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Last Day of School Horoscope.

Yes, I'm an ardent astrologist. I put more faith in my sign than a bottle of tylenol. I believe that cosmic forces are at work upon us and I'm sucker for those who dare claim they can interpret said forces. When I stumbled upon my horoscope for my last day of school, I thought, Spot On.

"It may be time to say good-bye to something that's been in your life for a very long time (too long, in fact). You're moving into an exciting new phase of life, and to make the journey all the more successful, you need to drop off some old baggage and lighten your load. Admit to yourself that you have limitations, and don't be embarrassed if you never reached that one thing you were working for. Let go of something that once inspired you, but is now only frustrating."

Farewell Los Llanos. Farewell students that never listened, that never cared, that never knew how hard I tried. Farewell to the students that loved me, that listened, that gave me hugs and hallway smiles. Farewell to the teachers who made small talk with me and my nervous spanish tongue, Farewell to the teachers who never gave me a chance. Farewell to the custodian ladies who gave me kind smiles when they kept finding me alone in the dark teacher's work room reading my books. Farewell to the secretary who still scares me. Farewell to the housekeeper man who always opened the gate for me. Farewell hot water heater who made me so many cups of tea. Farewell to the cave of a teacher's work room that hid me and my lesson planning sessions during canceled classes. Farewell to Alora and my long uphill trudge everymorning. Farewell to the men who sat and stared and watched my year go by on benches under trees. Farewell valley and farewell mountains. Farewell winds and sunshine. Farewell train station and cafe. Farewell afternoon espresso.

Farewell chapters I never taught. Farewell vocab I never had them memorize. Farewell games we played and gave up trying to play. Farewell books we read and books I tried to read to them. Farewell English as a foreign language.

Farewell to trying to make a difference. It's time to cut my losses and leave.

Maybe they'll notice the difference when I'm not there....

El Torcal

It was like we entered another world.



Lush greens breaking through stone. Moss lovingly clining to rock. Flowers lounging on hillsides.



Places to climb, caves to explore, openings that took your breath away. No city streets, no cars, no cans, no bottles, no dog shit, no radios, no shops, no people...just the rock, the flowers, the bird song...




and the view at the end.

Be it the age of the stone, the secret birds singing us along, the gusts of wind that only knew mountain tops or the racing clouds that rolled through the rock formations, I'm not sure, but the grace and rich tranquilty of the place was so comforting. Solitude gained a vibrant hue and a profundity that I'd never allowed it before...it's when the Self is overpowered by something greater...like nature, that loneliness transcends into holiness.

Shall I spell it out for you? T-o-u-g-h L-o-v-e

It was a face off.

He sat at one end of the table clenching his jaw, staring far beyond me, carried away in his anger, turning more red every second as he struggled to push tears out of his eyes and keep his breath inside.

I sat adjacent to him, drawing a long breath, waiting for the tears to tumble over the rim of his lids, a slight furl of impatience wrinkling my brow.

"Andres, what's wrong?"

Red and brimming.

"Andres, what's wrong?

Red and brimming.

"Andres, we are just studying spelling. It isn't that terrible."

Red and brimming.

"Andres, we're going to keep going whether or not you cry. It will be easier if you lose your bad attitude."

Overflow. Outcry.

"But why? Why today? Why not another day?"

"Because you have a spelling test. That's why. And there isn't another day, I come today, the test is tomorrow. So, come on." I exhale the tedium of the hour.

"But it's not fair!" he claims.

"Andres, do you know what tough love is?"

"No"

Sniffles as I wait for him to look at me.

"It means I make you do things that you don't like because I care about you. Do you understand?...Ok, next spelling word, 'impossible'."

Love and Light

So much of life feels like it's out of my hands.

Which is odd because I've got my feet firmly planted on solid ground. I teach English in Malaga. But there's something hovering overhead that I can't reach...my heart.

It's in your hands.

Bearing It.

"Being alive begin to feel like an awful strain."

I came across this in "The Color Purple" my current english language indulgence and BAM it stopped my eyes in their course down the page. Alice Walker had put into words what I'd been feeling for so long. Strain. Stretched thin through time and space.

Memories anchoring me bike rides last summer, dances in years past, late nights and cups of tea in my apartment thesis writing with my roommate in May, family jokes, faces, smells, sounds, sights, and hugs...And then the future comes rearing its ambiguous head. Trips and travels suddenly coalescing. Job certainty and then job uncertainity. And then the present demanded attention. Lesson plans and students, professors and parties, beach time and down time. And lonely time.

Then the stifling vaccum of space is to be considered. Trying to keep connected through emails, blog posts and skype calls. Electronic love being sent around the world till I feel so burnt out staring at my computer screen knowing that this is the only face that I get to see day after day...The little of myself that I can keep together is sent piece by piece to the people I love so they keep remembering me and never forget the part of me that still loves them.




In bending to the situation,trying to practice gratitutde and humility, the strain of waiting for it all to come back together is building.

Waiting is the hardest part. I never meant for my life to be a count down.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY J!

It's another wish sent with a "I'm there in spirit!" addendum.

But it's still honest, and I'm hoping that your newly graduated self is enjoying this newly inaugurated year of life, the new (terrifying?!) freedom of ADULTHOOD seperate from student life and I ardently wish that you've got friends nearby to toast your glass with. And let you eat all the vanilla icing off your cake ;)

I came across this splendid quote in "The Color Purple". It's my birthday dedication to you J. Celie is far far far from her little sister Nettie, but the distance has only pulled the heartstrings tighter.

"I think bout my sister Nettie. Thought so sharp it go through me like a pain. Somebody to run to. It seem to sweet to bear."

Making What Matters Matter

"Do you have any idea how much it costs to fly from America to Malaga?"

Lock jaw silence.

"No? No one. As I thought. It is very expensive. Do you have any idea what Katie has sacrificed to be here and teach you? Do you know how much she has had to do? And you disrespect her. Well, in May she'll leave and you won't have anyone like her, a native speaker to teach you. You are so lucky and you don't even care."

The class melts in mortification.

"Do you think she came here for you all to treat her life like a game?"

The rhetorical question. The closing line.

"It's shameful Katie, I'm sorry. Carry on, they should listen now."

Ears ringing with the Director's chastisment of the worst class in the history of the world (4th B), I struggled to snap back into teaching mode. I had to pull the students out of their shell shocked numbness and beg them to continue with their "My Book of Matter".

And the irony of the topic tip toed to the forefront..Matter, everything around us. How marvelous that Carmen made me matter. I'd been there all along, but the students had never taken me as worth respecting.

Why is it that we always seem to realize what we had when we lose it?


[Is that why Carmen waited till the end of May to defend me?]

Cheese.

I flash the cheese card and Gabriel swoons, bending back, rubbing his small hand in circles around his belly while his eyes close behind bright blue glasses frames and he screams, "Me encanta cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese". {I love cheeese!} I gasp for breath as I fall to pieces laughing at his dramatic spanglish response. I drop to the floor to pick up the flash cards that scattered after doubling over in guffaws while I try and yell to Gabriel, "Write the word on the board! Write the word on the board!" Shocked with electric urgency of the game and the points on the line, he spins on tiny toes and scratches "cheese" on the chalk board, beating his opponent. "Good!" I exclaim, "Point to team b" and Gabriel bursts into tuck jumps screaming "Toma! Toma! Toma!" ("yes" 'yes" yes"/ "take that!' take that!" And I can barely make it to the board to dash 1 point for team B. Wiping tears from my cheeks and the words from the board I turn back to the class and say, "Next!"

I've needed to cry for so long.

Noches En Blanco

It was something the PTA would have pushed for. It's something every Mom in Malaga must have been behind. It was every nerds dream.

It was Las Noches en Blanco.

On Saturday, from 8pm until 3am on Sunday, ALL, yes, ALL of the museums in Malaga opened their doors for FREE, put on their own respective performances, and let the world wander through at their leisure. I stared at the multicolored spots of events on the map, in shock, like a person who'd just had their picture taken.

Start.

Plaza de la Constitucion. Live concert. Terrible Celtic rock.

Next.

Centro de Arte Contemporaneao, Alice in Wonderland like art.

Upstairs for Flamenco/Reggae Concert

Outside to

Museo de Artes y Costumbres Populares. Live Flamenco/Verdiales dance.

Down the street to

An open air BBQ, with white lawn chairs and cheap plastic tables. And 1 euro vino de verano.

Still at the BBQ.

Wandered an alley to a carving of soap...it turned out to be a bull.

Off to a hostel to pick up a new friend.

Back to the BBQ. More 1 euro vino de verano.

Meet friends and wander back to Museo de Artes y Costumbres Populares, but the dances are done.

So we wander back down the main street, miss out on the end of a jazz concert, head to local cafe, stare down the crappy DJ and munch on free gummy bears.

And sluggishly crawl home. So satisfied with Malaga. So full of creativity. So full of inspiration. So rejuvenated.

As I was walking home I saw a marvelous thing. My apartment is up a slight hill. A couple was zooming up the hill....in wheelchairs, only the girl had an electric chair and the boy had an oldfashioned, hand powered chair...and he was holding on for dear life to her arm rail, and she pulled him up the hill.

And I thought, why can't I do that? I can't seem to get where I want to go, so why don't I just grab on for the ride and let others help me on my way?

Each song, each painting, each dance, each photograph, each sculpture, was like another tug up the hill home, witnessing others making meaning out of life, in such beautiful ways, I couldn't help but feel that I'd be okay even though I wasn't done searching for my own life. There can be beauty in brokeness...maybe it's in the disparate pieces, in the unique cut of each experience, not in lamenting the broken whole.

My Fireflies

"Un question mas" Antonio asks me, waving his pen in my face, as if to dash meaning out of his spanglish mess.

"Yes Antonio?"

"If I get you job, you stay?"

"------------" I paused...."You could get me a job? That would be very generous of you Antonio, you really are too kind...I don't know. I would still have to re-apply for a visa...."

"It's just that, I thought we'd have class together, 3, 4 year more...not only until June...without you, it isn't English."

I thumbed at the pages of the lesson book, I didn't want to look up. "I'm so sorry Antonio, I had to make a very hard decision...I don't like it, but right now, it is not possible for me to stay in Spain....I'm sorry....I hope you understand." I coughed, trying to smother the tightness in my throat that signaled impending tears.

"okay, okay... but I will still ask." he said.

I have 1 month left and what I thought would be a simple departure is already turning out to be a bit more complicated than I thought. The sweet moments, like when I give class to Antonio, my 50 year old doctor who says everything is 'chupa'o' (easy) and snaps his imaginary suspenders, are so few and far between that they float by like early summer fireflies, pulsating yellow light in the darkness that is my life here, as the forerunners of more bright spots, but as I remember from my childhood, the lights go out when you try and trap them in a jar. The trick is to let them pass by in their temporal beauty, to fixate on them and capture them is to extinguish them.

Which is why I had to cry a little and tell Antonio I wouldn't be coming back. He is a bright spot I have to let go, even though it is so tempting to chase after the joyful times and say I'll stay, when I know that it will just get dark again when the lights go out....

I give you back to yourself.

Some days fall apart pieces at a time. You wake up late after 5 hours of restless sleep. You're all out of cereal because you ate it for dinner last night because you were too tired to cook. You barely make the train to work. You arrive drenched in sweat. Your school leaves on the field trip without you. The classes you go in search of to teach instead are canceled for standardized testing the principal forgot to tell you about. Your lesson plans are a wash. And the kids are still gypsy devils, you still don't understand the language, you still have to climb the mountain to work, your sneakers are still busted,....and you can feel yourself crumbling through it all. Sitting in the dust of a destroyed self you think, throw it all away, the day, the mood, the experience. Fuck it.

And then someone comes up and gives back to you a piece of your day. Suddenly with that one piece, you find that you can rebuild, you can pull yourself together and go on.

Mari-Carmen was that sly ally who snuck up and shocked me with kindness. It was the final hour of the day, I'd been bumped from a class again for testing, so I retreated to the teacher's conference room to see if I could get the internet working on 1 of our schools 2 computers. While I was finagling, in peeks a head. MariCarmen. She smiles awkwardly, like she's interrupting me and I beckon her in, saying it's a common room. MariCarmen is kind of new...she came a few months ago, as she still has yet to take her teacher exam, so she's on 'teacher in training' rotation, if you will, throughout Andalucia. MariCarmen, you should know, is the music teacher, very very Andalucian (ie has the thickest accent of ALL the teachers), is drop dead gorgeous and very commanding (ie. she can yell). Aka the typical intimidating Spanish woman.

I expected her to ignore me, as usual. But after a few moments of half hearted test grading she looks at me and says, "I just can't, I don't want to grade tests at all" I laugh and say, of course, look outside, it's beautiful, temptation to go is too powerful.

Then we had an hour conversation.

I've never had a conversation longer that 15 minutes with ANYONE in my school. I'm the odd foreigner, no matter how nice of a person I am, I'm the American. Off limits. Black listed if you will, humored, but rarely taken very seriously.

In the shock and awe of surviving the conversation (and subsequent walk out of school after the bell rang to town where we parted) I learned that MariCarmen was a friend I should have been quicker to make. She's only 24, terrified by teaching alone, is outrageously stressed by her students, is overwhelmed and unsure, lonely and eager to find a place in Los Llanos (our school). A mirror of myself.

I thought, maybe the catch phrase, "misery knows no company" isn't quite right, because I finally found a voice to laugh with over horror of the job. Oddly enough, in learning how unsure someone else was in their job, I got a jolt of confidence, as if to say, damn, if no one really knows how to go about this, then I'm just going to do what I can, expectations aside, ad-hoc it is.

[And it felt really good to know that the kids dis-respected a Spainard, not just me.]

We'll see if she talks to me again, but at least now I know that there's a scared 24 year old wandering the halls with me, hopefully I can give her back a piece of her broken experience or perhaps I'll just emphathize with her over our shifting terrain and the fault lines that threaten our sense of purpose.

I LOVE YOU MOM!

To all the mothers in the world, and especially to my own dear madre, may you feel the rush of air on your face as the world bows to you today in honor of your sacrifice for and dedication to the creation of life. Your importance is innumerable and your name brings forth a fountain of adoration. Thank you for being the light and for bringing light into the world.

A mother, the greatest gift a child can have.

In celebration of your wondrousness, I share with you the bright faces of the blooming roses in the garden I wish I could give you. All mothers really are gardners, tending the fruits of the womb, cultivating innocent grace.

What is found when all is lost

It was as if renagade waves, under the absent eye of the new moon, decided to spray their white heads further up shore, to rise above the shore line and inundate the city with dense fog, flooding the streeets, cloaking the shoulders of high rise apartment buildings, meandering the streets, chasing cars, hiding away the beach and ocean in its shadowy recesses. Stepping out into the street was like walking into a dream....

It was a thrilling effect...everywhere you went was a bit magical. You had to trust your instinct that there indeed was a crosswalk off in the distance and that at the end of the grey tunnel of fog there was a bus stop.

Would you understand if I said that in not being able to see much of anything I saw much more of everything? As I looked with a sharp eye at where I was going small details popped out that I'd glossed over before...the colors, the windows, the storefronts, the lights....Malaga was finally alluring. It was finally a city that I could handle, it invited me to explore, it didn't parade itself in flamboyance demanding my adoration or my departure. I must have been the only one that felt that way though. Everyone else muttered, "What a terrible cloud...can't see a thing...impossible to move...who did this....will never find my friend....how can the buses drive...will have a flight delay without a doubt."

I just grinned, staring out into the thick fog from my bus seat, loving that the city was blind.

Finally, a chance to wander through ambiguity, without getting lost.

No Encore Please

Malaga sensationalizes the ephemeral. It is a city of Erasmus students studying abroad or working abroad for the first time. It is a city of retirees from the UK and Scandanavia who burn within 5 minutes of stepping out into the Mediterrean sun. It is a city of lucrative clubs and bars run by business savy night crawlers. It is a city of the beach , the ocean, the cocktail and the tan. Tourists flood the city and then retreat back to their cruise ships at the port. The turnover for people living in Malaga is about 1 year. You never know if the person you just met speaks English, German, French, Spanish, Dutch or Arabic. You never know if they just got here or if their on their final month countdown till they leave. Somehow, Malaga stays together and has remarkable success with such turblent demographic shifts.

Today a friend of Chris' came to visit for a few days and like another piece of the ephemeral puzzle of Malaga, he walked wide eyed through the streets I looked at everything with clear eyes, having dropped my rose colored glasses ages ago. We went to a basketball game and cheered as the shot clock counted down, grinning as our team won.



And we kept up with the touch and go lifestyle. Hopping groups of friends, locations, moods, and time. It's rejuvenating to have a new face with you on the bumpy ride, they remind you how you once felt, and give you secret comfort that you've lasted....and that you haven't been pulled into the machine of short lived pleasures. And if on a Saturday night you'd rather go wander the dollar stores looking for a new journal, you won't balk at the taunts that 'you're missing out on life' because you know that not all pleasures come poured in a cup or in a sexy get up. Some pleasures are a long time in coming, but the wait is worth it because they last. (some joys are waiting for you an ocean away. all you can do is wait)

So Malaga, entrance the newcomers, give them a good time, but leave me be, let me start to pull back, to wipe my hands of your thoughtless urgency and cheap persuasions, because I've seen you old, tired, shabby and unkept in daylight and by moonlight and I know your fickle promises are no good. I'm still here seated in the theater watching the performances, but the masks have come off and the act doesn't fool me anymore.

No encore, please.

Who do you remember?

"Hola Guapo."
Hey there handsome.

"Hoy te toca con nosotros!"
Today you come to our class!

"Si, si, por la ultima hora, vendre yo"
You got it, I'm coming for the last rotation.

"Vale, adio"
Okay, bye.

Most days that's all Juanjo and I say to each other. Short and sweet. He reminds me without failure and without error when I teach English to his class. He is one of my darlings, curly brown hair, sleepy eyes and a soft smile.

He's also highly autistic and mentally challenged. He speaks no English, can barely read and write in Spanish. He's innocence itself. I'm not sure what he'll do in Spain, with no resources, no skills and the inability to interact socially. But despite his many challenges, his memory trumps that of all his classmates. And somehow I've been lucky enough to find a place in amongst his memories.

Juanjo, you remind me that remembering someone is so much more than simply not forgetting them.

thank you...

Engage in Vulnerability

I believe that you get what you give. Which is why 4th grade A infuriates me. As a courteous example of someone who shows respect, professionalism and is academically inquisitive, I am constantly confounded by the extreme disrespect they show me. They pay me absolutely no heed. I feel like a farce forgotten as I write words on the board. I feel the eyes that don't look at me when I talk and the ears that don't hear me as I ask questions. I see them wandering the classroom, my demands for them to stay seated sliding off their backs. And so in my frustration, I tried a new tactic today. I had previously tried 'dis-engaging', admitting that if they didn't want to learn, I couldn't make them, but I care too much about my work to dis-engage, so today, I reached my breaking point, and instead of presenting the picture of perfection, I showed them how vulnerable they made me feel.

Vulnerability is terrifying.

Countless eyes stared at me in shameful awe as I stood shaking at the point of tears and begged them to answer me, "Why am I the only teacher who doesn't deserve respect?" Adrenaline took my tongue and I lashed out at them, "I walk by this class and I see you all working quietly, respecting your teacher, so I know that you all are capable of behaving, but I don't know why you treat me like I don't matter. I love Los Llanos, I love teaching, I love all my students, but this class...this class...I think, perhaps I'll tell Carmen that I don't want to come teach them anymore, and it will be their loss that they don't speak English. They are not worth my time. And that makes me sad, because I want you to learn. I'm sorry that I don't speak Spanish perfectly, but we are a team. I help you learn English and you help me speak Spanish. Did you ever think about that? I want to help you all, but I need your help first. Did you ever think about how I felt, ignored at the front of the class? I don't ask perfection, I don't ask fluency, I just as you to listen and respect my efforts. Or I'm going to drop this class."

[Silence]

"Any questions?"

Frozen faces, drained with color.

"think about what I said then. And now let's finish the worksheet."

Worksheet was finished...in silence...

My challenge for my last month here...engage.

Ravaged.

Carried along by the blessed rush of stormy winds,
Racing from the echoes
the echoes of my own voice
to a rocky precipice
edging tumultous clarity.
Communing with swells
eyes closed for the splash of the spray
like a rock in the surf
victim to the beautiful violence,
of impact.
Forced into fortification,
there I am.
Withdrawing from numbness
to a vulnerability alive with
hope.

Eye of Your Storm

Tired of crying, the clouds returned to moody sniffles, hiding puffy eyes in the grey cumulus nimbus overhead. Like a child tip toeing down the hall at night, I anxiously took to the street, glancing skyward to see when the mood might turn for the worse and drench me. Stretching my legs out in a vigorous step, my lungs clawed at the thick air, taking in as much of the angsty winds as they could. And my heart beat heavy with gratitude. Breathing deep, breathing fresh air blown in from a coming storm ignites the body. After a while of walking untouched by rains, my confidence climbed and I walked face open and smiling into the grey day.

A newfound friend joined me and we wandered off to the newly renovated Port. Wide eyed with wonder we sized up the boats lounging in the sloppy waves of the harbor. Circling back around we headed for the Contemporary Art Museum to wrinkle our brows at the new exhibit they'd put out on neon lights and Warhol. If Alice in Wonderland were to have a play room, then that's what this art exhibit would have looked like. Mind boggling ecleticism.

I found that when you're struggling with your own rhythm, it helps to simplify your goal and say, I will keep pace with this one friend. I will be present for them and with them. And so enough you find yourself pleasurably staring into fountains of golden tires in a room covered with pictures of caves thinking, I've descended into the cavern of something great. But really it's a superficial thing...it's the surface that matters. The effect of the art on the eye, on the mind, on the heart. It's seeing it and letting yourself see it.

And its seeing that you can breathe as you stare into your own blurry reflection in glass covered paintings on the wall as your chest rising and falling all....it helps when you can't stop looking inward for answers to come up for a breath and look around...and let people draw your attention to other things beside yourself.

You'll be there when you get back. Let the mind out of its cage and let it play amidst the possiblities on the walls, on the pedastals, on the floor, in the air, and when it comes back, it will find that the heart beats a bit stronger, having found its muscle and having been given the space to expand, and a strange contentment edges closer.

I always knew walks led to good things. I never thought they could take you to the eye of your own storm though.

I hold the key?

I'm getting mentally cluttered. With classes being canceled and rainy days following one after another, I've got too much free time. I never got a handle on free time growing up in Northern Virginia. It was go to exhaustion, collapse, recover, repeat. So, copious free time tends to make me nervous. I get odd habits to pass the hours. I get small anxieties about missing out on life, on wasting perfectly good moments of productivity. And so with all the mental clutter, it's been harder than usual to see life for what it is. Or rather, its been harder to let the light in. I feel like I'm in the basement, scouting through old boxes of Katie and her memories, revisiting old neuroses, wondering about moments that almost happened, thinking about what will happen when I get back and spending an inordinate amount of time avoiding Malaga. I wish I were busier, then the whir of my ticking brain would clear out some of these dust bunnies and I might feel a bit lighter. But every writer (everyone) can understand the block.

It's not the block that bothers me...it's that I put it there.

Around it? Over it? Under it?

Through it?...maybe that's best. Work through it. Let the dust clear so I can breathe again.

And be in Malaga. Not trapped in Malaga and my mental prison.

The Doctor is In.

A bit like a doctor that makes house calls on sick patients, I make house (or office)calls on the monolingual. Days like these make me feel like a one woman traveling carnival - the bilingual backpack toting, sneaker wearing Americana, who brings silly tongue twisters, colored markers to correct your homework and who'll tell it to you straight in the real English, not the silly British English of the school books. And even though grammar is a drag (unless you're a bit nerdy and you actually enjoy discussing the Saxon Genitive, ahem, guilty) each client requires a different approach. You can't use the same magic words for everyone to make them understand and the fun side of my traveling English gig is learning what that is for each student.

Jorge, the overscheduled family man engineer likes to write with expensive pens in a posh notebook and practice reading from his 'Modern Marvels in Architecture" book. He likes to start class late, end class early and really just talk about cool bridges and his kids. I stopped bringing the lesson book months ago....he's a social speaker who can't pronounce -ed endings. He's my decaffe latte, easy, slow going and relaxing student.

Antonio, the uber important doctor and director of the city hospital, who mumbles worse than rolling thunder, is trying at age 50 to learn English so he can talk with his patients. Only problem, he grew up speaking French and Andalusian Spanish. Whatever he doesn't add a "-th" to he drops the 's' off the end of and keeps telling me "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday" all sound the same. The exact same. He's silly and likes to laugh. He needs English at a 1st grade level because he's overworked at the hospital 6 days a week, so he enjoys laughing at me trying to explain "Tuesday, Wednesday,Thursday" over and over again, as he snaps his imaginary suspenders in victory, having remembered the verb "to be". He's like cafe bon bon, strong espresso with sweetened condensed milk - an intense spurt, but so delightful even until the end because he's such a good heart.

The auditors are another story. It's a varying trio that shows up Friday afternoons for their company covered English class. Teresa, the girl with no boyfriend and few friends like to use our English class as a therapy session, spilling everything and edging everyone else out in the conversation. Fatima, the nervous speaker who would rather never speak in public, and just drink her waterbottle. Then there's David, the laid back manager, who speaks very well, and tries to crack (bad) jokes followed by an anxious laugh. David also cannot make eye contact. It's an odd bunch. We sit in a room the temperature of a winter sauna, sweating and fanning ourselves, trying to work through speaking activities without letting Teresa talk our ears off. They're like cafe con leche, not bad, but not quite the flavor you were going for.

And by 6:15, the back pack is packed, paycheck earned and I'm ready to put my feet up and sit by the ocean and listen to the ocean and watch the sea gulls float on the sea breeze in lazy circles by the port. Sometimes I wonder, how do I do it, 3 different classes...not literally, but psychologically...they are all beginners, which means I have the sensation of running my head into a wall over and over again, trying to help them understand and then trying to understand them. But I think I know...I'm just passing through. I ring the doorbell, face on. The alarm clock counts down to my finale and then I'm back out the door, leaving them with homework (or not). And so as much as I am drained by the drifting like aspect of my day, it's a secret blessing really, I join so many other lives in a humbling window of time. I'm brought in, I'm welcomed, I'm expected, I'm thought about, I'm worried about if I'm late, I'm given attention, I'm joked with, I'm questioned, and I'm wished well as I leave...and I'm sent with the kind words of "See you next week!"

Maybe they're not real friends, but they re-charge me all the same. It's true, I think, you get what you give...and even though they still might not know how to answer me when I ask "How have you been?" they stumble along with their answer and even more eagerly show off by asking, "How have you been Katie?" And they give me the chance to re-affirm that I'm okay.

Cleaning House.

I'm being left behind.

In so many ways that one sentence sums up this year. I'm being left behind. In my head it is spun out in tangent anxieties, lonely walks and jaw clenching frustration during classes. But today, as I stood in my PJs watching my stylish roommate pack for his weekend trip, asking me if these shorts matched this shirt and if the hat worked with the brown shoes, I laughed and gave my best peanut gallery advice. He rolled his suitcase out the door and I put the kettle on. Tea time. My brooding time. I had the apartment all to myself....not really a blessing when you've got too much time to spend with just yourself already. So I cleaned. Throwing away the crumbs of our existence in the apartment. Dishes washed, floors mopped, counters wiped. chairs straightened, doors open letting the wind run through the fresh surfaces and the newly arranged space. And there I sat in an apartment that looked barely lived in, feeling the weight of my life barely lived. What could I use to scrub at the malaise I was feeling? Why couldn't I ball it up and put it in the trash?

And I thought as my toes curled over the iron rail of my balcony and I held my cup of tea, staring out into the bustling street, maybe I could just sleep away the coming month...maybe then I wouldn't be living the nightmare of being left behind by friends who got 'real' jobs and now have bank accounts and homes, by friends who went back to school and now have another diploma, by friends who still have bikes they can ride, by friends that got married, by friends that now have families, by friends that kept dancing salsa, by friends that get to be with other friends...
maybe I could dream away the month, and oh it's such a tempting fantasy, but no, no, no, a box came today, full of love and Peanut Butter flavored with bananas, reminding me that there are still people who want me to keep going and that there are still surprises to be discovered.

And a dear friend who refuses to let me sulk away in Spain reaches out and gives me a voice to say, "I will be good with my time here."

I will be good with my time here. As a memory that lives in your hearts, I will be good with my time there, so that when I reach you on the path we're walking, you'll know me by the life in my eyes and the light in my smile.

Cinderelley Cinderelley

Miguel Angel leans over my armrest and whispers, a bit too loud, into my ear, "Was the magic real? Did the fairy godmother really turn the pumpkin into a carriage?" In the darkness of the theater I smile back at his question and nod my head vigorously answering him, "Of course! She's the fairy godmother, she knows all the secrets of magic. Only she knows how to make a pumpkin into a carriage, look!" And in the darkness his small glasses glinted back at me in shock and delight, "Really??" he contested. I just nod and said, "Yes, Miguel Angel. Magic is real." And he sat back into his seat, in awe of the English play Cinderella we had traveled into the city to see. The rest of the play a little hand tapped my shoulder, asking me, "What's happening now?" as the play was in English and it was meant to be a bilingual field trip for the elementary school children, to practice their listening and apply all that they had learned the month before of the play. And while the majority left joking, "Has entendido algo? No?! jaja, yo tampoco!" (Did you get anything? No? Haha! Me neither!) the innocence with which they approached the play was refreshing. Cinderella was greeted with their cries of "Guapa!" (Gorgeous!) and their steadfast belief in the Fairy Godmother's power reminded me that what's real needn't always be verifiable. They shouted "YES!" to every question the actors posed to the audience (as the play was interactive, meant to help them learn English) even if the question was "What is the name of the girl who lost her shoe?" (Cinderella). They were more interested in making noise and playing than in being right.

It was my first day back after being sick for the past 3 days and I honestly had wanted to stay in bed and not go, but I knew that we had prepared for weeks prior in the hopes that the kids might understand something when they went to see the play, so I had to go. And as I felt like mierda climbing the mini montana to my school I thought, maybe the buses broke down, maybe I'll get to go home...you know, doing the escapism thinking that seems to start up the minute we have to do something we'd rather not. But like a splash of cold water to the face in the morning, children have a way of waking you up to life. I board the bus at the end of the crowd and I'm greeted by shouts of "Seno!!! Where were you?? Sit here sit here, we saved you a seat!" And cramped stomache and all, I'm glowing and rising up out of the bus. Was it really just the other day I was lying in bed thinking no one cared....And so while the day was an odd mix of travel hassles, counting heads and losing backpacks, kids puking on the bus and secret deals of candy trading going on between bus seats, I can't tell you how big my smile was when my kids started singing along to the play, IN ENGLISH...those dumb songs that I felt so silly singing for them and then begging them to sing along....now they were screaming and singing along..."You can try, you can try, you can try" and I felt a guilty secret pride that my kids were singing along and no other class nor other school was able to do so.

The smiles, the hugs, the greetings and the unconditional love my kids show me get me through the day. But sometimes I need more than that to get through the week, and having them sing along in English was just what I needed. The smallest bit of validation that what I'm doing here in Spain might actually have a lasting effect...

I feel bad for not having more faith in them. But not so bad...they put me through the ringer whenever they can. But I'll never doubt their innocence...something I've missed in adults. As much as I want to hurry up their education and help them grow, I don't want to be the one to say, "Magic isn't real" when I saw it happen today...

There's a reason our bodies don't come with autopilot. TAKE CHARGE AND DRIVE YOUR DAY!!

Somedays life has a familiar rhythm, but lately I've been stumbling to an itinerant beat, wishing for (oddly enough) dependable consistency. Teaching allows for a flexible schedule every day, or rather, it has an erratic schedule you have to react to (classes get canceled, kids are suddenly sick, you have to sub for another teacher..the copier breaks, etc)...and with all the school vacations Spain has, you can never get in a groove. Just last week I was in Sweden and Germany, and now I'm back in Spain, which is not to complain, god no, traveling is a blessing, but I think that humans are meant to settle, meant to have a place in a community. Traveling is only fun when you can go home. But coming back to Malaga, my heart didn't rise to the heights I had thought it would...and my welcome back wasn't helped by the virus I seem to have caught at some point during the return journey...all this rambling is to say that, in trying to make good use of my time, but how do we make good use of our time every day? What does that life look like? Feel like? What is it like to go to bed on a Monday night knowing that I made good use of my time?

....not sure, but I've got plenty of time to think about it as I'm stuck in bed most of the day. Funny, staying in bed and thinking about watching the world go by is food for thought...and worrisome as I watch my life go by, and the only progress made is eating a PB sandwich.

Too much practice in being presence when you're sick. Ready to buck the mentality and embrace the physicality of being alive and having a body that is on board with living!

May you be well, and as my dear friend Bets reminded me, make good use of your time.

(thanks Bets for giving me something to write on and think about)

Happy Easter!!

A very happy easter to all those back home. Wishing I was there to munch on chocolate and dig through easter baskets and smell the sweet arrival of spring with you all...
thank you mama easter bunny for making a long distance trip via UPS to deliver my easter basket :)

A poem for my loves, by one of my favorites...


April
by: Amy Lowell (1874-1925)


A bird chirped at my window this morning,
And over the sky is drawn a light net-work of clouds.
Come,
Let us go out into the open,
For my heart leaps like a fish that is ready to spawn.

I will lie under the beech-trees,
Under the grey branches of the beech-trees,
In a blueness of little squills and crocuses.
I will lie among the little squills
And be delivered of this overcharge of beauty,
And that which is born shall be a joy to you
Who love me.

Hej! Sweden!

Thursday, April 14 - Saturday April 16

For as much of a homebody as I can be, I've got this terrible itch to move. It flairs every 3 weeks, coinciding with my week break here in Spain during Semana Santa (Holy Week...which means a week of KKK like dressed people doing processions around the city with huge Virgin Mary statues, vendors lining the streets selling candy and baked potatoes, and endless crowds mingling the main drag and spitting sunflower seeds at your feet). So I escaped the religious revival for Sweden and Germany.



My 'bosom buddy' from college, Leise had recently moved to Stockholm, Sweden to live with her boyfriend for a bit while she figured out her next move after teaching English for a year in Thailand. I decided to repay the favor of her visit to Malaga with a visit to Stockholm and I couldn't be more glad that I did. There's nothing like exploring a new city with a friendly local who just happens to also be your best friend. She knew exactly what I'd enjoy and so she backed in everything we could in the best 48 hours I've had since I arrived in Europe.

Arriving on the first sunny day Stockholm has seen in a while, I engulf Leise in a hug and we head off to her apartment to drop off my back pack. We then march out into the city, abandoning our coats for the brave spring warmth that joined us for our adventures. She took me to her favorite spot (and mine as well), the Culture House of Sweden, a 5 story building of artistic playfulness and intellectual daring. We wandered the collections, lounged in Dr.Seuss like libraries,
and sipped espresso in their hip to the max cafe overlooking the main square with brilliant windows that spanned the lenght of the wall so you had a clear view of everything. Our next stop was the Vasa Museum. A hilarious exhibition of the Vasa, a great Swedish vessel that sank after a 30 minute career.
It speaks to the Swedish sense of humor...honoring the greatest engineering failing of their day. Then...we high tailed it to the most amazing restaurant I've ever been to..Hermans.
It doesn't amaze you by name, but one step inside and you're in love. It's a vegetarian buffet. It had HUMMUS. I almost died. And Leise and David even reserved a table for us just to make sure I could eat a vegetarian meal with them.



Dave, the 'local' if you will, took us to a hot young hipster hangout, "Skybar" Yes, it sounds cheesy, but the view was worth the 8euro beer bought to get ritzy window seats.


Exhausted, we wandered back to their apartment and watched American History X with Swedish subtitles on TV. As silly as this sounds, I've missed just hanging out with friends. Sinking into the couch, I couldn't help but slip in a secret smile, I'd found that "I'm home" feeling again.

Day 2 in Sweden was just as busy...off to the Palace to see the nonchalant changing of the guards, wandering the old city,
sitting in cafes, peeking in old churches,
wandering through a dog park to an Ethnography Museum (another reason why I love Leise, she humors my nerdy side and happily goes with me to Ethnography musuems. a true friend).


And then, Leise took the cake. She, Dave and I went to the circus she had bought tickets for. If you ever get the chance, GO. It was breathtaking. The whole time I was on the edge of my seat, gasping, "Oh MY GOD!!" when my jaw wasn't hitting the floor. It was such a simple set up. 3 men, one pole, countless yoga balls, one floor, 1 trampoline and 2 small trampolines and countless odd props, like a palm tree, Elvis costumes, pieces of wood and tires. They were true comedic acrobats who choreographed their a routine to music that looked and felt so natural, as if they were simply bouncing around and creating the performance organically. For your youtube-ing pleasure, look up "Race Horse Company" the show is called "petit Mal". Be stunned.




After the show, breathless and eager to play, we went to the popular burger joint in Stockholm that on the menu lets you know how many carbon points you earn for eating a cow burger versus a veggie burger. And then I did something that I had never done before in all my teen years. I ate a (veggie) burger and fries and hung out with Leise and Dave. Maybe this seems like a moment I should just skim over, but it was envlivening to do something that so many of my friends had done during highschool and college, but I rarely/never did...eat burgers and hang out...it was fun..and weird...and I liked it. Not that anyone is normal or we had a normal night, but, it felt so right to do something so relaxing and unpresumptiously enjoyable. Later we met up with some of Dave's Swedish friends and listened to some Swedish punk at a local bar and they affirmed an inkling that'd been growing stronger...Sweden is cool.

Needless to say, I was bummed to leave the next morning. But, to call upon my favorite poet, "That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet."
- Emily Dickinson

And so, with shaky breaths and tears I didn't want to fall I got on the bus to the airport, I sunk into the loving solitude of waving goodbye. It's so hard to move on and go on, to other places and other people, when the ones who mean so much only come with you in memory.

Si se puede!

Sunday



Limits.

I learn to set limits, respect my limits and the limits of others. And then I push my limits. In so many small ways I like to push my limits. And slowly my tip toing on my limits has become a mad dash into no-man's land, wondering where the line was drawn to begin with. Wearing crazy earrings (I feel daring). Wearing a skirt. (I feel rather feminine). Biking across the USA (I'm stronger than I ever knew). Moving to Spain (what was I thinking?).

It is such a strange thing though...when we push our limits and when we go beyond our limits we feel defeated (I'm not meant to live thousand of miles away from my family, too lonely) or we feel liberated (I made it to California on a bike. By my own to 2 legs. Hell yeah). Which is why limits make me nervous. And so I constantly draw back from them, trying to force a crossing, trying to jump the gap, so my limits might never be realized, but rather, sit like dangerous mines, harmless as long as I find a way around them. This hasn't always worked....

But that emotional detour is not the point of my latest limit confrontation. Spain has been a mental, emotional, social and pyschological (overlapping categories?) challenge, and a very rigorous one to be honest. But physically, it has been constraining. I broke my foot in December, which rendered me a hobbler on crutches and I find that I'm so busy teaching, planning and commuting that I haven't had the chance to do physical that approaches biking the USA. But I began a slow comeback, I wanted to suffer physically, a little bit at least. I wanted something that would put me to the test. And I got it.

This Sunday I ran the Malaga Half Marathon. The bell went off at 10am and the Mediterrean sun was already high overhead, clocking the temperature at 80 degrees. And off we went, running faces to the sun. It was a brutal course - 11 km straight down the beach into the sunlight and 11 km back down the beach, running into gale force headwind. Delirious and nearing heat exhaustion as I ran by a sign telling me it was 31 degrees celcius, I decided I would finish. End of story. People began to pass me as I slowed down. I began to pass men that fell back, walking into the cruel headwinds. And I played the game of "I'm just running to the next stop light....the next stoplight...the next stoplight....the next sign..." until I finally got to "I'm just running till I cross that finish line." And I sprinted it. Legs wobbly with exhaustion but spirit sailing above my body, I sped up and ran the clock down. Satisfaction tempered by exhaustion makes for a healthy glow of pride and gratitude for having finished what I set out to do. Mingling amidst the other runners who had finished I felt strong and I felt very alone. I didn't remember any of them on the course, probably because they finished days before me, but also because running is such an independent sport. It's not a sad loneliness, but a very present loneliness I'd say. You feel all (and yes I mean ALL) the muscles in your body. You feel your lungs breathe. You taste the salt on your skin and you feel the burn starting to set in on your nose. And everyone else is feeling some sort of variation and they can't do anything about you or themselves. And that is what makes it so lonely. You must carry yourself mentally across the finish line. So while there is a comraderie amongst runners that have completed a race because they "did it" there is also a pervasive solitude present. When all you can do is breathe, there is no space for words. You feel your emotions, but you don't immediately emote them.

On the bus ride home, I kept saying "I did it" just to remember that I did indeed do it. That I still had it in me. I certainly didn't check anything off my to do list nor did I add to my resume, but mentally, I feel like Joan of Arc.

How humbling are the moments that make us decide if we are to be stronger than we previously thought? But how necessary and how empowering they are...


[ on a lighter note....2 km out, when it was the worst part of the race, hot as hell, brutal headwinds, an eldery man stepped out and yelled at a group of middle-aged men slowing down to my left, he said, "I know this is hard, but I'll tell you what's harder, being married to the same woman 64 years." That put us all to tears...and I secretly hoped that marriage wouldn't ever be so terrible]

Bifocal

Saturday

There are days in my life that flow by in a tranquil rhythm. I never know when to expect them and I can never plan them. Like sand dollars on the shore, they fall at your feet if you wait long enough after the waves have passed.

Today was simple. Today was lovely. Like a drop of honey. Slowly sweet.

Michaella (a fellow profesora here) and I catch the morning bus to Nerja, a nearby beach town and from there catch the connecting bus to Frigiliana, one of the typical Andalusian white wash village towns nestled in the mountians. It is postcard worthy at everyturn and we easily peruse its streets in 2 hours. The far off sea, lounging beyond verdent rolling green hills tempts us back down, so we wait for the afternoon bus to carry us back to Nerja.









Nerja, being one of the usual tourist hot spots in the south of Spain boasts its fair share of cheap restaurants and typical beach shops selling bathing suits, towel, flip flops and kitschy souvenirs scribbled with the word "Nerja." But if you can crawl through the myriad of cheap deals and fast food, you reach the ocean and the aquamarine Mediterrean stares back at you with a gaping mouth. Large rocks, like the cookie crumbs of a long ago giant, sprinkle the beach, creating coves where small groups of people cluster in pockets of sand. Cliffs run right behind the beach, like a staunch hand, pushing the shore to sea, cupping the beach in sections and coves. It is Idyllic. Tramping by the cafes and restaurants on the overhang above the beach (called the Balcony of Europe) we high tail it down to the beach to snag a spot in the sun and soak it up. We scout out an open space between boulders and lay out, glistening in sunscreen.








A young girl was playing by herself in the waves in front of us. Laughing and jumping in her floatie like I used to do when I was a child. And as I causually watched her tease the waves, the ocean grew big, eclipsing the present in a memory of when I was young and the sea was my playmate. But all I could say was, "I can't believe in 2 months I won't be here." And it surprised me, how change was still unfathomable, even as we deal with change everyday. I'd eventually fly home and leave Malaga, just as I'd left my floatie and wave jumping days long ago. And even though I just arrived in Nerja I found myself saying, "I don't know what I'll do without the ocean...." as if I carried a small hope that my playmate might never forget me, even though I'd left him behind years ago. And maybe it was just the heat that was making me oddly emotional, but at the same time, the day was a moment of beautiful presence. Sitting on a beach and listening to waves. And watching my childhood jump the waves, wondering when we lose the lightness of being young.

Before I realize it, it's approaching dusk, but the sun is no where near the horizon, but my body says, go home, seek cool darkness.

And as we arrive in Malaga, its an odd moment, joking, "Home sweet home," feeling dry and sunburned, slow and cankterous, much like Alice must have felt as she walked back through the mirror, leaving Wonderland behind.