Posts (page 2)

We are having a mostly exquisite summer here in Massachusetts except that it rains too often, which is, I suppose, why everything has remained so fresh and green. It is mid-July and not a dead blade of grass is to be seen. Every single branch and leaf of flora radiates a glowing, photosynthetic green. Where we now reside in Monterey our large living room window looks out across the way to large grass-rimmed pond. Every morning that the sun shines, this view is like looking out over burnished metal; the sun glare rebounds across the water until it roils silver. The view is stunning and it never ceases to blow my mind that something as simple as sun and water could outdo the most fabulous efforts of man. Not even Solomon’s most extraordinary palace could ever compare.

      Perhaps it is because of the regular rainfall, or perhaps it has nothing to do with precipitation at all, but the leaves on the oak trees surrounding our property and lining the road are another phenomenon all there own. The same sun that turns water to silver transforms leaves to emeralds. Layered in lofty spreads against the pale pre-dawn sky, the thick greenery drapes itself, a dull camouflage cloak, over brown-gray bark. From the moment the sun makes its first glittering appearance – expanding over the horizon, teetering precariously on the rim of the tree line until it tips over the edge and into the morning to expose its fullness – a fairytale begins to unfold. Like the rags of Cinderella under the persuasion of her fairy godmother, the leafy cloak begins to glow a faint yellow-gold. The opaque jacket starts to unravel layer by layer; skeins of heavy brown wool wind and coil before dropping to the ground. In an unmarked moment imperceptible to the observing eye, unseen hands reweave the leaves in gossamer-gold thread until a translucent film is all that remains. Even as the sun sets, there remains into twilight, a vague afterglow, a solar radiation still flowing in their veins from the heat of the day.

      I live on the highest hill for many towns around.  Because of the abundant vegetation there is little in the way of a surrounding view – it’s like living above the clouds. We see only the trees, the lake, the thread of dirt road that winds by our house, and the expanse of the sky. Our only pedestrians are bears, deer, and an occasional feral cat. There is one teen-aged bear who is very fond of blackberries and eats them the length of our road. Earlier this summer I had spied a number of green black and red raspberry thorns in the preliminary stages of development. Thinking to myself that I would certainly enjoy their fruits of late summer, I made a mental note of the places and continued on. Just days ago I went out for an early morning walk, in hopes of finding them full grown and ready to eat, only to discover my little black friend merrily munching by the side of the road. There was not a ripe berry to be seen. There died my idyllic hopes for raspberries and yogurt, raspberries and chocolate, raspberries and tea.

      There is more to life than raspberries and leaves that flash like emeralds: things like college, track, reading, family. But for the moment I am relaxed and blind to the urgencies that rush other people by me because I am learning to rest in the knowledge that if I allow God to order my steps, everything that must be accomplished will be, and nothing necessary or special will be left undone. Trust. It is all about learning to let go, fall back, and trust that God knows what He is about.

       Thank God life lessons come when they do - not sooner, not later. Looking back at freshman year I can sigh with relief at all the instances where experience from former lessons took over and saved me so much grief. Of course, there were moments when I thought the rules had changed and I fought to hang on to what I hoped was truth. One thing stands true, the character of humanity remains the same. If we want something to be true, we believe with all our might, against all odds that it is, regardless of what life may have already taught us. So maybe I didn't quite learn some of my lessons; maybe I'm getting a little burned now. But as much as it hurts now, the lesson pushes itself deeper into my mind, like a splinter embedded in the skin, wriggling sharply and leaving a lasting, though tiny scar.
       Scars are acceptable. They tell a story.

    “Drop and give me 50!” coach barked. Across the room forty bodies cut straight to the ground, eighty hands gripped the cement. “Now GO!” he issued. Seventy-nine pairs of arms jack-hammered. “ONE-TWO, ONE-TWO,” they pulsated up and down in unison. Only one puny pair of arms faltered, could not make fifty, crumpled after five. My choice for a hiatus from the sports field suddenly seemed like a very, very stupid idea. On good days I could sometimes manage to levitate and lower my lengthy plank of a body two or three times before my pectorals buckle and I crash face first into the floor. “ONE-TWO, ONE-TWO.” They were pumping in rhythm, while I was trying to extract my nose from the cement.

            That week I not only discovered muscles I never knew existed, but a drive and an attitude that had long lain quiescent. Right off the bat I knew I had to decide I was going to like push-ups. From the moment I encountered the sight of my piston-armed peers it was evident that the workouts were not going to get any less challenging. Might as well enjoy them, I resolved, because they are only going to keep coming; and I was right. By the end of the season, we were shooting off 100-150 pushups a day.

            The attitude that urged me to keep pumping in spite of fatigue also pushed me in ballet class to hold poses and dance combinations far beyond what my one semester of dance had prepared me for. Due to scheduling conflicts in the second semester, I had enrolled in a Ballet IV class per suggestion of my instructor, Rose. The leap from Ballet I to Ballet IV looked no less than overwhelming; however, I remained steady in my resolve to follow my passion. Fully aware that I was entering a level well beyond my experience, I was still unprepared for the humbling, and sometimes frightening, experience of dancing with girls possessing over a dozen years of experience. They looked so good, and I…well, I still had much to learn, as stated not quite so professionally by my instructor’s colleague, C__.

            One morning after an especially challenging class, I stayed late to work out a combination with Rose. While I stood by, in obvious earshot, C__ confronted her. “What is she doing here Rose? She’s only going to hurt herself. Why is she here?” His words stung me. I took a deep breath and pushed my tears back.  Several days later they still reverberated in my brain; I could not shake the defeated feeling that pressed upon me. To fail in something of lesser import is one thing; to fall short in one’s greatest passion is quite another. Despite his comments, or perhaps because of them, I enrolled in two additional off-campus classes the following week. The evening of my first class, who should walk in as the instructor but C__ himself. It took all of my courage and self-respect to hold myself at the bar, gripping for dear life, knowing that every movement was being critiqued under his hawkish surveillance.

            Performing tendue en arabesque at the bar, memories of my fall semester seminar came tumbling back over the piano’s vibrant melody. Nathan Margalit, an enlightening artist himself, led a seminar on the creative and learning processes of art. In Nathan’s class every process was acceptable - our focus was not the product; it was the process. We messed with every form of art from charcoal and printmaking to rhythm and movement. “The experience of the process is why the artist creates. The product is simply a result of the overflow of your heart,” Nathan constantly reminded us. Relief breathed over me. It did not matter a pin or a straw what C__ thought of my dancing. I was in this for process not product, because I cannot help but pursue what I love. The experience provided a fitting frame for my subsequent realization of self. Three springs from now, I hope to descend the steps of the Amphitheater to accept a degree in the self-designed major of music and movement therapy, which focuses chiefly on process and the continuing course of self-development.

            Three months and more than 3,000 push-ups later I can drop and give you 50. Anyone who has been through boot camp is still snorting I’m sure, but two more weeks and maybe I’ll be giving you 70. I have reached a new place of thought during our daily practices these last weeks. It’s about attitude. Track is at least 90% attitude. If I don’t think I can do it, I won’t be able to. If I choose to focus on Hammer footwork then I can do it and I do it right, but if, when my coach tells me to practice footwork, I internally groan Line drills stink! I hate spinning in circles! then I might as well leave because I know I won’t be trying that hard.

            I had to take that attitude with me to a test today. This week I have done little more than complain about a particular class and professor, seeing only the dismal side of the experience. Today we had our final. When I woke up this morning I decided to just do it. To shut my mouth and nike. That did not make the test any less difficult, but I decided to do it and give the hour and fifteen minutes my best shot – so I did. I can do anything I choose to.

            Contemplating my experiences, I realize that Nathan Margalit’s class is what I needed most to accept myself. I knew what I loved deep down inside, but could not come to terms with it because it was not “acceptable.” I thought that because I attended a women’s college it was necessary to be a strong math and science student when in reality those things do not interest me deeply. Your contribution has put me in a position to realize myself, understand others in my environment, and search for approaches to encourage and help both. Honestly, this could take place on any campus, in any town, in any school. My environment of choice is Mount Holyoke College. We are a diverse group of women, and even if we don’t have our stuff figured out, we are still going great places, we will still catalyze necessary change, we are capable - human, but capable. What you see in the shiny brochures is the vision. We are not all there yet.

            Thank you for your contribution; it has made a huge difference in my life. Your financial support is vital to my education, and none of this would have been possible without your generosity. This scholarship is extremely important to me. As one of five children, I am dependent upon myself and outside sources of financial aid to pay my tuition bills. Receiving this scholarship will allow me to afford my degree and stay on track to achieve my goals. I will be very grateful and honored by anything I receive. Already I am excited for the coming year and all that it holds.

 

    God can be so funny about the details in life. He puts clues and metaphors to his masterful plan in the least expected places. Take for example the detail of conception in the flow of genetics. Prior to the modern understanding of heredity, humanity puzzled over the hereditary connection between father and son, mother and daughter, and between father and daughter, mother and son. Various scientists of past centuries investigated the reproductive processes of multiple living beings much the way a detective reconstructs a murder – there is the body, the scene, the suspects, but what is the actual progression of the story that brought this together? Following his discovery of “animalcules” in the sperm of humans and other animals, the seventeenth century scientist Anton van Leeuwenhoek speculated that he “saw a "little man" (homunculus) inside each sperm.”[1] Colleagues of his asserted, “The only contributions of the female to the next generation were the womb in which the homunculus grew, and the prenatal influences of the womb.”[2] This conjecture soon received the title spermist. Apparently there were feminists even back as far as that heavily masculine era because in response an opposing school of thought was formed which believed “that the future of the human was in the egg, and that the sperm merely stimulated the growth of the egg.” These thinkers were aptly named the ovists.     
    But as we are now clearly aware, neither is the case! The conception and development process is one of collaboration by both sperm and egg, and just as is the case with men and women, neither is more important than the other and both are necessary complements. In the past men were acclaimed as humanity's ultimate being - the powerful, the steadfast, the mighty and courageous. Today, a large part of the Western World's academia tout the Woman as the pinnacle of society. However, in conception, one of God's primary charges (be fruitful and multiply, see Genesis 1:28) research makes it clear that both the male and female are necessary. Again, it is a process of collaboration. Neither the egg is more important than the sperm, nor the male more important that the female. Both are necessary and equal. As He would have it, perfect complements.

SATURDAY, MAY 24 NCAA DIVISION III CHAMPIONSHIPS @ OSH KOSH, WI

Sheridan Rose  

    Little Sheridan Rose is no longer our diminutive copper-headed dandelion but rather a flourishing lupine in every sense – tall, colorful, a breath of fresh air, and especially fond of the Maine bay. She is last of the Original Four to step into teen-age-hood, though much more responsible than most of us were at her age. In addition to her 6^th grade studies of planets, journalism, and pre-algebra Sheridan works as a dog caretaker, walking three golden retrievers and a rottweiler, heads up The Winter Wonder Club (a four member, kid-directed group that raises money for the New Engand Kewsick summer camp scholarship fund),  hammers the local basketball courts in the post (22 points this season!), while still managing to read every book in sight – twice. She is in her sixth year on the piano and uses her sharp skills to accompany friends in concert. This Christmas she and a group of self-directed girls performed “Night of Silence” and “Once Small Child” as part of the annual Messiah concert. It is not unusual to hear this little lark sing while at the keys. This spring you can look for this rare species in her favored habitats, the dirt roads, kitchens, and softball fields of muddy Massachusetts. She is mostly likely to be puddle stomping or baking something or catching fly balls.

 

 

 

 Stephon X. Z.

            Stephon X. Z. McAlister. Ladies and gentlemen it is indeed official. Stephon is no longer a denizen of the Atlantic but a true American citizen. Though, for a little while there we wondered when Burkina Faso relinquished him but America did not yet except him. On the 24 of January, 2008, amongst long over-due ceremonies, the United States of America recognized Stephon as not only an American citizen, but a McAlister as well.

            As we are all aware from the stories of the migrant-generation, part of the American experience is that start from the bottom when no one knows you and you know no one. All titles, degrees, societal statuses, and prior recognitions belong to the past and former homeland. Coming here is the eraser on the blackboard. Perhaps because of his age, or perhaps because a certain strong, no, indomitable, will, Stephon is having a bit of trouble relinquishing certain elements of his past, namely the fact that he is of royal blood. “Here in America,” my parents continually explain, “we don’t have kings. We have presidents and congressmen.” We hope he will eventually understand the concept of the popular vote and so behave accordingly; ie, we would love to have him assimilate with the family and make a few friends.

            Due to his rough and undeserved past, Stephon is having some difficulty with this. After his recent diagnoses of RAD, the family enrolled in a program at the Attachment Institute of New England in order to create the support he needs in order to learn to regulate himself. Reactive attachment disorder, a common occurrence among adopted children, is a failure to form normal attachments to primary caregivers in early childhood due to a number of factors including neglect, abuse, and abrupt separation from caregivers when the child is between the ages of six months and three years. The result is that these children show disturbed and developmentally inappropriate ways of relating socially in most contexts. This includes lack of eye contact, frequent and heavy tantrums, manipulative behaviors, extremely destructive tendencies, and a host of other symptoms. Despite this diagnosis, or perhaps in light of it, the family has great hope to see him settle in over the next few years as he discovers his role in our unit and learns to love and value himself as well as others. He is one of us and we love him dearly.

            At the moment no one is quite sure where his likings will take him. Stephon is a tough and sturdy build with the body of a little super man at the ripe age of 6. He also has an insatiable appetite for good food and thinks on little else. The highlight of our summer visit to Maine was a dinner of fresh lobsters that he himself helped to choose. Because Stephon thinks of all great experiences in the context of food dad has begun to wonder if we might find him happily cooking his way through the great kitchens of America as a chef in another decade or two. Watch out Biba Caggiano!

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Two weeks and 700 push ups later I can drop and give you 20. Or I can drop and give you 12 pointing push ups. Those are real exciting. Do a push up and then, while supporting yourself on one arm, reach out the other one and the opposite leg. Point. Anybody who has been through boot camp is still snorting I'm sure, but two more weeks and maybe I'll be giving you 50. I've reached a new plane of thought during our daily practices these last weeks. It's about attitude. Track is at least 90% attitude. If i don't think I can do it, I won't be able to. If I think I can, and especially if my teammates are there to encourage me, I can. If I go out defeated already than I won't do it. If I choose to focus on hammer footwork then I do it and I do it right, but if, when coach tells me to practice footwork, I internally groan line drills stink! I hate spinning in circles then I might as well leave because I'm know I won't be trying that hard.
    I had to take that attitude with me to a test today. Thia last week I have only complained about a particular class and professor, seeing only the dismal side of the experience. Today we had our midterm. When I woke up this morning I decided to just do it. To shut my mouth and nike. That did not make the test any less difficult, but I decided to do it and give the hour and fifteen minutes my best shot - so I did. My essay was still weaker than I would have liked, and so were a thirty-seven other things. but I did it and I did it with a good attitude...and had a good frustrated cry afterwards.  Just ask my mother.
    I can do anything I choose to. What will you choose to do, to think?

Dear Posy and Bru, was thinking of you
since I've been knocked about with this miserly flu.
It's not too bad, just a cough and a cold, and a head that's swelled up through the roof.
I've got snot in my nose, and snot in my ears,
puffy red eyes that water with tears,
a frog in my throat with a best friend named horse, and 42 reasons to not attend class.
There are ache-eez and pain-eez all over my body,
they pinch me and giggle "it's fun to be snotty."
So until I see you some evening next week I'll be keeping my germies in top form at their peak.
And just when those boogers think that they've won I'll hack 'em with C vits. and water and tums.
I'll smack 'em with tea bags of honey and lemon, throw boxes of tissues, and stuff 'em with cadmum.
With 42 billion dead germs at my feet, I'll climb up to my throne and there take my seat
to rule in peace for one week or more
till the germies come back asking for more.
They really don't know what they're asking for!

"Drop and give me 50!" coach called out. Across the weight room sixty-five bodies cut straight to the floor. One, two, one, two, they pulsated up and down in unison. For a moment I thought I'd lost my way and walked in on basic training, not track tryouts. Push up? She wants push ups? Hah, maybe three. On good days I can sometimes manage to levitate and lower my lengthy plank of a body two or three times before my pectorals buckle and I crash face first into the floor. One, two, one, two. They were still pumping in rhythm, meantime I was just trying to extract my nose from the cement. Next to the abilities of these girls, my best efforts to perform a push up are P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C. Yeah, at that's only a smidge of our workout.