For Patti Soderberg

Patti,

You and I were so different. You skied; I quilted. I taught literature; You taught science. You were a reserved Swede; I'm an Irish storyteller. I love big words; You loved big dogs. You were tall and thin; I'm short and yeah, not so thin.

But superficial differences are nothing compared to what we had in common--a love for tough questions and new ideas, natural beauty and architectural history, late-night mischief and earnest community service, Shakespearean comedy and high school boys' humor, laughing with friends and learning from students. We shared a commitment to trusting people -- even those who might betray us. For believing in students -- even those who others saw as troublemakers. And for taking risks -- even for impossible dreams.

I miss you so very much. My brain does not want to accept that you will never again come striding into my house wearing a wide smile, a Nordic sweater, and dark pants covered with dog hair. ;-)

I am trying to find a cure for this pounding headache of loss. I have to believe that the chain of feelings triggered by this shock will one day circle back to the human connection that can ease this pain. I wrote this poem a while ago to capture that cycle of emotion--I don't normally write poetry, so this was an experiment. You would want me to take a risk, so I will do so and share it with you here:

Death sets off an explosion in my heart.
Amid the rubble,
Disbelieving,
Deafened by the blast,
I feel the pain slice through me
Like falling shards
Of broken glass.

Grief shrinks my heart and hardens it to stone.
Heavy, hard and cold,
Unmoving,
Anchored by its weight,
I lie still, blanketed by loss,
Like slate or granite
Overgrown with moss.

Hope opens up a window in my heart.
In unexpected moments,
Reading,
Or fumbling with my keys,
I smile and feel my spirits rise
Like sheer white curtains
Lifted by the breeze.

Love tends a constant flame deep in my heart.
Soothed by its warmth,
But missing you,
Expected to go on,
I hold you close, reach out for help,
And find the strength
To walk through fire.


This past weekend, your friends all tried to reach out and give each other strength. It may be too soon for us to walk through fire. We are still sad and angry and lonesome for you. But I know you would want us to lift our hearts and pass the feelings we had for you on to others in our lives, to focus on doing passionate, important work and having fun in your honor. So when I feel the prickly sting of tears, I call to mind these lines from Kahlil Gibran:

"When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

Thank you, Patti for your friendship and for the inspiring example of your courage. I am delighted to have had you in my life.

Don't Forget! I'm a Thane!

Banquo crumpled at my feet this morning. His murderers giggled a little, embarrassed at having stabbed him with plastic knives, but stopped when no one else laughed. Banquo didn't move. His body lay in a curved heap, his vacant eyes staring into space. His son Fleance watched from a safe distance. And then, the scene was over.

Currently, I have the privilege of introducing a class of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders to Shakespeare. More specifically, Macbeth. I'm not teaching a class or rehearsing kids for a performance; I just show up once a week for 45 minutes and we act out some scenes together. The students do not have a clear idea of what will happen from one scene to the next. They are throwing themselves into the play, eager to find out who ends up alive at the end.

I started this project last week by walking into the classroom and complaining that "a weird thing just happened when I came through the doorway. We just went back in time 400 years." I bowed to their teacher, addressed him as King James, and explained: "I am Master Will Shakespeare. The manager of our theatre--oh my gosh, there he is! Master Henslowe! [I slapped an adhesive name badge on a student]--well, Master Henslowe has asked me to write a play to honor your Scottish heritage." I then turned to the "acting company" and began handing out parts [more adhesive nametags] and explaining the relationships among characters: "You're King Duncan and these are your two sons. You're Macbeth and this is your wife." We plunged right into "rehearsal," using a rug in the center of the classroom as our stage.

The kids read their parts for the first time while "on stage." We stop now and then to redo a scene or talk about what a particular line might mean. We're using an abridged version of Macbeth that I created. I'm quite sure they could grasp the original language if we spent time on it because my own kids performed full-length unedited plays with the Young Shakespeare Players starting at age seven. But there isn't time to do that with this group and the story is exciting in itself. The script follows the plot closely but uses a mixture of paraphrase and Shakespearean language. There is, thankfully, no modern equivalent for "Double, double, toil and trouble...".

The best part about this whole thing is the short conversation we have as a group at the end of a session. Last week we got as far as Macbeth and Lady Macbeth discussing the idea of murdering King Duncan. I asked, "What do you think happens next?" The answers ranged from "I think Macbeth will kill the king" to "I think his wife will kill the king" to "I think Macbeth might kill his wife!" This morning I asked, "Who is more responsible for the death of the king--Macbeth or Lady Macbeth?" Opinions varied. Some thought Lady Macbeth was guiltier because "it was her idea." Another said, "Macbeth, because he actually did it. He didn't have to do what she told him to do. He had a choice." I changed the moral dilemma to something closer to their experience. "Holly, let's say Brennan told you to push Daryus off the climber outside because it would be funny. So you do it and Daryus falls and gets hurt. Who is to blame? You? Or Brennan?" Holly thought for a minute. "We both are."

That is the beauty of genius. Shakespeare is as relevant to the playground as to the playhouse.

Speaking of the playground, after last week's introduction to Act 1, a boy named Evan came up to me, quite concerned, to report that he had lost his "Ross" nametag. I told him not to worry, that I would bring new nametags this week. His face lit up. "Great!" he said. As he walked away, Evan called out: "Don't forget! I'm a Thane!"

Trust me. I won't forget.

Career Musings

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
~ Mary Oliver ~

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there
And learn by going where I have to go.
~ Ted Roethke ~

Poet Mary Oliver's challenge -- "Tell me" -- speaks to the part of me that wants to lead an intentional life, set goals, and plan for a future that is fueled by my passions. Roethke's poem, in contrast, speaks to the part of me that wants to live with mindfulness, go with the flow, and trust that the right path for me will reveal itself. Rather than choosing either approach, my aspiration is to live comfortably in the hammock that swings in the space between them, not alternating approaches exactly, but enjoying the best of both.

In practice, I tend to move forward [and sometimes backward or sideways] through a non-linear process of setting goals, taking steps that feel right, and stopping to look back, look ahead, and check in with myself about whether my goals or steps or both may need an adjustment. They usually do, because the processes of goal-setting and taking action often result in new learning that inspires a change in direction or, to be honest, create a strong emotional reaction that paralyzes me or sends me off on a tangent. This approach works well for me in my all-too-human attempt to create meaning in my life. The hammock has room for mistakes and regrets as well as joys and accomplishments.

A career path developed in this manner has certain rewards: I have had a variety of experiences I might not have had if I had stuck to the plan I had in mind when I graduated from college. It also has its disadvantages: I can not easily visualize the job title on my next business card.

As I look to my future, lines from poetry are not the only words stuck in my head. I also hear the voice of Eleanor Roosevelt urging, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." For years I have been stuck in a vortex of believing--not really believing, but behaving as though money, joy, and being of service to others are incompatible goals. In other words, the thing I think I can not do is this: Be well-paid to do noble work that I enjoy. So my goal is to find or create a position that meets those conditions. I want to do work that I consider worthy of my investment of time and talent--specifically work that inspires transformational change and assists individuals and organizations in that process. I want to earn a good but not outrageous salary doing it. I want to work with a team of people I respect, like, learn from, and laugh with often. I want to enjoy variety and be able to be creative.

And, come to think of it, I don't much care what title is on my business card.

Library Daze

Every so often I find it necessary to fall into a stupor.

Without any warning, my mind goes out for a stroll, leaving me wandering around in public looking slack-jawed and dopey.

7:10 PM: I enter a grocery store naked--that is, without my usual list.
8:55 PM: Jostled by a careless cart-pusher, I wake from a reverie to discover that instead of moving briskly through the aisles as I usually do, efficiently collecting items on my list--green beans, salmon, toilet paper--I have apparently spent over an hour and half staring glassy-eyed at a shelf displaying 19 varieties of salsa.

Something similar happened just the other night when I was at the Highland Park Public Library.

My usual library visits are like my routine grocery errands: I go in with a list of what I'm looking for and I come out 20 minutes later, my recycled cloth bag filled with a week's worth of nourishment.

This time, dangerously, I had no list. I merely stopped in to return the books I had finished reading--Pompei [fiction, Robert Harris], Loving Frank [fiction, Nancy Horan], Jane Austen [biography, Claire Tomalin], and Thirst [poetry, Mary Oliver]. Since my bedroom nightstand, living room "library basket," and the backseat of our Subaru Forester were already loaded up with additional reading, I was determined not to be seduced into bringing home any additional texts. No harm in browsing, though. Or so I thought.

Over TWO AND A HALF hours later, I emerged from the library blinking like a groundhog, having wandered up and down the stacks fingering and skimming books on everything from WWII ciphers to piecrust recipes. What is it about tiny blacks marks on paper that is so mesmerizing? They are like miniature revolving doors that whoosh you unexpectedly onto the sidewalk of a topic you did not expect to explore.

It's not that it truly bothers me to misplace my mind for awhile. I think that disappearing into books is a form of meditation for me. The wild monkey chatter in my head seems to abate as my eyes slide along the surface of page after page of books I will never read from cover to cover.

When I am in this dopey state, I forget that books are not animate. I actually feel sorry for some of them--the ones have not been removed from the shelf, held, opened, and carried outside into the sunshine for many years. I worry briefly that they are lonely or sad or feel rejected. I mean, I literally catch myself thinking stuff like that. I feel guilty if I walk away from a book that didn't interest me enough to make me want to check it out. I slink away and don't look back, like a young girl who has flirted thoughtlessly and realizes too late that her attention meant more to the boy than it did to her. How weird is that?

The library is partly treasure cave of wonders, partly a graveyard of forgotten ideas and bad sentences.

Spelunking and grave-robbing. I guess it's worth a couple of lost hours to have such adventures.

Her Immoderate Heat

Men shoveling chairs. The curious drawing for which this blog is named made me laugh out loud when I first saw it at the Metropolitan Museum of Art a few years ago. I mean, chair-shoveling? Who does that? I was charmed by the image of people engaged in an activity so illogical, so ridiculous, so completely absurd--who nevertheless are going about it in a very earnest, determined fashion. Look at their faces, the energy in their bodies. It's as if they believe shoveling chairs is work worth doing.

The image has lingered in my mind over the years as a metaphor, rich and flexible in its meaning, as all great art should be. At times, when I have felt frustrated in my work, boxed into a job description that did not allow for the fullest use of my best talents, I have let off steam by laughing, thinking to myself, "Well, it's better than chair-shoveling!" Other times, when I have felt compelled to take a risk, a memory of the drawing has silenced the scared voice inside me warning me to beware of looking foolish. If you believe this is important, the chair-shovelers whisper, who cares if you look foolish? Just start shoveling.

Humpty Dumpty famously said, "A word means what I want it to mean." I realize I have done the same with this artwork, adding layers of meaning surely not intended by the artist, a medieval Netherlandish painter named Rogier van der Weyden [1399-1464]. So I set out to try to uncover what he was "trying to say" with this particular sketch, which in Dutch is titled "Scupstoel" [literally, shovel chair]. It turns out the drawing, done in pen over a chalk sketch, was created in 1447 as the plan for a sculptured relief around the top of a pillar in the town hall of Brussels, where van der Weyden was, at the time, the official City Painter. He did a number of paintings with themes related to justice for the interior of the town hall, works which Albrecht Durer later admired. Van der Weyden is, in fact, best known as a painter, primarily of religious themes. He traveled to Italy in 1450 and did a number of commissions for the Medici before he died in 1464. This work sticks out among his oeuvre as an oddity.

Why, you may ask--as I did--would an artist choose the motif of men shoveling a jumbled pile of chairs to decorate a structural column of the town hall? I found the answer in a reference to Van der Weyden's design in Brussels: A Cultural and Literary History [Andre De Vries and Jacques de Decker, p. 34]: "A house that stood on the site of the Town Hall, the Scupstoel, or Ducking Stool, is commemorated in . . . [the] ingenious design."

So: Van der Weyden celebrated the symbolic significance of the town hall's location with a literal interpretation of the place-name. But why was the torn-down house called Scupstoel? What's a Ducking Stool?

According to Curious Punishments of Bygone Days, a ducking stool was a form of public punishment, an alternative to being placed in the stocks. In the simplest design, a wooden chair was attached to a long beam that rested on a shorter post placed in the ground next to a pond or riverbank. The transgressor was strapped into the chair, the beam was swiveled on the post so that it extended out over the water, and, in a see-saw motion, the person in the chair was repeatedly dunked under water. The ducking stool seems to have been used primarily to punish those who were seen as being "quarrelsome" or "too out-spoken" -- perhaps a troublesome vagrant caught inciting a crowd in the public square, a brewer who falsely claimed a competitor's ale would make people sick, or a married couple who argued loudly in public. Most often, however, it was an outspoken woman. A Frenchman visiting England in 1700 made this observation:

The way of punishing scolding women is pleasant enough. They fasten an armchair to the ends of two beams twelve or fifteen feet long and parallel to each other, so that these two ends embrace the chair, which hangs between them by a sort of axle . . . They place the woman in this chair and so plunge her into the water as often as the sentence directs, in order to cool her immoderate heat.

To cool her immoderate heat. Women who were subjected to this "pleasant enough" torture were those who were too "hot" in their passions--prostitutes and sharp-tongued wives, to be sure--but also heretics and witches, or rather, women who spoke their minds or demonstrated a healing, creative power that others lacked.

Unlike many women throughout history and some women in parts of the world today, I have the opportunity to speak my mind, explore my interests, and make foolish mistakes without fear of being subjected to medieval forms of water-boarding. I have tremendous respect for women who, despite knowledge of such consequences, have had the courage to be themselves, to look crazy in the eyes of other people. Women who have dared to shovel chairs.

This blog is dedicated to them.