-styrene beads that scatter on the floor and stick to your fingers like some new type of Cleveland snow. I’m swift, I’m crafty, I’m nimble, I’m edgy, I’m unpredictable. I’m mischievous enough that…when I sense someone panicking at the user’s end…I get …shall we say…feisty? Prone to playing practical jokes? I’m sorry, I just can’t help myself.

Remember, for old time’s sake, the three “lll’s” you didn’t type in the word “colllege” in the cover letter for that job you really wanted? That was me at my best! Ha! You don’t want to work anywhere where they lack a sense of humor, do you? And the missing “o” in “proofreader”? "Profreader?" Rumor has it that you teach in a college. Do you suppose that word is a Freudian slap? I mean slip? That silly mistake was your own hasty fault. You didn’t bother to use the spellcheck feature. I admit that Mr. Spell Check is drab and tedious…doesn’t grasp anything “outside the box” (maybe because he lives in it) and plays entirely by the rules, even if they don’t make sense. ("The rules of technology" he certainly imbibed from the day he was conceived in the mind of that engineering student that couldn't spelll....) Once your fingers start step dancing on the keyboard, you know that your extaordinary mind won't miss a beat. Right?

Incidentally: Spell Check picked up some sorry habits along the way. He's lateral. I'm sorry, I meant to say: literal. Lean in and please don't tell anyone I told you: He color codes his tiny socks, all black and pure cotton, by day of the week. He won’t play trucks, I mean tricks…doesn’t know how!

Now, I bet you’re thinking of the time your resume wouldn’t print, period? You know: Not print even a period? That wasn’t me at all. And don't blame Spell Check. That was The Trusty Printer, whose warranty had just expired two days before. Like clockwork. T.T.P. goes right by the book. (Remember books?) A whole crew works on her to make sure that she doesn’t spurt one iota of extra of ink or powder (I mean power) or modify her even, modulated, predictable, whirring sound that's positively hypnogogic. I mean hypnotic. That is, until the warranty is up. What you might hear then sounds a lot like a cornered rabbit. Or--could it be that those sounds coming from you? Why moan? Two days past warranty is pretty good! Dial 1-800-BUY-MORE. You don’t think that innovations like cut-and-paste and click and instant reboot (sorry, rebate) come without a prize? (I meant to say: price.)

Whenever you get too cozy and assume you’ve finally figured me out, some engineer has already mutated my microchips, rewired my quarks, and rekindled my sparks. The less of me you actually see, the more you’ll be surprised. I promise. Who knows? Maybe, I’ll soon be living under your fingernails, recording every thought you didn’t utter. If you trim them, you’ll leave a trail…

C’mon—don’t be sacred. Let’s go typing!

Center Photo: The Spirit of Technology expressed itself long ago in Maria's genuine Walking Doll, whose hip screws predicted a future orthopedic convention. Maria spent the first two years of her life in pajamas, leading to a lifelong love of cotton, pastels, and elastic waist bands. Left and Right Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service with a little help from Spirit of Technology (right).

Writers Circle Resumes in 2008

2007-12-28T22:44:00.000-05:00

Where? Ethel A's house. Contact Maria's home or cell phone (or email her) for address and day/time. Curbside parking available. Wear steady boots in case of snow or ice.

Who? Aspiring writers of all levels of experience and interest.

When? Starting Friday, Jan. 4. 1:00-2:30 p.m.

How much? $35 for six sessions, a bargain in Cleveland's writing community.

Genres? All welcome. The mixture of voices and types of writing works well.

We have had participants interested in just about everything: essays, memoirs, poetry, opinion editorials, children's books, plays....we stretch with the group's motivation and inclination.

All welcome? Well, almost. Please don't come if you don't want to learn from others and prefer a cut-throat writing group.

See You and Your Muse Soon!

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

You Go, Girl! (New Children's Book)

2007-12-28T14:21:00.001-05:00

Loretta Magden's The Treetop Bird Family is available now and had a fine write-up in The Cleveland Jewish News. You don't have to be a parent, or a birdwatcher, or even a lover of children's books to enjoy this charming, beautifully conceived, well-crafted book. I loved it from the moment I handled it...the layout and design are as good as the story, and you may feel that you have crawled into the bird's nest yourself. A treat at the end of the book is the recipes.

It has been my pleasure and privilege to have Loretta as a writing student in my classes for years. She is lyrical, funny, wildly creative, sweet, and gets to the heart of the matter--in writing and in life.

Here's the Jewish News write-up:
http://clevelandjewishnews.com/articles/2007/10/12/features/arts/darts1012.prt
And here's a link to Amazon, if you'd rather purchase that way.
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_gw/002-1624461-7038453?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=The+Treetop+Bird+Family&x=9&y=25

Loretta has a talent that is expressed in on-the-spot improvisation as well as more polished writing.

She is an inspiration to us all.

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Sialia currucoides (Mountain bluebird)

A House Mouse Speaks

2007-12-27T17:19:00.000-05:00

She’s boiling mint in the kitchen now. And burning incense! Phew. A paper-towel roll covered with foil is now in the gap between stove and wall. I looked at my own reflection. Or was it someone else’s? A fine specimen.

I admit that I was too bold that morning, enticed by the smell of peanuts left in an open can in the living room. Though I had been scratching for weeks, that nutty scent compelled me to gnaw through an entire wall in one night.

They don’t call me Mus musculus for nothing. My nose guided me. I was in “gnawers’ high” when I stood on the stove and stretched to my full two-and-a-half inches (not including tail). What were the odds that she would walk in at that moment?

I stood still. My white belly bulged. I'm proud of that; it's testimony to my skill at finding snacks. “Eat, drink, and be married” is my motto. My fur is glossy brown, with a sprinkling of sawdust and a few distinguished strands of gray. She looked at me. At first I thought I could make her run. My eyes are quite compelling, I've been told by several ladies. And I can usually get my fellow males to take off with my "look that kills."

But in that split second when I read her mind, I took it as a cue. She thinks I’m disgusting!

Well, I've rarely been so insulted, so I leapt behind the stove and dove down the stairs. One never knows what people might do if they panic. And anyway, my ego was bruised.

Disgusting? Me? Sure, I carry a bit of salmonella. Nobody’s perfect. Some day they will find out that protects me from worse things. I mean no harm at all. And if they don't want me here, will they stop making it so easy for me to get in (assorted gaps in the outside bricks and a virtual crater underneath the porch)? I have to laugh when I hear about those studies of mice running mazes. In this house, there are five ways in and ten ways out. Any mouse who misses this chance is a fool.

She turned off the coffee machine, and I prepared myself for new smells from the Big Box. I can’t pronounce refrigerator, but I know what’s inside. She prepares breakfast daily for her mother. Toast, a donut, yogurt, cereal--once a cheese sandwich! My plan today was to nibble on the table, then proceed to the peanut-room. Or maybe climb to the top shelf; I smell rice and I suspect it's in one of those little boxes with the easy-open lid. You know the kind; humans lift it with their fingernail, and my nose works just fine. Barely lost a whisker doing that in the past.

But she changed her routine. Left without even a handful of cereal strewn about. I suspected she was up to something. An hour later, she came back, wiping the stove with bleach. Phew! That stuff is not at all appetizing. And I heard her talking to her mother about me, and dashing into the other room with a bag of pancakes that she foraged from somewhere else.Her mother is the kind lady in flannel nightgowns who has a sweet voice and sometimes drops special crumbs for me. A real doll. Call me a dreamer; I wondered for a moment if they might be planning to feed my family. Pancakes aren't our favorite and no one needs to make a fuss and clean the stove for us. We prefer it a little gummy and with the delightful bouquet of mixed pastries and soups.

Maybe it was some kind of new holiday: National Feed Your House Mouse Day?

But then I heard words that chilled me to the bone. “Exterminator.” “Trap.” Then I heard: “No poison." Calming myself, I took a few deep breaths and fell into deep slumber.

I dreamt of smells and noises. Nightmares, really. I woke up to the odor of a cat! Where did that come from? Rumor has it that cats wouldn’t have been domesticated, except for the likes of me. And what do they do to show their gratitude? They chase us, toss us, and stink up the basement with their litter box. This particular cat hissed and refused to eat while on watch. Chill out! It paced all night. I am tricky. I've left my scent everywhere...that's part of my allure...but so far, it's just me and Minnie.

Then, I heard more rustling. They blocked the opening between the refrigerator and dishwasher with steel wool. Ouch! And they put out boxes with peanut butter! Don't think I'll fall for that. My cousin Gus went into one of those and was never heard from again.

And now I'm absolutely certain that it's a conspiracy: a high-pitched noise begins to penetrate the walls. It makes my fur stand on end. I get it: No poison means slow torture. I’m so irritable, I start to nibble on the wires. My father taught me this, but warned me that you can’t go too far. Just gently graze the rubber surface with your front teeth…

I won't budge. This is my house. Well, sort of. Come to think of it, not exactly...

My girlfriend wants out now. She wants to settle down, start a family. She says it’s her--or this house. I tell her that we might be here long after humans and cats are gone.

She tells me to stop musing and get moving.

Pictured: Zapus hudsonius preblei (Prebles Meadow Jumping Mouse) is a relative of Mus Musculus (who is also known as Mus domesticus).

Photo credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Southeast Image Library.

Why I'm Back

2007-12-26T22:04:00.000-05:00

During the months when I was indulging myself on the original Wordsanctuary blog (the predecessor to this one), my lightning-fast fingers happily danced on the keyboard, and I also became fairly adept at borrowing pictures from the stunning collection of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Life and work intervened, and my blogging bent was abandoned. Then, in the wee hours of Christmas morning, wanting to chat with Santa as he stopped at our house, I instead became sucked back into cyberspace by inspiration as powerful as that little angular attachment on the vacuum cleaner. From out of the corners, the cobwebs. From out of exhaustion, rekindled hope. One minute, I'm weeping at my sink (having been overwrought at watching The Nutcracker and admiring the grace and art of the performers, but also remembering that I used to dance before my auto accident altered my range of motion and strength. Then I tried to express this to my son, which he took as self-pity, but that wasn't really the point. I was trying to express that art, music, dance, theater, writing, have always been important to me--and even if I have not achieved distinction, I have supported others who have certainly become adept in their craft. And in my life, too, have been people whose friendships kept me aloft in trying times. My cherished friend Brigitte (a Unitarian and a Sufi) died last year. I had written a tribute to her, hoping to publish the piece in UU World. I tried, and I respect the editors' right to say no. Months ago, I intended to post it to the original Wordsanctuary. Delays. A trip to England to pursue Holocaust memories. Family history searching. Loads of work. Debt. Disappointment. At the sink one set of thoughts led to another; I soon was wrung dry of tears, had filed away the dishes, and found myself in the deep end of the cyberspace pool (which is risky, as I don't swim much). My piece on Brigitte's impact on me is finally here in a new blog. A funny piece about my battles with technology has found its way here, too. No patience to try to market my zany humor or my deep thoughts at the moment. My fingers don't fly as fast; I've graded too much student writing to have precise syntax and fluent rhythms; my designs are in my head but not quite emerging perfectly. Perfect writing? No. But at least present.

Photo credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Trauma

2007-12-26T21:38:00.000-05:00

I was heartened to find that a recent issue of Cleveland Magazine included a well-written KSU Magazine article detailing the work of a traumatologist concerned about the Middle East. Decisions on public policy might take into account trauma--and its multigenerational legacy--whether due to natural disaster, war, crime, or other factors. I lived for seventeen brief years with my father, a Holocaust survivor. I absorbed a wide range of emotions from him--including the ability to joke in multiple languages. Though he was traumatized and saw images of hell I cannot imagine--and lost through genocide his wife Silvia, mother Sura Rojsa, father Jacob, daughter Eugenia ("Jenny"), sister (Cilla), nieces and nephews under the age of ten (Maxy, Gitla, Bella, Meyer, Abram, Isak) and older (Moritz, Ben, Milly)...and his brother (Leo) who disappeared somewhere after the war...and countless cousins in Germany, Poland, and France whom I cannot name...my father had a creative mind, a fine singing voice, and intelligence that could not fully flower in the U.S. due to trauma and language limits. But he provided for us and kept us clothed and fed. He had studied medicine in Germany before the war and moved into textile study and business due to an eye injury.

The story of my father's life is yet to be written, but my sister has begun (from her perspective):

http://www.raskinfo.com/lodz.html

Memoir, Memory, Mentors

2007-12-26T20:23:00.000-05:00

"All emotions are pure which gather you and lift you up; that emotion is impure which seizes only one side of your being and so distorts you."

--Rainer Maria Rilke

Today, over lunch at Claddagh's Irish Pub, we caught up with a friend from Columbus who is an avid reader. I told him about Joe Mackall's recent book Plain Secrets (Beacon 2007), which I devoured during the grading of research essays as a reward. Joe wrote about a particular group of Amish--Swartzentruber Amish--and his friendship with a family living near him. The fact that he built the friendship is as amazing to me as the actual book, which is a finely polished gem.

Joe was a fellow student in a few classes when I was an undergraduate at CSU many moons ago; it was good to read his work recently and learn of his success.

His wife Dandi is a prolific children's book author; according to her website, she has published over 400 books; she must have great energy and stamina.

Another book by Joe, The Last Street Before Cleveland: An Accidental Pilgrimage (U of Nebraska P, 2006), is his spiritual autobiography I would say...and I read that in one curious gulp before moving on to Plain Secrets. At least a few folks would agree with me that it's a book revealing great vulnerability, regrets, gratitude, and an unexpected awakening:

I do not tire of memoirs, especially those by people I have known even a bit. I have several drawers and folders full of my own spiritual memoirs and thoughts. Whether I will ever put that particular jigsaw puzzle of words together, I don't know. But at least I have tried to probe and explore and have had some fine, sensitive spiritual advisors along the way...from Jewish, Unitarian, Buddhist, Catholic, Unity Church, and other traditions...

One of the most satisfying pieces of my professional life has been fostering, observing, admiring the growth of memoir writers...first through OASIS which folded due to Cleveland Clinic cutbacks (they were one of our valued sponsors), and then our spin-off group, Writers' Circle, which has flourished and blossomed but is currently hibernating.

The picture of me on this blog was taken when we met at Mayfield library...one of our varied meeting places. (Look closely: You can see my son's sneaker-covered foot peeking out near the elbow of my left arm...the right one on the picture.) We met at Kaufmann's, an occasional coffee house when others at Kaufmann's were conducting healthy adventures, such as frying fish, Bethlehem Lutheran Church, Beachwood Family Health Center, South Euclid-Lyndhurst Library, University Heights library, Barnes and Noble Bookstore, Joseph-Beth Bookstore, Workmen's Circle, my back porch...a now-defunct coffee house...too bad I was so busy teaching and motivating, I did not take copious notes of the incredible creative processes I observed. No matter.

With writers of varied personalities and genres, it never got dull.

I miss Fran and Miriam and Paula (read some recollections at http://wordsanctuary.blogspot.com/2005_06_01_archive.html) and Florence and Sanford and Olive and Betty and Bill and Harriet and Shirley, and others who have died...They were vibrant, inspiring, and courageous writers. Although I was technically their teacher, the reality is: We were a community of writers, learning from and supporting one another. Family health issues in Fall 2007 led to my putting Writers' Circle on hold for a while. Perhaps we will rekindle the ongoing experiment some time.

The work of some members of the group is in Cleveland's Bicentennial-Tricentennial Time Capsule to be opened, Universe willing, in 2096. It was compiled into a chapbook called Beauty in Youth and Age, featuring senior writers and high school students. Only one or two "collectors' items" are left. It was an honor to facilitate that group and arrange the manuscript...I credit Lauren Feiglin for her faith in the project and her confidence in me as a teacher. She was the type of mentor who stood in the wings and said: "good job"..."what do you need"...and had remarkable creative gifts herself.

Refuge

2007-12-25T19:34:00.000-05:00

Wishing all my readers and friends a blessed Christmas, a peaceful Solstice, a belated Happy Chanukah, and a Happy New Year. If I have omitted your tradition (or you have none), wishing you goodwill, good health, and good fortune.

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

A Community Minister Remembered

2007-12-25T00:45:00.000-05:00

Unfailing

Conceive the Soul as a fountain,
And these created things as rivers:
While the Fountain flows, the rivers run from it.

Put grief out of your mind,
And drink of this River-water.
Do not think of the Water failing—

For this Water is without end.

--Rumi

Her favorite flower was the purple iris, her eyes as blue as cloudless sky. Her hair was gold as sunbeams, her voice soothing as a breeze. Her heart embraced family and friends; her spirit soared across mountains and oceans. Brigitte Brunhart, who died on September 28, 2006, was a community minister and a cherished friend.

I met Brigitte at a lay ministers’ training program she helped design and implement at First Unitarian Church in Shaker Heights, Ohio, in the 1990s. I was a trainee in the program and a new UU. Though we both eventually shifted our memberships elsewhere—Brigitte selected East Shore Unitarian Universalist Church in Kirtland, Ohio, and I joined Church of the Larger Fellowship and other spiritual organizations—our friendship remained intact.

From the outset, I was struck by Brigitte’s passion for life and desire to serve others. The program she spearheaded at First Church still influences me—whenever I need to reach out to someone struggling, particularly someone I don’t know well. Beyond being adept in the art of service, Brigitte herself possessed what can be best described as a healing presence—with all the mystery and kindness that phrase suggests. She could listen intently; she could speak up courageously.

Brigitte and her husband John McBratney adopted two children, Kumar and Indra, from Nepal, demonstrating that love indeed encircles the globe to those receptive to it. My son and I admire the vision to create family in this way. We remember our too-infrequent play dates and one day, in particular, when Brigitte and Kumar arrived at our home with armloads of gently worn T-shirts. My son, an only child, was in a phase of wearing only cotton shirts with animal prints on them—and this replenished our supply.

Combining motherhood with service to others beyond our immediate circle was a quest Brigitte understood. We spoke freely about striving to attain that delicate balance. One night, she suggested that we steal away to hear the Cleveland Orchestra at Blossom Music Center, some distance from our homes. She was willing to drive—if I would pack a picnic basket. It was one of the few performances I heard in my stressful years as mom of a preschooler with asthma and as a teacher.

My parents were immigrants from postwar Europe. Brigitte was originally from Lichtenstein. She was fluent in German and French, and I have smatterings of both. Thus, we could talk a bit in other languages; she had the grace to overlook my faulty grammar. Friendship, after all, is not so much about the words—but rather, the delicate threads of thought and emotion linking mind and heart. Her handwriting and needlepoint, precise and graceful, showed her ability to create beauty in even the smallest space.

Serious illness in Brigitte’s final years and an auto accident in my life rerouted much of our own energy into quests for personal healing. She understood firsthand the frustration of being restricted by health concerns. She traveled to Colorado and back to Ohio several times, seeking traditional and complementary treatment. We re-connected when we could, and I valued each conversation. Her depth of understanding was forged decades before, when she had first faced and overcome a life-threatening illness. At that time, as a student of comparative literature, she shifted her studies to massage and the related healing arts to help others.

On my birthday a few years ago, I encountered Brigitte in a parking lot by chance. I burst into tears, overwhelmed by my own lengthy rehabilitation and a legal case. She was not only a comfort; her conviction helped me persevere.

All healing paths are finite. Brigitte had done hospice work and was not afraid to discuss death and the process of letting go. I once revealed to her anguish as a relative faced an operation of unknown outcome. There were few people that I felt could understand. She reassured me that most of the people she had supported in their final weeks of life made peace with who they were, with what they had done and left undone. I have relied on this insight many times, and it has eased the pain of losing dear relatives and friends.

The last time I saw Brigitte, she spoke with her eyes. She winked. She smiled. I gave her flowers to symbolize her strength and beauty and a silky toy rabbit, her gentleness--suspecting it was our last visit, but hoping to be wrong. The weekend of her memorial service, my mother was very ill; I knew I’d have to delay saying goodbye to Brigitte.

I have decided to defer saying goodbye indefinitely. My memory of her as a minister of compassion will always fill my heart.
Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Wow

2007-12-25T00:44:00.000-05:00

These charming songs are well-done in print and actually sung at:

http://blog.cleveland.com/pdopinion/2007/12/editorial_carolbook_songs_for.html