What do you have to be
thankful for? I mean besides the fact that you are not a turkey.
This question has been asked, I suppose, by more teachers of more students than
anything except ÒWhat did you do on your summer vacation?Ó But when was
the last time you truly sat back and wondered about the meaning of this
holiday--not to pilgrims, Native Americans and large clunky birds, but to
yourself. In your life, today, as you prepare for your final few months
of high school, what do you have to be thankful for?
I asked myself that question back in 1996, an autumn which lives
in my memory as the final one before everything in my world changed permanently
and dramatically. It amazes me that, looking back at the list today, I
find that almost everything still applies, that even in a life so different
from the one I was living then I am still thankful for most of the same
things. So I thought IÕd share that list with you, and maybe a few
updates as well. J
What I am thankful for:
¥ my education: cheesy, isnÕt it? But I think that my
time in school has been the thing that has helped make me whatever it is that I
am today, and I know that it helped shape me in ways I cannot begin to
discover.
¥ my alma materÕs football success: also cheesy, but IÕm
serious. NUÕs success has given me and the country a lot of pleasure, but
I think it might be more important for the faith that it restores in the utter
simplicity of sports as a pastime: no contracts hassles, no scandals, no
strikes, no football factory, just a bunch of guys living a dream and sharing
it with the world--maybe it is a reminder that dreams are possible.
(OK: so NUÕs football success was ephemeral. So
what? That year it was the Wildcats; last year it was the Cubs; this year
it was the Red Sox. Interestingly, both of the first two fell short of
their ultimate goals, but what difference does that really make? Both of
them absorbed the city of Chicago and the country with positive thoughts during
difficult times, and both of them made peopleÑwhether or not they generally are
sports fansÑfeel at least temporarily a little happier.)
¥ the power of a good book to transport me beyond my present
into some place, perhaps, where I have never been and can never be.
(And what good books have you read lately?
IÕm currently reading several books for pleasure, including a Sandra Brown
romance, a remarkable book called Middlesex, and Janet
EvanovichÕs Ten Big Ones. On CD I just finished Michael
CrichtonÕs The Prey and John Fowles; The French LieutenantÕs Woman.)
¥ the sense of anticipation and discovery in the first playing
of a new CD by an artist you enjoy, the music instantly filling gaps in my life
that I had not even noticed before.
(We may not share the same musical tastes, but if you enjoy
singer/songwriters, trust me on this: check out Lucy Kaplansky, Susan Werner,
Richard Shindell, Jonatha Brooke, Kim Richey or Catie Curtis. I have
almost never been disappointed by any of them.)
¥ the smile and laugh of my four-year-old, Julie, as she grabs
me and holds tight, refusing to let go as I lift her into the air, her arms wound
around my neck, my arms suddenly dropping and dangling intentionally free, her
small body a kind of growth, almost connected to mine, unseverable.
(Julie
is now 12, almost 13. <Ack! 13! Another teenager!> The joy of being
with her has changed from the simple sweetness of the unprepossessing four year
old to the pleasures of being with a child who is not all that much of a child
any more. SheÕs been through a lot, of course, and she lacks the simple
openness of her siblings, but there are timesÑin waning numbers but still
wonderful when they comeÑwhen she is still the adorable little girl that she
was back then, and the pleasure of holding her, kissing her, tickling her, and
just being with her is now compounded by the pleasure of having real discourse
with her and sharing more mature moments. Everyone says they have
favorite ages for their children; I find tremendous pleasure in all of them.)
¥ the fact that I can still, as I approach within six months of
forty, feel the childlike pleasure inherent in the Christmas season that I see
in the eyes and faces of my own children--feel it both through them and in
myself each time the year rolls inexorably toward winter.
(I have to admit that, after my divorce, Christmas has grown a
little less innocent and pleasurable. I still love it, though. I
still decorate my house inside and outÑmy row of light-wrapped trees always
elicits positive comments from passers-byÑas I did with my children this
weekend, and I still enjoy the simple pleasures of the season, in which number
I include Elvis singing ÒBlue Christmas,Ó candles that leave my home redolent
of pine, the pure joy of the sparking colored lights, among many, many other
things, and I love the intangible but undeniable feeling that, for a few weeks
each year, people just feel better about the world.)
¥ my own and my familyÕs continued good health, which is a
blessing that I cannot and should not overlook or take for granted.
(Yes. Absolutely. And illnesses and deaths that have
occurred in the interim since I wrote that line continue to remind me of just
how important it is. ItÕs cheesy, too, I suppose, but health is really
the single most important thing in the world.)
¥ another year in this violent, unpredictable world in which no
one I know was affected by the awful things that happen to people every day.
(I even managed to get through 9/11 without knowing anyone who
was personally involved. I have to say, though, that after the events of
that horrible day, my world felt just as rocked as if I had had friends in
those towers. I still cannot look at the photos or films. ItÕs too
awful.)
¥ the maturing of Caitlin, my eleven-year-old, who seems to be
growing more into someone with whom I can have intelligent conversations and
who can relate the events of her day to me without the tedium of trying to get
information from a child.
(She is now 18. It amazes me that Julie is the age she was
then. And it hurts me that she has had so many, many emotional
difficulties which I will not here enumerate. Right now, at least
temporarily, she is reasonably happy, though her life is on hold between high
school and whatever. I am grateful, though, for the fact that, through
all of the traumas that life has thrown her way, she still can make me happy
just by being there and she still feels the same way in my presence.)
¥ the fact that Caitlin still is young enough to want to share
her daysÕ events with me.
(OK: I guess we can scratch this one. Though I do get
frequent phone calls from California. J)
¥ the tiny laughter of Melanie, almost two now, as she pulls
herself up against the window, her favorite spot, and stands smiling at the
great outdoors, impatient each day to explore it herself but joyful at the
simple pleasure of watching.
(No longer tiny, she turns 10 this week! <Ack! Double digits! My baby!J> Like
Julie, though, there is still so much about her that is little and innocent
that I sometimes can forget that she will inexorably grow up and the purity of
her love will be replaced by that wiser, more experienced emotional bond that
comes with adulthood. I pray every day that she and Julie have an easier
time of adolescence than their older sibling did, and I pray also that they
will not make my life miserable during those years, as so many teens do to
their parents.)
¥ the wonder of MelanieÕs discovery of words, and the joy she
gets out of finding new ones.
(You know, this is an ongoing process, but the words and the joys
are more complicated. No longer fascinated by the way sounds come
together, she sits at the computer playing word scrambles and asking things
like, ÒMom, is myriad a word?Ó)
¥ the fact that, against all odds, I found myself a career and
a job where I feel fulfilled, where I believe that I can at times actually make
a difference in someoneÕs life, where I get to know a wide spectrum of young
individuals, all of whom are interesting and some of whom become my friends.
(At the cinema or the mall I often run into students and
alumni. ItÕs always good to see them, though I always feel awkward in
such situations. If they came to visit me in the classroom, IÕd want to
talk to them endlesslyÑas I did last week, disrupting my class for many minutes
at a time when alumni dropped byÑ but when I happen upon them in Òreal life,Ó I
always feel that I am intruding on someone elseÕs night out. Not too long
ago I ran into a group of theatre alums at the movies. We chatted awhile, and I gave them all
hugs and told them how happy I was to run into them and asked briefly how they
were doing and then I begged off. It was, as it always is, a bit awkward,
I suppose. But they did seem sincerely happy to run into me too, and I
believe I did have some kind of impact on their lives while they were here, and
that is what any teacher lives for.)
¥ the joy of watching and helping someoneÕs writing grow and
mature, of seeing a student discover a voice or a genre that works, of knowing
that he or she can indeed express things in a beautiful, original way.
(If I canÕt do theatre, at least there is this joy
remaining. And it is a HUGE one.)
¥ the joy of creation that comes with watching the fruits of my
own and othersÕ labors develop and grow in the theatre: the many hours there
are worth it every time I watch an opening night, every time I see the tears of
satisfaction on the faces of the actors when the final curtain comes down.
(God, I wish this one still appliedÉ)
¥ the pleasure that I take in writing things myself, whether it
is a story or a poem or one of these letters to you, and the fact that there is
someone reading them who might appreciate what I have to say.
(Maybe someday IÕll actually finish one of the things I
start! Maybe even AldamiaÕs
Heart. J)
¥ the gentle, satin caress of a cat rubbing its arched back
against my skin.
(As I write, the little tags on my cat OberonÕs collar are
jingling behind me. He wants to jump up on the keyboard and rub against
me, leaving little hairs in between the keys. He wants to sit on the
table as I eat, too, and he always jumps up and plops himself right on my
newspaper. HeÕs as sweet as he was that evening five years ago when,
during a performance of A Midsummer NightÕs Dream in RMAÑthe old
RMAÑhe wandered in and made himself at home. I ended up with him that
night and forever and named him after one of the characters in the play. Upstairs, sleeping in a kind of
intertwined bundle on my bed, lie Viola and Lightning, my two newest additions
whose youthful playÑthey are each about fifteen months oldÑhas enlivened both
my and OberonÕs lives.)
¥ the warmth of a summer sun, and the memory of that warmth
which can sustain me through even the worst Chicago winter.
(God, the older I get the more I absolutely hate winter! Could
someone please pick up Chicago and transplant it, say, a thousand miles to the
south?) ;-)
¥ my life, which is all that I ever hoped it would be and more,
and which I do not honestly believe I would trade with anyoneÕs: to me, that as
much as anything else is the definition of happiness and success.
(Despite everything, this still holds true. And thatÕs the
best thing I can say this holiday season.)
So how about you? What are you thankful for?
Ms K