International village…
To classmates,
later to his students,
Farmer’s medical memory seemed encyclopedic and daunting,
but it was not inexplicable…
“I date everything to patients,” he told me once…
Patients,
it seemed,
formed not just a calendar of events but a large mnemonic structure,
in which certain faces and small quirks—
were like an index to the symptoms,
the pathologies,
the remedies for thousands of ailments…
The problem of course was that he remembered some patients all too well…
In later years he didn’t like to talk about Chouchou…
he told me,
“I take active precautions not to think about him…”
By then he’d already described the case in print several times…
To me,
he simply said,
“He died in the dirt…”
— in Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder
I’m known for having a freakish memory…
It never worked for me when I was reading notes and textbooks come exam time,
but I could always put a name to a face and a story of feeling in ways that would astound old friends…
And for the past few years I’ve worked hard at breaking it all down,
and sending a lot of unnecessary information down river…
Thankfully when velcro gets old not at much fluff can stick to it,
because it doesn’t have the same grab,
as the barbs are already full…
Whenever I go back to visit my old school,
the children all want to know if I remember their names…
It’s getting harder and harder for me…
Not because I don’t remember them,
but the names have become less important…
They stand there looking at me in groups of ten and more…
Do you know who I am???
they ask,
one by one…
Faces searching mine for some sign of recognition,
and remembering…
More and more I’m having to say,
I remember you…
I know you’re face,
and you feel like someone I know,
but I need some help with your name…
I ask them to hold their name in their mind…
And then I try to relax mine,
which is hard when you’re under pressure to make a child’s day,
in front of what feels like the whole school…
I start with a first letter sound,
and work on from that,
turning it into a rhyming game…
I don’t have a problem with any of the children who have been in my class,
after writing all of those reports cards,
and singing the Name Game over and over…
It’s the ones who haven’t been in my class that are a bit more tricky to recall,
name wise…
And it seems equally important to them that they’ve been remembered…
I see the smile on their faces,
and I hear them say as they walk away from me,
down the hall to class,
in little whispers,
She knew my name…
She remembered me…
And she wasn’t even my teacher…
I remember the first time I mustered up to go back to visit the school,
six months or more after I’d unexpectedly resigned,
and swung off the uvula of great blue whale,
into the dark, choppy waters,
of uncharted territory…
One girl ran up to give me a hug,
in the parking lot…
Shiny as a buttercup…
She was in grade four by then and she said,
super-seriously,
searching my face,
Hi…
You didn’t tell us you were leaving…
I said,
I didn’t really know it was going to happen until it happened…
She said,
You never said goodbye…
I said,
I didn’t know that I was going for sure,
until the very last minute…
It was scary for me to leave…
But I had to so that I could grow…
And then I paused to hear what she really wanted to know,
and I added,
I came back to see you as soon as I could stop crying…
She looked up at me and something settled…
A knowing that she was missed,
and that our history together had mattered,
a lot…
She asked,
Are you working in another school,
with other kids???
Other words for Are you loving other people???
I said,
No…
I thought I would be by now but I guess I’m not ready yet…
And neither are the other people…
Some more things have to fall into place…
She looked relieved,
like the betrayal she’d worried about,
and anticipated,
hadn’t happened…
She’s not the only one who wonders where I am now…
Every time I go back,
they all want to know,
acting casual,
with some hesitance in their dying curiosity,
like they’re not sure that they’re ready for the truth,
Are you working in another school yet???
With other children???
And when I tell them,
No…
I needed to be at home for my children,
and to get ready for children whom I haven’t yet met,
shoulders drop,
and relax with relief…
The stones I carry in mine,
melting a little bit more…
The last time I went back for the grade seven graduation one boy said to me,
I think you’ve been working on a book…
A book about what children know,
and adults forget…
I smiled back in a breath of silence,
exhausted from so much remembering,
and said,
I don’t know,
but you might be right…
Can you please just tell me your name???
He looked at me,
with a face as bright as Time Square at Christmas,
It’s okay,
I know that you know who I am…
My name is Ernest…
Starshine wrote me an e-mail yesterday…
She said she was visiting the Plains of Abraham,
and that in the evening they were going on a ghost tour…
Deer mice have crossed my path twice in the last twenty-four hours…
Miniature ladies saying something about cycles of time,
and paying attention to all,
of the little things in life…
Run your fingers through my soul...
Minding business…
Just then the mother bird came back to the tree…
“Do you know who I am?” she said to her baby…
“Yes, I know who you are,” said the baby bird…
“You are not a kitten…
You are not a hen…
You are not a dog…
You are not a cow…
You are not a boat,
or a plane,
or a Snort!!!
You are a bird,
and you are my mother…”
— in Are You My Mother? by P. D. Eastman
My children love to hear me tell stories…
I used to feel like I had to make up fairy tales and make-believe,
but now I know that what they love most is to hear how I see things…
I’m always sure to tell them,
this is my view of the world,
you need to make your own sense of stories,
and how things are for you…
They never say,
How come you only remember the bad things,
and twist everything around???!!!
Starshine often looks at me and says,
I know that there’s a reason why you’re telling me about this,
even if I don’t know why right now…
I love to hear them reading the first book I ever read all by myself,
to each other,
with the same vocal expression I used when I read this favorite book aloud to them…
Little Gem says to Starshine,
Read it like Mama…
And when Little Gem reads in her head,
I know she’s reading with the same voice,
when she looks over her shoulder to wink,
and blow me kiss…
A few nights ago Starshine called from Montreal…
She said,
Mama, don’t tell Papa this or he’ll huff and puff,
because we went to Swartz’s for smoked meat on Sunday,
and their sandwiches aren’t nearly as good was the ones we make,
at home…
They don’t use cheese,
or sweet onions,
or a the right kind of bread…
And our sandwich press makes everything melt altogether,
with a crispy crust on the outside…
We really should open a cafe…
Sometimes I know why I’ve written things down,
and other times I have no idea until I find a scrap under the couch when I’m vacuuming,
and I feel a click that says,
NOW…
and then I often still don’t know what the note is driving at…
Today I found this floating around the piles of things all over the kitchen,
written down by my doctor of traditional chinese medicine while I was on a table stuck with pins to relieve not the symptoms,
but a felt sense…
I knew it would come in handy at some point in time…
tenesmus:
the unfinished feeling after defecation,
or in extreme cases an ineffectual,
and painful straining,
at passing stool…
There’s a welcome breeze in the air this morning,
a feeling of movement in the air,
that contrasts the hazy stagnation of yesterday,
telling us that something is afoot…
When you’ve been in a small school for as long as I was as a teacher,
and you’re smart,
you start to pay attention to the patterns and rhythms of the whole school body…
There are times when you can push,
and there are other times when push as you might,
nothing moves…
Then there’s the corresponding cycle of the moon…
We talk in small circles about the full moon,
and welfare Wednesday,
but not much credence is given to the power of the new moon…
In a school building full of women,
there is ample opportunity to watch the cycles of the moon…
The waxing,
the waning,
and the in-between…
On my side of the school,
and in the staffroom,
we talked casually about the effect of our cycles,
on each other…
We joked about who was alpha in the pack,
as one cycle shifted closer to another…
In my house of origin,
my mother didn’t have to ask when my sister and I started to take birth control pills…
She knew by who was out of alignment,
based on bathroom evidence…
And as for stool,
it tells fabulous stories about the eliminating organism,
if we know how to read it…
With pet rabbits,
a dog,
and babies,
there was a time when my whole world revolved around the tao of pooh…
I remember saying to the father of my children,
I’m no longer interested in how your day was,
just tell me who had a movement,
how much,
and what it looked like…
as if my middle name were Paracelsus…
Last night I had a dream where I was yelling at my mother about being two-faced…
I saw the calm mask,
but felt what was underneath the words you know that I love you,
so far from the truth…
This is something one needs to watch for with those who use meditation to bypass the river of feeling…
And this is why we must keep an eye on the perceived cutting edge of practicing meditation in public school classrooms…
I’m not saying it shouldn’t be done…
I’m just saying we need to watch it with a critical eye,
and be clear about why we want to do it,
and how…
Finding another way to keep children compliant with theories,
methods,
and every student will,
will only lead to more problems down the road…
And when you sit still,
and open up,
you’re opening up to everything,
and it appears that the school system is already way in over its head in that department…
Children have noses on the backs of their hands,
and it is my professional belief,
based on my own observations,
that rather than sitting in meditation,
the school body would be better off working on projects of love,
individually,
or altogether…
Because really,
shouldn’t the focus of school,
in this day and age,
be about the gift of the collective,
and the possibility of joining up,
with someone,
who is as excited,
and curious about life,
and the things you want to learn,
as you are…
Canuck'd 