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.