Category: Uncategorized

Most of the time that I blog/write, I do it to scratch an itch of mine that keeps returning. It seems to be a tiny slice of me that I get to keep beyond motherhood, wifehood, friendhood, and whatever else I am to anybody else in the world. I’m not trained, don’t feel skilled, but I do know that I have a writer’s heart. I feel so much better after I pound out words. I’ve always been this way, scribbling in journals and diaries.

I’d taken a very long break, which wasn’t intentional, but also probably needed. Last week I finally couldn’t take it any more and finally typed as fast as my fingers would go, creating the previous post. It felt sooooooo good to write and it flew out of my brain almost faster than I could type. I’d sent the post on to my mom and Kara, both of them have encouraged me to not abandon this outlet. Anyhow, my mom sent the link on to Ms. Chavers and I got the following message from her. After I wiped the tears from my eyes, I sat and read it again and again.

Proof, this woman shines bright still.

 

Hannah,
How blessed I am that your mom passed your blog link on to me. I have tonight of you so often over the years and know the good you are doing in the world, in great and small ways, and what a beautiful, compassionate, talented, compassionate and loving mother, family member, teacher, community-minded person and global citizen you have blossomed into. I am honored to know you, as a child and as a woman. It is obvious from your blog (which I will continue to read) that you are open-hearted and authentic and have grown into yourself, rough edges and all, in a way that invites adventure, imagination and contemplation-you encounter the world around you with grace and enthusiasm. But you also recognize sometimes it’s just plain hard and loss is a part of the cycle and it hurts.

You brought back some really dear memories about a time when you could be who you were, and just accept each child on his or her own terms. You could be quirky or different without judgement approach each child fully in a truly holistic way. Every child contributed to the classroom community in a different way. The closeness you mention was real and made me happy to come to work each day. I love the way you captured how music can have such an impact, even at times you don’t expect it to. And how it comforts and soothes and makes you laugh out loud. I also love the part about the Spring Fling and how we all came together to put it on. It was good to have family gatherings around children’s events. These times made me happy.

As for Genevieve’s passing, we were all so saddened by it and feeling helpless. I am so glad you got to spend some precious time with her and that she, in her time on earth, affected you so deeply. I am also glad to know that music and your own shaping of ideas about life’s challenges comforted you to some extent.

Thank you for sharing so much of yourself in your writing. It validates so many things for me, not to mention the fact that tests may be necessary but they don’t capture the essence of what is important in education-connections, confidence along with competence, and helping each child discover the gift within and nurture that. Thanks so much for reminding me, Hannah. Please keep writing, Hannah. You have a distinctive voice and it needs to be heard. Love, Sherry

One of the most vivacious women that I’ve ever met was my teacher in third and fourth grade. I was lucky enough to be her student for two years in a row. She was a firecracker of a woman, full to the brim of life. She had huge, puffy red hair, that framed her petite features and she always wore mascara and lipstick. She had short finger nails, but loved bracelets that would slide up and down her tiny wrists. After lunch while she read a chapter book to us out loud, we’d get to brush her hair or massage her shoulders. Seems weird in these times, but it just wasn’t, there wasn’t strangeness to closeness. More often than not, she was shorter than many of her students, which she laughed about. She was a Ms. Not a Miss or a Mrs. She was a Ms. A glorified Ms. Frizzile, but even better.

She also loved Bruce Springsteen in a way that I couldn’t quite understand at the time. All I knew was that my teacher loved the rock and roll music of a man that had his own jean-clad butt on the cover of his album, seemed steamy to my 8 or 9 year old mind. But she loved him without abandon and brought that love to the classroom. I’ve never forgotten.

Without a doubt, having her as my teacher for two years changed my life. In her classroom I made some of my best friends that I still have, I learned to be part of a thriving community, feeling the weight of responsibility for the first time in a way that made me feel successful.  I realized that I like to write and love to read. I learned to be brave in sharing my difficulty with math. I shared with her in the joys of having red hair and looked forward to going to school. I probably decided during those two years that I wanted to grow up and be a teacher.

She knew my entire family, and not because she’d had my older brother, or because my grandfather volunteered in her classroom, but because she created events for us to be part of and to invite our families to. We had potlucks where we’d invite anyone and everyone to come see our Spring Fling, a performance that we’d been working on for months. It all felt great, with a hint of fear because she was working right along with us and we didn’t want to let her down.  All of it was true-to-the-core community building, small town living, and the type of learning that make you realize tests can be full of shit.

To this day, the songs that we learned in her class, by artists other than Bruce Springsteen, have carried me through trials and tribulations. My girls have heard me sing Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” countless times when I am tapping into my reservoir of songs that won’t distract them from falling sleep. Still a great message in that song after all these years.

More recently, Tom Paxton’s “The Last Thing on My Mind” has been on constant play in my head. We learned it one year for a Spring Fling and I’m certain I can remember her shining eyes brimming with tears as we sang. As a kid, I thought we were making her proud because we were singing so well, but as an adult and I sing those lyrics to myself, I can’t help but wonder who she was thinking about as we sang our hearts out. It’s a heartbreakingly beautiful song that I’ve loved for decades. It is very much about saying goodbye.

When my sister-in-law Geneviève was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in May of 2015 and everything felt sad and hard, I slowly felt myself shift. I essentially found myself on shaky ground, not sure how to respond to people’s questions about her health, my brother’s state of mind, and “how we’re all doing.” Because when somebody is dying, or fighting to live, and there isn’t a pretty and gorgeous anecdote to end on, it’s easier to say nothing at all. And that’s what I did. I just stopped….or at least stopped digging much deeper and let the color, that I typically see and feel so clearly, slip away.

I spent as much time as she’d accept and as I could with Geneviève during her last months. It still wasn’t enough, I still don’t feel like I got a fair shake at getting to know and love her the way sister-in-laws should. But damn if I didn’t try.

It has been a little over a month since Geneviève died and I still absolutely don’t know how to answer the questions that come with squinty, sad faces. I do know that the color that makes me who I am is seeping back in.  I’m forever changed, but I’m also still me, a version of who I’ve always been. Perhaps peppered with more knowledge about living and loving.

Tonight I found myself listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Human Touch album because I’ve learned as an adult who The Boss is. My dad gave me the CD as a gift when I was a teenager and although my favorite song on the album was “Pony Boy,” tonight I’m moved by the title song:

You might need somethin’ to hold on to
When all the answers, they don’t amount to much
Somebody that you could just to talk to
And a little of that Human Touch

Whenever I hear Bruce, I can’t help but think of my third and fourth grade teacher and her enthusiasm for life and how she felt no shame in being bubbly, vibrant and colorful, but mixed in all of that she was thoughtful, compassionate, and those around her felt her joy. It was impossible not to.  Just as I’ve found that I’m a part-time introvert, I’ve also found that I’m someone who lives life on with my emotions on my sleeve. Moving forward without acknowledging the rough edges that have chafed against the sweetness in my life seems inconceivable. I don’t dare try.

So here we are. In thinking back to all the things that my third and fourth grade mind sponged-up from being so close to a person that welcomed hilarity, embraced style, and literally taught others to find the goodness in themselves, I’m going with that. Going forward with goodness, hilarity, and maybe a bit of style. Damn, it already feels good.

And I’ve got Ms. Chavers to thank for it.

And Bruce Springsteen.

When we packed for our trip, we tried to be incredibly reasonable with what we thought we’d need, use and be able to get when we were there. Both Barry and I felt very strongly that we didn’t want to be in charge of any toys that we’d be devastated if we lost, so we negotiated with Maggie to leave New Baby at home and agreed that we’d keep our eye out for something new when we settled in New Zealand.

I was fully prepared to scout out some great toys and find trinkets or tokens that’d become our New Zealand things. I had dreams of finding something made 100%  in NZ. We packed a few toys from home to distract the girls on the airplane, two tiny dolls given to us by my aunt, and a few books. That was it.

At first everything was new when we arrived and even the suitcases were exciting to lug around and then our daily routine of going to the beach arrived, but we still held off on even buying beach toys because we knew we had to hop on a final plane to get to the South Island and our room was precious.

When we arrived on the farm on the South Island, we settled into another way of living, observing and spending our time. The books that we’d packed, and the few we’d picked up at the second-hand store, were used often, but the ‘toys’ really stayed packed away. Not intentionally, but there wasn’t an interest in them from anybody.

It was strange to watch, mostly in the way that I realized how little we need to be entertained, to dream up a story that can entertain for hours. At one point we’d been reloaded with firewood from our hosts and the large bin provided endless hours of play.

After we’d left the farm, and drove the 9 hours to our final 10 day stay, we found a toy store and bought some beach toys, including a super fancy shovel. Somehow we avoided picking up any other toys.  Every time we’d head to the beach, which was daily, we’d haul the bag of plastic toys along with us….it shouldn’t have surprised us that majority of the time those toys got dumped out and left while the girls found sticks, shells, or even our coffee cups to play with instead.

I’m not anti toy, but I think I’m anti over-consumerism and the idea that something has to entertain us, or be the reason for us to enjoy life. When we got home,  back to the United States, each of our kids ran to their favorite toys, including New Baby and the most ridiculous huge stuffed Pug that I’ve tried to donate countless times, and they have hardly been away from them since. Most of the other toys have largely been ignored.

We ended up bringing home the fancy shovel and a tiny watering can, both probably made in China, from New Zealand. Not a wool Waldorf doll or knit sweater, nothing that I had thought would be a ‘perfect’ token to remember our time.

I’ve decided that maybe bringing nothing home is better than bringing something home because what that ‘nothing’ is, is actually feeling of being connected and content with what we already have. Peacefulness, mindfulness, happiness.