Minute One
And life has smoothed her ruffled feathers and settled herself down into a nest of patterned time and thoughtful edges.
After a Sunday of throwing Uncle Dan the birthday party of the century (complete with a sketch artist, a stunning "carpenter" cake and more singing children than I could count) things start to slide into a routine.
Minute Two
And life is still trying to figure out whether she likes this nest or not.
I have been informed that my schedule will be changing again soon, but for now my days pass something like this:
6:45am (an unholy hour of darkness) - I haul myself out of the bright blue tent that is my bed, blearily claw at the many light switches on the wall until I finally find the one that's actually connected to a light and smack any ambitious mosquitoes away from my legs. After getting dressed and brushing my teeth, I grab the essentials - my water bottle, my flip flops and my sanity - before tromping loudly down the concrete stairs.
7:15 am - While waiting for breakfast I scramble ungracefully to get everything ready for the day’s classes and reassure any night-owl relatives left awake in America that I am still alive and, more than that, I’m doing just fine.
8:00 am - Around this time the two-year-old stops shouting ,”I’M SPIDER-MAN! I’M SPIDER-MAN!” And starts shouting shouting, “FOOD IS READY! FOOD IS READY!” Until the food is actually on the table (a process that usually lasts two to five minutes).
8:20 am- After scarfing down my rice and eggs and nodding through the many lectures that the aforementioned two-year-old believes will improve my lifestyle choices, I stuff my feet in my scuffed up Chacos, stuff my books in my minuscule backpack and try not to squash a cat as I swing out the door.
8:30 am - I drop my supplies on my desk with a thud and take a deep breath. Then I rifle frantically through my backpack, realizing that I forgot a dry erase marker. Then I rifle frantically through my notebook, realizing that I forgot the attendance chart. Then I rifle through my brain, realizing that it’s a mess.
A knock on the door distracts me from from my chaos. A face appears around the door frame. “Can I come in?”
The first student has arrived.
And class is in session.
9:30 am - I take another big breath as I walk away from the college. Trying to tell myself that, just like every other day, it wasn’t as bad at I thought it would be. Yes, I probably looked like a complete amateur when I forgot what a complex sentence was and had to look on my phone. And yes, I probably sounded like a lunatic when I dragged my students through a long and animated ramble on why words are useful and important and beautiful but you know what? I’m doing my best.
9:45 am - I take a nap.
11:45 am - I eat lunch.
AFTERNOON pm (or as Douglas Adams calls it, the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul) - a random and sporadic variety of occurrences. Most often some combination of the following:
Inhaling an iced coffee from The Daily Bean coffee shop; picking small children up from school; walking aimlessly around the block until the neighbors start looking suspicious; and browsing Lulu’s EVERYTHING store (though much to my chagrin Lulu’s definition of EVERYTHING doesn’t include pocket knives or tunable ukuleles).
6:20pm - I pick my way through the crowded, trash littered streets that lead to the children's home, looking like quite the entertainer with a guitar on my back, a fiddle clutched in one havd and a ukulele gripped in the other. The kids run out to meet me, all talking at once, and little Ivy (the four-year-old angel) pries an instrument out of my fingers and hands it off to whoever is closest so that she can grip my hand in hers.
6:30pm - My music lesson begins with singing and the kids all cheer when I inform them that, good news, none of them are tone deaf. Then we move on to music theory and conceptual instrumentation and then the little children are starting to stand on their chairs so we sing another song and then the older children are starting to chat between phrases so I quiz them on scales and clefts. All in all, it’s not easy keeping the attention of 23 kids ranging in age from four to seventeens. But afterwards they get to ask me all of their many questions and force me to sing their favorite songs and by the time I pry Ivy’s hand out of mine so that I can wave goodbye I know that it’s all going to work out just fine.
8:00 pm - “Sister Lorien! No dreaming! Eat more food!” The two-year-old stands on his chair, hypocritically ignoring his own food, but I laugh anyway.
“You have too much sass,” I say.
“You talk too much,” He replies.
“You’re a bean,” I inform him.
“I’m not a bean!” He sputters indignantly. “I’m Spider-Man!”
Minute three,
And life is quiet and still and sorting herself out. She’s whittled away at time, so that now I only have a month left in this strange and beautiful place. I want to get the most out of it that I possibly can.
I want to give the most to it that I possibly can.
I miss you all.
Goodnight.
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