Ode to the Ignorant

You say you know

A lifetime ago

(And smugly, too)

I thought I knew

A million dry runs in

Technicolor daydreams

Yet unprepared

Caught unaware

I hurtled from the track

In far-flung frenzy

Broken, groping

Faintly hoping

But, oh!

The dark

I emerged

Alive (not fully)

Whole (not really)

Shattered, scattered

Dead and buried in

The new normal

You issue demands

Always needier, ever greedier

And stare through the obvious

With reckless oblivion

Don’t tell me that you know—

You don’t.

Can’t?

Won’t.

Incompatible with Life: A story of hope

My Love-Hate Relationship with Teaching

I have a confession to make, one that seemingly meets the criteria of a mundane mid-life crisis: I love what I do, but I hate my job. I’m a kindergarten teacher by trade. I adore children—always have, always will—and have a natural affinity for the littlest learners. I enjoy watching their growth across a school year, the way they come in green and fresh as newly planted seeds at the start, and leave my classroom as saplings stretching toward the infinite sky of knowledge and understanding. I hate the metrics that are used to define my students’ performance (and my own). I loathe the over-reliance on a narrow band of assessment measures that ignores the intangibles of student growth and extinguishes the joy of learning. I resent seeing children reduced to numbers on a grid in the name of data-based decision-making. I cherish the time I spend with my students in the Zone of Proximal Development. I thrive on the everyday teachable moments that enable me to coach into my stud...

The Real Housewives of BC

My name is Laura and I watch the Real Housewives more regularly than I'd like to admit. I’m a vicarious visitor to Orange County and New York, used to spend a lot of time in New Jersey, and occasionally duck into Atlanta and Beverly Hills, just to see what’s going on. It is a bit of an addiction, the Housewives series. I was a latecomer to its explosively entertaining parties. I’d never been big on binge watching television and, honestly, it wasn’t until I began treatment for a breast cancer recurrence that I had the capacity and desire to collapse onto the couch and seek mindless diversion. It didn’t take me long to find the Bravo network, and it was almost impossible not to develop an affinity for their alternate version of female reality. Perpetual reruns of previous episodes got me quickly up to speed on the characters and their almost comically surreal and wacky hi-jinks. I also didn’t have the energy to find the remote and change the channel. For those who aren...

Going Solo

I miss my right breast. There, I said it. It’s not often that I allow myself that luxury. It’s been nearly twelve years since I had it. My late breast was warm and soft, lovely really, even if it was a shave smaller than its mate, and parting with it saddened me deeply. I could say that I lost my breast, but that would imply that there was some remote possibility of getting it back. It’s more accurate to say that I removed it for medical reasons, and replaced it for cosmetic ones. If I had known how much the laborious process of reconstruction would hurt, I would have taken a pass on the effort. When the plastic surgeon explained the process of stretching that would precede placement of the actual implant, it did not occur to me that post-surgical skin might rebel against this strain on its capacity. However, once you’ve committed to the risk, you need to see it through to the reward, which is exactly what I did. I tolerated the pain for the eventual trophy—a cohesive sili...

Incompatible with Life

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