The Teacher and the Writer: Do I Have to Pick One?

Exactly 5 months ago, June 5th, I finished my last day of school at McTigue Elementary. The last month in Room 608 was dramatically better but the year took its toll on me: Grams died, Paul still worked crazy hours and I was committed to pack up my stuff and never look back. I was determined to hang up my teacher badge, to never introduce myself as "Ms. Ronau" again. Until I did.

I have been committed to finding a road out of teaching. Although I only teach 3 hours a day with a 48 minute prep period, I only have 7 kids on my caseload, I teach in a very affluent district where basic needs are met and I actually teach, there are still some things I can't let go of, that make me want to do something else, anything else but be a teacher. You know, until I start falling in love with it all over again.

The year started out amazing, like most years do. Everything was so drastically different and the novelty of amazing and new had me beyond hopeful and excited. Goldfish pond in the foyer. Mountain view from my huge classroom WINDOWS. Amazing former special education teacher as a principal. A wall full of appropriate, special education-based curriculum. The kids remained somewhat nervous, not ready to test the waters yet until just recently, and that just means chattier than usual. The lack of chair and desk throwing, screaming, crying, meltdown central had me feeling extremely lucky and grateful and ready to be an actual teacher. Wow.

But the first round of district testing inevitably came around. Then came the pre-evaluation 29-page exercise. Then meetings. Mountains of paperwork. Suddenly my part-time job turned into super early mornings and working through lunch just so I didn't have to take anything home. But I do anyways. Students start to get too comfortable, and although there are still no extreme temper tantrums, instead there is pouting, long pre-teen sighs, a slight amount of whining and a lot of answering questions with rap lyrics.

Honeymoon over, I started looking for a better way to fill my mornings.

Then I made it to my first writing lesson in my 3rd period English Language Arts class. As we had to set up procedures, grading policy, behavior policy, new curriculum and all that other "Stuff," we hadn't gotten to the "good" stuff until last week. I'm not sure why I scheduled my first official teacher evaluation on the same day we started something brand new (on both sides: I have never taught middle school kids the art of persuasive writing), but it just seemed to happen that way. It was also a Friday before a long weekend. I was absolutely dreading it the entire week. But while writing my lesson plans, I realized that this may be the very thing I actually have absolute authority to teach: writing. And why not just teach how I really think to be effective, regardless of curriculum, standards, blah blah blah? (Although I did end up being able to integrate all of that "stuff" because I'm a wizard.)

So I did what I thought was awesome and this is how it turned out.

I started out with a question:
"How do you get your parents to let you do what you want? Take 10 minutes and discuss with your table."
I walked around and listened to their ideas.
"I cry."
"I call my dad "Daddy"
"I call my mom by her first name."
"I bug them until they let me."
We discussed how they already have powerful ways to persuade their parents and applying that to persuasive writing is perhaps second nature.
I then showed a Prezi presentation of commercials. Framing this presentation under 5 aspects of persuasion that we discussed earlier, we discussed how each commercial was effective, why it was effective, who it was created for (audience) and what they were trying to convince of or sell to their audience. The entire class participated, laughed appropriately and went better than I ever thought.

The post-evaluation conference went even better. My principal stated that she had "fun" while in my classroom. She gave me a glowing report, one that she shared with the district superintendent and added that she feels "lucky" to have me on staff. After our break, my students asked, "When are we going to do that persuasion thing again?" something that they haven't stopped asking since.

And I, of course, have no idea what this is supposed to mean.

Am I supposed to be a writing teacher? Can I be a writing teacher? Can teaching what you love and actually getting to teach negate the terrible parts of teaching? Can simply expecting all the good to happen actually allow me to enjoy each day rather than thinking the worst will happen and potentially quit a profession that I am just starting to understand and really, honestly start? Is it completely possible that I haven't started teaching until this very school year?

Since this lesson, Paul tells me he hasn't heard me talk about teaching like this since I student taught with the brilliant Debbie Gensler. I haven't felt like this since I student taught with the brilliant Debbie Gensler. But after an amazing professional development day where I was actually able to apply each session to the right now of my classroom instead of the hypothetical classroom, boundless ideas about my next writing lessons and students who can barely read past a 3rd grade level but are begging to start their writing assignment, I'm starting to believe in the possibility that I can truly start over.

I tend to dramatically declare lots of things as a way to process them and figure them out. I've stated dozens of times that I'm through with this teaching biz, as I scoured the internet for online writing jobs this summer. I'm not sure that I'm finished with declaring that I'm done, especially when grades are due and I have three IEPs to write. But I'm also fairly certain that I'm not finished just yet with Ms. Ronau.

Somewhere, in the depths of my sharpened pencil joy and my love of glitter glue and SmartBoards, somewhere there is a teacher that's either ready to be retired or waiting to be discovered. And either way, I can't wait to find out.

Sparks

I didn't want to write about this. I didn't want to make this recent school shooting about me, to receive attention for something terrible that happened in my school district, but not to my building, family, friend or student. But since Monday, I can't get it out of my head. And in a counseling session with my 4th period today, I overheard our brilliant school counselor say something so simple. Talk about it.

It was my very first instinct to hope that school was closed the next day, not for any other reason besides the fact that I couldn't truly wrap my head around what had happened. So I was having these pretty basic responses of wanting to hide in my apartment and not come out for a very long time.

It was so easy for me to compartmentalize previous acts of violence in schools. Although I was sad and shaken at each one, none of them hit this close to home, both literally and figuratively. It became extremely real and all of the previous ones just added to the likelihood of it happening again, and again. This happened in a middle school. I work at a middle school. It happened 45 minutes away in my district. It happened to a 7th grade teacher. I teach 7th graders. He was trying to help. And I would've done the exact same thing.

I was prepared for stock answers to student's questions on Tuesday. Most of them said they were fine until 4th period. They poured their hearts out so much that I was moved to breathing out of my mouth so I didn't start crying.
"What if we have an extra extra extra code red?"
"Then we enact our lockdown procedures."
"But what if they don't work? What if the shooter comes in anyway?"
"That won't happen."
"But what if it does?"
I couldn't talk. How do you convince your students that your school is safe when you don't really believe it?

Incline is still a sleepy mountain town but there has been added security and bizarre sightings of patrol cars circling the building and men in uniform casually strolling the halls. Today, our school counselor came to help my students understand what they can do to prevent this instead of having to react to a dangerous situation of a shooter in the school. My tough, macho pubescent group of middle school boys were reduced to puddles of tears and somber stares. Most of us looked at our shoes and sniffed. I picked at my cuticles until they were bloody. And after a long talk about grief, sadness, being scared, being angry, being confused, there seemed to be a mix of half-relief and half-confusion about what has happened to our district.

I can't tell you what school shootings do to me as a teacher. Every time, I can't help but think about myself, my kids, my family, my friends, my fellow colleagues, my community. It brings me to a place of confusion, anger and incredible sadness. I put it off to the side because it literally drives me insane trying to figure it out, the whys, the hows, but mostly the whys. And as the next one inevitably transpires, I get out the same circle of impossibilities: the hows, the whys, the incredible sadness and the grief for those who I don't know, but feel like I do.

Since when did being a teacher become a dangerous profession? Since when do middle schoolers have to worry about being shot dead on their way from the bus to the school door? Since when do we have to even start thinking about how to protect ourselves and our students against guns during school, in sleepy suburbs where it's jarring to actually see a cop?

Sometimes being a teacher is a bad gig. Sometimes it's so incredibly condescending, with what the district, state and feds do with your time and your credentials. Sometimes it's hard, with what your students need from you and what you can realistically give in return. And sometimes, when you see a fellow teacher die protecting his students, you feel helpless and wrong and all-together confused but know it'd be hard to do anything different. You, as a fellow teacher, understand. And you shouldn't have to understand.


He was just doing his job. 

The Love Song of P. Ryan Young

Our first rager in Tahoe happened on Friday.

It was kind of an accident. We were planning on attending a birthday celebration for Paul's coworker at the MontBleu casino and predicted a casual night of slots, conversation and excellent people watching, with the occasional drink in hand. As I offered to designate myself as the driver, my drink in hand consisted of comped soda and ice cubes, but the rest of the group partied pretty hard. Okay, really hard.

It was the first time I had ever met anyone Paul has worked with this summer, strange unless you understand the vast difference between south shore and north/west shore. In short, south shore is Vegas and north/west shore is a yoga retreat: you go to south shore if you're ski bumming and want to go to a club above a CVS, you go to north/west shore for less people, more quiet and a ton less intensity.

We don't have much of a night life here. If we want to grab a beer,  it's casual conversation with strangers and watching a baseball game at The Bridge Tender or Mellow Fellow or getting a six-pack downstairs and heading over to Eve and Alex's for excellent conversation, belly laughs and playing with cats. After dinner, home by 10. There's no energy or desire for club life, let alone driving 40 minutes for club life. And it's fantastic for my social awkwardness, bank account and general wellness.

We sucked it up because of Paul's coworker, Jonathan, turning 32 that night. After standing around a craps table awkwardly, I met the man hailing from Georgia, adorning his short stature with a black faded leather cowboy hat, a feather hung from the brim like a rat tail. He smiled warmly and shook my hand, which triggered a fury of hellos and handshakes and lots of social interaction.

Nerves of noodles? No. Every fellow employee was different and strange in their own way, making me feel more than normal. There wasn't anything I could've said or done that would've made me weirder than these strange band of seasonal forestry workers, bringing a Tupperware full of Fritos to the club to snack on, dancing like extremely active cartoon squirrels, skateboarding the perimeter of the dance floor, hugging strangers, looking like they had just walked away from the jobsite with appropriate beards and flannels to match.

And, to my surprise, I didn't have to make small talk once because all they wanted to do was talk about Paul.

All Tanner could say was "Congratulations" which the first time, lead me to ask why?
"Because you get to be married to that guy."
The seventh time, I stopped asking and he started adding, "Congratulations on your happiness," with a weird bow, like he was finishing his yellow belt karate test.

His boss, Ryan, confessed that Paul is "the best worker I've ever had," and then proceeded to ask me where I'm from and added, "I need to go to the Midwest to find a wife. Or Montana."

The birthday boy, Jonathan, gushed over him, telling me how Paul is so smart, so funny, and he's so glad to know him. Then he yelled, "Go Hens!" and high-fived me, sharing that he spent his summers in Maumee growing up. (To be fair, I had to guess "Maumee" because he could only come up with a slurred "It's starts with "MMMM." The world is extremely tiny, friends.)

I hung back a while, watching Paul's new Tahoe friends take pictures with him, buy him drinks, make him really laugh and couldn't help but smile. One of the reasons why I love him so much is how much he positively impacts others in the simplest ways. Paul seems like a quiet, simple man, but in reality, he's so much more.

He opens doors for anyone, always.
He never forgets to say, "thank you" when I make dinner, do the dishes, hold the door for him.
He always tells me I'm beautiful: in a party dress or in my pajamas.
He loves Oatmeal truly and they have many "bro" talks weekly.
He is my biggest cheerleader and supports me whenever for whatever.
He makes amazing things happen in the kitchen.
He has always shared the burden of housework, cooking, laundry and still takes out the trash 98% of the time.
He loves dogs, old people and babies and they ALL love him back.
He legitimately thinks I'm funny, which massages my ego in a very safe way.
He is the hardest worker I've ever met, which is not only attractive, it's inspiring.
He's silly, an amazing dancer and is the best shopping partner.
His presence alone calms me down in my very worst moments.
He's extremely good-looking, so much so that I wonder how I've kept him around this long.
He is beginning to like all my weird vegetarian food and has even tried a black bean (and liked it!).

Our rager on Friday ended at a club above a CVS, affectionately named "The Electric Mushroom," which you had to walk upstairs and down a long office hallway, sharing the bathroom with a sex shop and a Pilates studio. The "club" was illuminated with black lights and there was a DJ playing very terrible house music. When it neared 2:30, I urged Paul to say "goodnight" but with every good bye bro hug given, another friend volleyed for attention and struck up another conversation. It was kind of like leaving your grandma's house on Christmas, where you say goodbye seven times, each time getting closer and closer to the door. Finally, we said all of our goodbyes, thanked them for countless BBQ invites and laughed down the long hallway to the bottom of the CVS entrance. We pulled into Obexer's at 3:00 a.m. and the radio appropriately sung "How Bizarre" into our sleepy ears.

I've always known that Paul can make friends with anyone. His friends are from all walks of life in every age bracket, tax bracket, race, gender, sexual orientation and species. But being in Tahoe has taught me that he can also make friends with people on Mars, or otherwise known as the Tahoe local.

We've known each other for almost 9 years, been dating for almost 8 but tomorrow marks the 3rd anniversary of the Jubilee. Three years ago we got married on my grandmother's farm in front of our favorite people and instead of calling us "lucky" or that it was "meant to be," like we have nothing to do with it, like it just happened and we decided to play along; instead, I'm going to take tomorrow to do what I do everyday.

Being incredibly grateful for finding and keeping this man in my life.

I'm not lucky, I'm blessed. Yes.
(Thank you Nicki Minaj, for something.)

MLK Got Shot?! (and Other Epiphanies)

It was a rarely calm late Friday morning and unseasonably cloudy in my classroom. Usually sunshine pours through the half-wall of windows, but on that day it was quite dark. My students were working on a biography project that they were really enjoying (still not used to students enjoying anything about school). Sitting together and actually working quietly, one of the four eighth grade boys looked up in shock.

"Martin Luther King got shot?"

I had to pause and compose myself but my initial reaction was to burst out laughing. He said it so candidly like someone just posted it on Facebook and it had just happened. In his world, it was breaking news.

After thinking for a moment, I said, "Yes he was shot."

He looked horrified. "Why, what happened? Did they get the guy? That's so bad."

And so the rest of the boys chimed in on their projects.

"Adolf Hitler killed himself."

"I think Christopher Columbus just died like normal."

"My uncle died last year."

Before I had a chance to steer their conversation back to note-taking for their projects, the mood had changed with "my uncle died last year." The boys all looked at each other and started sharing their family death stories in quiet somber tones, saying their were sorry for each other's loss.
"It was really sad"
"I was there when he died"
I let it go as it seemed as though they were having a group therapy session. Very rarely serious, I'm glad I let them keep talking, as my shocked MLK JR. news alert student ended the conversation with,
"Sometimes I forget she's gone."

I felt a stirring in my stomach and blurted out, "Me too."
The boys looked at me curiously but eventually nodded in agreement and went back to work.

It was an absolutely amazing day in my teacher world.

I try really hard to remember my Grams. I wear her scarves, carry her bags, make sure I put on her ring before I leave in the morning. It always leads me to strange thoughts, like, "I should call her," and then realizing she's gone.

Through the turning of fall and on a particularly chilly morning, I rifled through my closet and stumbled upon one of her scarfs. I threw it on, whirling it around my neck like a swirly top of an ice cream cone and instantly felt just as fabulous as she looked. But inhaling twice, it shook me how much it still smelled like her. Before my eyes could fill up and before my bottom lip had a chance to even think about quivering, I immediately sprayed perfume on my neck to mask the smell. Pushed it back. Didn't have time. And instead of sitting with the sadness that one day I'll reach a moment where nothing else smells like her, I shook it off because I was scared of what it would do to me.

But it also prevented me from getting past the point of sadness and to the point of remembering.

Like the way she would always dress for an occasion with fancy outfits my grandfather carefully picked out for her and always looked so regal, even shopping for Womens World at Meijer.

Or that white cow creamer she would put out for cereal in the morning and how the milk would spill out of the cow's mouth and into my Raisin Bran like a cleverly sketched out cartoon. The rooster basket of biscuits at Thanksgiving that burst with bread when you lifted up either wing.

How there was always Pepsi and M&Ms coming out of the fridge at any moment.

The cautionary tales of getting worms if you eat cookie dough and getting sick if you stare into the microwave too long.

The way she would put her tongue in the side of her cheek if something was too hard to talk about, or if she was thinking in real deep about something.

How she swore that her pulse killed watches, even saving dead wrist clocks as a souvenirs.

Her need to do my laundry all the time when I was in college and always making sure I had quarters or nice linens.

I don't know where this notion of "ouch that hurts now you're fine forget about it be tough" comes from, but when applied to missing someone, it only makes it worse.

This pain, like any pain, can be forgotten, but it never gets better unless you sit with it for a while with faith that it will turn. If you don't, it'll come back with more, to remind you to deal with it, like a really mean snooze bar bossing you around and waking you up.

Because here's what: cry. It's fine. It's okay. It's actually pretty normal when you lose a Grams or a mom or a dad or a dog or a bird or a knee or someone you loved so much that the word "love" sounds way too small to how your heart feels. Dig in and be sad because that's the only way you get to the silly memories that make you smile and remember.

Maybe it's okay to forget that she's gone because that means I don't have to forget and she can stay with me a while longer.

It gets better when you're on that side. If you can make it through the hard part, your memories are the comfort that you need. Hang in there for that hug.

Exit to the Left and My New Title

Paul's alarm goes off like a fire drill: this horribly loud and offensive bell that makes you want to bury it in another state because you never want to hear it again. There is rarely a snooze or even a hesitation.

Everyday he gets up methodically at 5:00 a.m.

I linger, trying to pry my eyes open by making myself feel guilty for being lazy, or telling myself meaningless things like "You won't have time to do your hair," which hasn't mattered in months. I finally throw myself overboard and hunched over and grumpy, I schlump on the couch forcing one eye open to watch the news. Oatmeal's desperate squeaks force me off the couch and I finally get up for good to dash around the bedroom to find something not that wrinkled. We dance around each other with peanut butter butter knives and hot water into the French press and more snacks for the most spoiled pig in the world. Our clunky sleepy climb down from the second story boasts a large window and we steal glances of a sun thinking of rising and illuminating our "back yard." We kiss where my car ends and his Jeep begins. He goes south, I go north. I maneuver the steering wheel with stretched out sweater sleeves providing needed-layers between my hands and the ice cold wheel. Even in August, Tahoe mornings are chilly and remind you of fall. The sun still threatens a return, barely peeping over the mountains and sometimes there's a layer of fog on the lake. It looks like a postcard. This is my commute, Monday through Friday and everyday I feel lucky to be able to drive around such a beautiful landscape, regardless of how early or how many people are driving under the speed limit. I feel grateful and can't help but smile.

Until I reach the parking lot of my school. Then it all changes.

I fall out of my car with too many things in my arms that never seem like "too many things" when I leave my peaceful west shore apartment. When I finally reach my classroom, it always seems too messy, there are too many things to do, everything is too much. It's too quiet. It's too chilly. It's too, too, too and all I want to do is curl up with my coffee and read my "morning news" (social media).

I get there at 7 a.m. so I'm not there after, or on the weekends. I get there 40 minutes early in order to leave it all there. Everything that reminds me of teaching is no longer a part of me. I clock in at 7 and clock out at 11:15. I've compartmentalized Ms. Ronau in order to function. Because I can no longer stand it.

I am in teacher heaven. This is glaringly obvious based on the fact that the town I teach in is one of the most wealthiest places in the U.S. My students show up, stay awake, change their clothes regularly, do their homework and talk about mom AND dad at home. They aren't starving. They have their basic needs met. They listen. They respect me. They don't need me in a way that I've been needed for the past three years. I feel like I just started to teach. And there is still something missing. I still, frankly, don't care.

It's hard to care as part-time teacher when I'm still overloaded with the work of a full-time job. I'm still responsible for a 29 page self-assessment with a deadline of a week. I'm still responsible for scheduling IEP meetings on my planning, writing them on my planning, grading on my planning, lesson planning on my planning, joining a committee that meets after school and at the same time, striving to be a "highly effective teacher" based on if my students correct each other's behavior (yes, that is a real standard). Funny, because where I come from, if you correct the wrong kid's behavior, you better hope you don't ride the same bus home. Snitches get stitches and so does your little brother.

And I'm only paid for 7:30-11:15.

Real talk here: money does matter. The actual ACT of teaching is possibly one of the best things anyone can do and I'm lucky enough that it comes pretty natural to me. But I'm also not an idiot. I have a Masters in Education and work in a field that boasts one of the lowest paying occupations. Pair the lowest paid occupation with freezing teacher pay increases and it becomes glaringly obvious that if you can get out, do it. I didn't take a vow of poverty to become a teacher. I'm still paying back my student loans to an educational system that keeps asking more and more. Teacher license. CEU's. Classroom supplies. TIME. No wonder I don't want to get out of bed.

Fast forward to 11:15. I lock up my classroom and sprint out to my car and drive 8 minutes west. I wind up a drive right off of Mount Rose Highway and park in front of the office where I can see the lake, where it is quiet enough for me to process and decompress, where there is room to expand and think and take my time. After checking emails and answering voicemails, I start editing copy for our new website. My boss urges me to use the "session" room, where the lake view is more dramatic and plants dot the corners. She asks if I want some coffee, we take a break to enjoy it and I plug away. And into my 7th official day, my boss calls my new editions "brilliant." I breathe in really deep and try not to get too "crying girl" but it's all too much to realize your purpose after 29 years of being on that journey.

It's simple. I belong. And someone else agrees.

I've always told myself that jobs are supposed to "feel" like jobs. They're supposed to be slightly annoying; otherwise, TGIF wouldn't mean so much.

But when you ask your boss for a day off and she thanks you for bringing vacation energy to the office, what do you even do to that? (Also, do you say thank you to that?)

When she tells you that the universe brought you here and she's so thankful for your work, how does that make the weekend the best time?

I'm so grateful to be where I am at this exact moment, not wishing I was somewhere else, doing anything else, being in a different place in life.

Right now is the best time. 

"When I was younger, people would tell me, "You have a gift." I would say thank you. Now as I'm older, I see my gift as a responsibility. I was given this gift and if I don't use it, it means nothing." 
(Just one of the nuggets I receive daily. :)

Finding My Purpose and Digging into a West Shore Fall

The cool weather came in yesterday. In Tahoe, even in the midst of summer, once that sun goes down it's chilly. But now there is a slight chill in the air always. Tourons and cidiots have disappeared and the drive to work is much less taxing. It's quiet except for the sugared-up high schoolers at the Safeway on Friday nights, celebrating a Lakers Football win in the parking lot. Middle aged leather-skinned Raiders fans chat about football in the produce aisles and if you're wearing a Bay area sports team cap, you get to join in.

The aspens that line the downtown of each tiny city around the lake are starting to think about snoozing til spring. Their leaves are curling up a bit. The general store downstairs has new shorter hours and celebrated the end of a very long summer season with a bonfire live band party at the beach. Daytime seems like its getting faster and the night is slowing itself down. I'm perfecting a vegan pumpkin spice latte that I can make on lazy weekend mornings as Starbucks is too far and too burnt and too expensive to even consider. Sidenote: I guarantee my recipe is better. Serious.

It's so close to being fall. And all y'all can keep your Christmas to yourself. Fall is the most wonderful time of the year. And Tahoe is getting more beautiful with each passing calendar day.

I am a very far cry away from where I was a week ago. Missing home, craving familiarity, I had it in my head that we were headed home after this vacation year. I pinpointed the reason being that everyone has a story that lead them to Tahoe and an adjoining tale of what made them stay. I didn't feel like I had the latter, until Friday, my unofficial first day at my second job.

As premature as it sounds after only two days on the job, it's quite obvious that I am here to work for Aston Kinetics.

When I first met Judith and Brian, I instantly felt at ease. They both radiate positive energy so effortlessly that my first interview was nerve-free and quite enjoyable. I was excited about a job again, which was such a foreign feeling that I really didn't know how to process it. My first day included extensive Hawaii map review, meeting a registered nutritionist named Astiko, and realizing my lake view from my office. After catching up on office duties, I get the privilege of bringing Aston Kinetics to the world via social media, a challenge I get really amped up about, and something that spills into my spare time with lists and ideas and a really grateful heart.

Fall has always been my New Years: a chance to start over with sharpened pencils and new outfits. This fall is no different, except I feel completely new. Everything is different, but this time it feels right. I teach in the mornings with ease and I decompress in the afternoons in an office space that feels more like a retreat. I catch myself being brave, as when I want to speak in front of strangers, there is less of a shake and more of a firm anchor on the ground. I see my nerves resembling something much more substantial than noodles and try not to question it or understand it or really ask anything of it. I am trying to receive this gift as is, sometimes painful, sometimes nothing but blissful, but receive it fully. And as football heats up and baseball winds down, the pine trees shed their needles and pumpkins abound, my fall resolution is to show up, be present, and take care of this moment. And maybe get a haircut. It's quite overdue.

In a Foreign Country, California.

I haven't really ever heard so much chatter about the "midwest" until I moved to California. That makes sense as when you're living in something, you aren't really that reflective on where you legitimately are. But being so far away, literally and figuratively, I realize how much I reference where I'm from and why I'm proud of that.

In some ways, I feel like an ex-pat. There are so many differences that it's easy to long for something familiar. Sometimes Paul and I seek out "flat" hikes because it reminds us of our flat hiking days. We watch Michigan football every Saturday now and are still trying to find that perfect pizza place. But there is some power in being from the Midwest in that other Midwesterners seek you out like smartly trained hound dogs.

Serious. Many of my co-workers hail from back East and they always talk about the "Midwestern work ethic" with raised eyebrows. They pat me on the arm and say, "I'm so glad you brought some Midwestern normalcy here." So I decided to dig deeper into this as my "Midwestern work ethic" is just how it is and has never had a clarifying title until now. Fascinating.

The laid back California attitude is real. It's refreshing after living inside the anxious rush of the city without really realizing it until I had something to compare it to. But when you're hungry and your waiter is taking her time getting to your table, it's hard to not get impatient. Then you remember that Tahoe Time is a real thing. 

It's not that people are lazy or rude or don't care about your well being: it's that time doesn't really matter to anyone. No matter how hard I try to adopt this, I still feel a pull in my head of what my mother always used to tell me: if you're early, you're on time, if you're on time you're late and if you're late then.....you're rude and you messed up. 

Kairos is an ancient Greek word meaning the right or opportune moment (the supreme moment). The ancient Greeks had two words for time: chronos and kairos. While chronos refers to measurable or chronological time, kairos signifies a time in between, a moment of indeterminate time in which something special happens. What the special something is depends on who is using the word. While chronos is quantitative, kairos has a qualitative nature.

Chronos time is why we wear watches, what our alarm clocks are for. It's the ticking of the second hand, the hope of 4:59 being the fastest minute of the day. Chronos is what we live our lives by and what the pulse of the city runs on.

Kairos time lives on the outskirts of chronos. It's metaphysical. Kairos doesn't have any rules, it's where flow happens, it's playing outside for what seems like hours, when you forget that time means something. Kairos can't be measured.

It's possible that Tahoe locals strive to live in kairos time, where flow happens, things occur naturally  nothing is forced and everything fits. But my Midwestern sensibility and maddening, eternal search for balance makes me want to counteract kairos with a measured sense of planning and task analysis. Especially when you're making me an ice cream sundae.

And for that reason, maybe the Californians need me and I need them.

I mean, it's okay to be an organized planner with a label maker and a meal plan for the week. But sometimes you gotta live in kairos, if only to save your brain. So here is what these crazy people have taught me, so far. 

Take for instance the trustafarian (trust fund Rastafarian). This type of local is who Paul is lucky to work with. Normally hailing from an affluent part of the West Coast, Trustafarians are facing their first job at 23 and spend their money on party fuel and rocking green, black and red on everything, even their brand new Volvo station wagon. They are mellow, even if they have to fake it and love saying "Ja live" as much as it naturally fits in casual conversation. Generally ski bums, they're taken care of as long as they hold a steady job, from conservation in the summer to lifties in the winter. They often take frequent cat naps on their breaks and call off to attend Phish concerts. Now most Midwesterners would call this lazy and spoiled. But in reality, trustafarians are just ripping life, taking chances and being young. Not everyone has an endless supply of money, but what we can learn from these guys is that it feels good to throw caution to the wind and not follow your meal planner. Just put the label maker down and don't put your laundry away for two days and go for a hike. You can be both. You can be spontaneous and you can be a planner. It's possible.

Another stereotype is the quintessential "California hippie," also known as "Did you just roll out of Burning Man on a VW bus?" or better yet, "Did you hitckhike from Portland?" These guys are as mellow as they come and push the lines of "free spirit." I found two in our local grocery store without shoes. The man was dreaded out and crouching, carefully reviewing the paper towels and the woman had blonde, black, green stripes on her hair that looked spray painted on in circles that started from her crown and progressed down to the ends. She was wearing overalls over her swimsuit and was examining a gigantic zucchini which she proceeded to bench press over her head a couple of times and then attempted to rest its beak in her overall pockets. They had absolutely no idea we were in the same aisle. I find value in their ability to not care what anyone thinks about them and respect their commitment to testing their vegetables before purchase and consumption. Also, who needs shoes?! 

Next we have the bro-brah. Often ending all sentences with "bro" or "brah," these dudes are bossy and they like to poke fun at you when you're failing at what they're ripping. If found on the ski slopes, they range from five year olds screaming "AVALANCHE!" at novice adult skiiers to thirty year olds screaming "YARD SALE!" at a skiier who just wiped out and had their skiis and poles fly everywhere. It took me a long time to find any wisdom in these dudes, but it came to me on a hike on Saturday where I encountered four of them, roughly middle school age.
We we nearly to the summit of Mount Tallac, and with my legs completely exhausted and hardly enough will to keep moving, four bro-brahs barrelled down the trail that we were climbing and yelled, "ONLY THREE MORE HOURS TO GO! YOU'RE NOT EVEN CLOSE!" My newly acquired middle school teaching skills rolled off my tongue faster than I could think about it and I replied, "really guys? REALLY?" I wanted to stop and lecture them about being friendly, but they were running down the mountain imparting their advice to the next group of tired, weary hikers behind us. And I'm glad I didn't. 
Bro-brahs are around us so we remember that it's not that serious. We don't have to be so intense and focused on what we're doing. We can laugh at ourselves when we fall and nothing will happen. And while I have absolutely no idea how to do this sometimes, I envy bro-brahs for doing it so effortlessly.

Through my homesickness, I created some projects for my Directed Studies class that involved talking about the pros and cons of your community. I modeled this by talking about Michigan and ended up showing them a brochure on the Pure Michigan website.
It included pictures of Sleeping Bear, fall color and apple picking and I got sad. I flipped through the rest of the pictures and one of my students raised her hand and said, "Go back Ms. Ronau. That's beautiful!" 
My heart swelled with pride.
"I know! Michigan is great!"
We went on to making a brochure of our favorite things about our communities and while I peered over their shoulders, I realized how similar Tahoe and Michigan are. 

They say that when you're in a foreign place, your brain makes connections on familiarity. You see doppelgangers. You compare and contrast what you're familiar with. And although it's been really hard to find anything similar with mountains and altitude and unfamiliar faces, sometimes I realize I'm not that far away from home. We've found a favorite restaurant in Char-Pit, enjoy our Sunday laundry and grocery shopping routine and still watch as much baseball as humanly possible. There is the changing of the seasons, rather dramatically in the winter, there are trips to Target for school supplies, there are lazy Sunday mornings watching HGTV and eating cold pizza. With each new routine created, it's easy to see that maybe my home isn't a physical place. Maybe it's just being comfortable in routine, looking forward to the weekend, NPR on the way to work and bad pop music on the way home.

I'm trying but I'm not fully convinced. Here's to keeping an open mind and not crying when bro-brahs make fun of my yard sale moments this winter.

Far Away, Home Sweet Home and a Permanent Vacation

At school today, I asked the kids to help decorate the room in Directed Studies. Since we are on blocked scheduling due to testing, I had them for double the time. So we made pictures.

We talked about who we were. I gave them a sheet filled with the prompt "I am" and they had to come up with as many words as they could to finish "I am." When I modeled examples, it hurt my insides.

"I am a teacher."
"I am a writer."
"I am married."
"I am from Michigan."
"I am a daughter."
"I am an aunt."
"I am a sister."

The kids silently (still not used to that) got to work right away. And I thought about my list and how far away it feels to be an aunt, a sister, a daughter, from Michigan.

Ever since my first bout of homesickness, it hasn't totally gone away. In the absence of a naive "permanent vacation" state of mine, there are now brand new feelings that are completely foreign.

I want a house, a baby and I want to grow beets in my garden.

Before moving, none of these things were in my five year plan and now, all of a sudden, I feel like I need all of these things at the same time. Right now. Or maybe even two days ago. Each day in Tahoe brings new challenges, from feeling like a spoiled ungrateful idiot that can't enjoy living ON Lake Tahoe because my heart feels torn, desperately wanting  to be back where I was born, to being blown away by new sights from new hikes, drives, adventures that makes the heart pain lessen and relaxes my brain that feels the knee-jerk reaction to analyze where in the world I belong and what in the world I'm supposed to be doing. Most days, I feel pretty crazy and crave some sort of direction to tell me where to go, what to do, or at least how to get to a place where I feel somewhat confident making a decision on the upcoming years.

Everyone says it gets better and tells me to enjoy my time. It's been easy until a job grounded me in a life here. All of the scary parts that weren't a part of my reality before moving have settled into my gut now, three months later. With 30 looming, so many things I thought I'd accomplish by now seem far away, or maybe not even possible. Will I ever feel at home in a place? Will we ever find a house we can afford? Will we ever find those careers that make us at least fulfilled and somewhat happy most of the time?

And then I read this:

5 Lies Every Twentysomething Needs to Stop Believing

(Okaaaaay, if you don't want to read it, I'll paraphrase it for you.)

Here's a lie:
I should be successful now.

"Success is not a sprint, it’s an Ironman marathon, and our twenties aren't really about running the actual race. No, our twenties are simply about building our endurance so that we can run the race in the future."

But this really resonated with me:
Life is Not Turning Out Like it Was Supposed To

"Well, kind of. Yes, life is not turning out like it was supposed to, but what the heck is supposed to? There is no supposed to. Supposed to is a lie. Supposed to is built on the perception of someone else’s perceived success.

Live your life right now exactly as it is and do your best to keep moving forward into where you want to go. That’s what you’re supposed to do."

The dream of Tahoe was that everything was going to be perfect. Didn't happen. Instead, coming to Tahoe revealed everything I have been burying in work, a bloated social schedule, and forgetting to take time for myself. As drastic as it was, being here has showed me what I want and what I need. I want to be a writer and I want a family. The details of all of that are a bit maddening. Being a planner, I want to organize our future life: I want to see it, I want to meet my future son or daughter, I want to be a part of a life that we can settle into and it's hard to see any of that happening so far away from home. But instead of skipping to the end, pretending I have a crystal ball brain, my anxiety of being homesick is about  not being able to control the future. SO many things need to happen before we're able to even think about houses and babies and dogs and beet gardens, and things as important as making humans should be approached with as much patience as I can muster.

Being in a perfect place doesn't make everything perfect. Your problems morph into new ones and if you don't figure it out, you'll end up bouncing around the universe trying to figure out why a place doesn't provide you with perfection. So instead of focusing so much on loving where I am physically, I think it's also time to start enjoying where I am in my life. I am 29, I'm healthy, I'm in love with a man who is not only kind, funny, smart, genuine and loves Oatmeal but he's also as handsome as they come, I get to see him every single day, I get to laugh til my stomach hurts when we're driving home from dinner on Saturday nights, I have a job I don't hate, I have mountains involved in my daily commute, I get to go to the beach while doing laundry, I have an amazing apartment, I'm somehow able to afford this life easily and I have so much road ahead of me. So many things are unwritten and possibilities abound. There is going to be a point in our lives where we may not be able to say that anymore.

I miss so many things. I miss belonging to a state, I miss people knowing where in the world Toledo, Ohio is, I miss people understanding why I show the world where I'm from on the back of my left hand. But the best thing about being from a place is that, although it may change, it never moves. It'll always be there. At least I still know my way home. At least I still have that.

Middle School and Ms. Ronau

During my first period of my first day in middle school, there were seven brand new faces staring at brand new trapper keepers and neon mechanical pencils, fussing with their brand new Chucks, foot over foot over nervous little foot, wavering their empty stares on their brand new teacher to brand new trapper keeper to brand new teacher. That's all they did. They just stared. I cracked jokes to ease the tension and they giggled politely. I gave them talk time at the end of the period, which they used to continue staring. When I asked them to complete a "Getting to Know You" assignment, the class was silently working like I've never seen any set of kids in my care ever do.

While I'm still trying to process this intense transition from elementary insanity to big kids who know how to write words (like why are these kids different? Is it a cultural difference, socioeconomic difference, is it because they get to see the sun 333 days a year?), I say, with an awareness of a honeymoon phase, that I am in love with where I am. For so many reasons. In so many ways.

I get 48 minutes of planning per day. I have 7 kids on my caseload. I don't have more than 10 kids in my class at once and they leave after 48 minutes. My students can write their name. They are only two grade levels behind. They know how to read a lot of things. They aren't hungry or tired or emotionally bankrupt. They write words like "important" and "problem" without asking how to spell it. They don't have to wear a uniform, so they look like "kids," not disheveled Target workers with milk stains on their khakis. And anything I put in front of them, they do it, they don't refuse, they don't question me or rip up their work, they don't hide under their desk and throw crayons at the ceiling. When they get chatty, I ask them to stop and they apologize and stop. When they are making weird eyes at each other, I just look at them and they stop. When they're doodling on their notebook, I just walk over and stand by them and they stop. All of the things I've learned about teaching work here. Except for my 8th grade boys.

My last period of the day is ELA with 4 8th grade boys. They've all been friends for a while, play soccer together after school and are not interested in anything but soccer. Including me. 

That's not to say that they aren't respectful. They're a ton of fun and have already invited me to their soccer games and abide by my rules, besides constantly talking the whole time (still struggling with this being a "real" problem). But in some ways I feel like they've already given up. They've already learned everything they're capable of learning. Which translates into them just wanting to come into my room and "hang out" and ask me about my "different last name." It's a new challenge to be presented with very respectable, likable students that are completely unmotivated for other reasons besides their basics needs not being met.  And I can't wait to figure them out.

I've been warned about a particular student. At this point, that's just part of my job as a sped teacher. They say he's the worst. And my head is like, "Wow, I just get one this year?" Ah, perception. 

There will be challenges like any year with any teacher, but I'm pretty sure I'm meant to be a middle school teacher. Especially in a district that gives us a week off in October and February as those are the very two months that always make me question why I'm still doing this.

And now, sound bytes from Room 203.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I want to play soccer in Barcelona.

I want to be a doctor, ship builder and pilot.

I want to create new technology.

I want to be a computer programmer and baseball pitcher.

I want to be a firefighter (female student!)
I want to be a paleontologist.

Me: "I grew up in Michigan."
Student: "Like Detroit, Michigan? Do you know Eminem?"

Me: "Write down two facts about you and one lie."

Student: "I like pizza, I like soccer, I broke my grandmother's hand."

Me: "Now what do you want to know about me?"

Student: "Do you know what "swag" means? Because I use that word a lot."

To be continued......

"And I'm not pretending that it's all OK, Just let me have my coffee before you take away the day."

It's been a nonstop life change since Thursday morning. Nonstop. A huge departure of where I've been and what I've been up to since June. But it was exciting. My interview lasted 20 minutes and I received a job offer 10 minutes later. Then it was a rush to get licensed in Nevada, all before Paul and I left for Sacramento.  I was excited about having a moment, just the smallest bit of pomp and circumstance for the end of a long road back to teaching. Celebration would happen this weekend. We were picking up Paul's best friend from the Bay.

Josh has more energy all day then I do after my 4th cup of coffee. He's funny, charismatic and has been Paul's best friend since 3rd grade. They're so opposite that it's literally cartoonish but they both turn into 12- year-olds when they're around each other. And we were excited to show our first house guest all about Tahoe.

The transition from the highway to the mountains is always killer, but having a first-timer around really points out how great your everyday view is. He took so many pictures, said "Wow" so many times that it reminded me of  my first time in Tahoe. And a year and a half after my first ascension into the Tahoe National Forest, I felt like I was on vacation in my own mountain town, again. Even more so when we floated the Truckee River, shopped for magnets and keychains and ate out almost every meal. And when we headed back to the Bay for the Oakland/Indians showdown at the Coliseum, it felt like the finale activity to a great California vacation.

We sat in front of a pair of very old men. I say that with their confirmation that they were "very old." They talked baseball like pros and Josh couldn't help but lean back and start a conversation. Decked out in Cleveland gear, he explained his position.
"I'm from Ohio."
"That right?"
"Yeah he's been an A's fan forever. Been friends since 3rd grade."
"And you've stayed friends all these years, eh?"

I looked over at those crazy Bedford boys. They were beaming at these old timers stories and matching up baseball events to times in their lives.
"Remember that earthquake during the World Series? We had to get underneath our desks at work."
"No way! I remember watching that on a little black and white TV in my bedroom."
Time had not lapsed between Paul and Josh. They were still in Bedford playing baseball in the streets and laughing at farts. It connected me to my home, my story, and I smiled at their history. I loved Josh even more for loving Paul for so long and so simply, just like when they were kids.

We pulled up to Josh's hotel and as we helped him unload his baggage out of the trunk, I felt extremely strange. Wait, we're staying? We're not all flying back to Toledo, back to our lives and family and jobs? I know it seems insane since I've been here for over two months, but suddenly everything even looked different. The California license plate on the back of my car looked out of place. The flat drive into the mountains felt like we were going the wrong way. And the sleepy dark turn into our parking space wasn't comforting at all. This is home? This is where we live?

I felt something strange in my gut. Something I have not felt, maybe, ever?
I wanted to see my dad.
I wanted to go to the Attic with Tim and Becky and Brandon and Pat.
I wanted Book Club at Landrus' house outside in the sunshine with Mamma Landrus sandwiches.
I wanted to wear a Mudhens hat without feeling like a stranger.
I was officially homesick.

And the mountains deflated. The lake dried up. The forest fell behind a veil of fog and everything felt average. Droopy. Sad. All I wanted was to pack up our life in one anxious rush and go live in my dad's basement and pick tomatoes from my grandmother's garden. Having Josh around highlighted all of the things I love about the Midwest: nonstop baseball games, family reunions, the farm. I desperately craved familiarity, a sense of belonging and a need to feel some sort of direction in my life, where I'm headed, what I'll be, where I'll be, when is it time for dogs and houses and babies? As the dust settled of an incredibly fun and emotionally draining weekend, I sulked on my last day of summer. The sky was cloudy all day, so rare for Tahoe, and it furthered my funk. So I officially started looking for reasons to quit.

But, what would I do? Really. After I hugged my dad and got a little crazy at how tall Felix got since June, what would I do? After I shook out being homesick, where would I go to make it make sense?

See, that stirring in your heart when you see people leave your hometown, when you see their mountain pictures, that mix of jealousy and a lack of understanding why, it just may be the same feeling of missing an old version of yourself. That's how I feel when I see pictures of Erie Orchards, when I see that it's my grandmother's birthday and I can't be there, when I see aunt and nephew standing side by side with silly faces on. That homesickness that people always talk about is just feeling out of place, misplaced, desperately wanting to belong somewhere, where ever that is. And family. Man, it's hard not to be around your family.  I don't feel like I've ever fit in anywhere, and maybe that's just my cross to bear. But it's something to know every turn of a town, every street sign, where the good pizza is, why there's a dip in the road. It feels good to belong. It feels good to have roots.

But nothing stays the same, even in a town that you've been in all your life. And as Tahoe yoga has taught me, being continually thrown out of the nest is to live. Except I'm kind of sick of being thrown out. I'm really wishing that I could stay put for a while, somewhere. Anywhere.

Where ever I land, it's going to take more than two months to make my own history. And in the meantime, living on Lake Tahoe in the mountains with a possible dream job in hand and my hus-friend home every night for dinner isn't a terrible way to spend this next year. Here's to hoping it all makes sense, someday soon.

Fishing for Jobs and Going Hungry

In Tahoe, shopping for jobs is a very funny experience. It almost makes you forgot that fall is looming, you're running out of money and have no idea what to do with your life. Hash tag quarter life crisis. Although I am no longer 25.

Job postings vary from normal:

"Wanted: experienced front desk receptionist willing to work weekends and holidays."

To funny:

(Filed under marketing) 

"If you're able to tell a good joke then this job is for you. MUST BE A HAPPY PERSON."

(Filed under ETC.)
"Looking for someone with fine dining experience, famililar with yoga and indie rock music i.e. Foo Fighters. Must be bilingual as well. Living in the South Lake Tahoe area is beneficial. Please contact Roy."

To very Northern California: 

"This position requires weekends until mid October. THIS INCLUDES BURNING MAN."

"Local vegan food truck in need of a part time prep cook."

Since June, I've Namaste-d about it, went on hikes when I received the pathetic feeling-inducing "we regret to inform you" business via email, turned off my phone on weekends just to not be obsessed with checking my spam folder every 14 minutes. But now, after a lot of Namaste-ing and so much hiking and turning off my phone and turning it back on, I need to go back to work. Summer is over and I'm starting to panic.

I know what you're going to say because I've said it to myself. It's fiiiiiiine. I'm fiiiiiiiine. I just haven't found the right position. It will be fiiiiine. But it's okay when it's not fine, and it's worse trying to pretend that things are fine. Things are not fine. I want a job and I also need a job. And everything is starting to look partly to mostly cloudy because of it. So I sucked it up and I went on a teaching interview.

I didn't want to. The application process was a bear and just thinking about teaching a 10 minute lesson to 6 adult strangers sent my nerves overboard. I talked it to death on our Sunday evening hike and even contemplated staying at the coffee shop that I was lingering in an hour before the interview. But I did it. And I nailed it.

I received some very good advice from my life coach/amazing friend on Friday night. She told me that being confident is about playing a part: Business Lady. You tell yourself that you have every right to be here and that you're amazing and you're all business all the time until you can go home and talk to your guinea pig in squeaks.

But it was amazing how much it worked. I literally transformed from this:

       This lady can't leave her house and has 1.5 friends: her dad and guinea pig.



To this:

 

This lady gets stuff done, tucks in her shirts and wears belts. Like a boss.

In the videotaped group discussion, I took charge of the conversation with ease. I volunteered to teach my lesson first and presented with distinction, confidence, kindness and excellent time management. I participated in others' lessons and complimented them on their well-planned lessons and teaching skills. I lessened the tension by talking about Oatmeal and making the evaluators giggle. Frankly, I killed it. And it felt good to get some success after hearing "no" so much since I've been here.

The one-on-one part was a breeze and ended with the recruiter offering to email a principal for me at the middle school closest to me. Okay, I said passively. Talking to the principal today, she told me I come highly recommended from Human Resources. My site interview is on Thursday. Time to re-iron my Business Lady pants and start the process of talking myself into leaving the house......because, here's the plot twist: I don't care?

The problem is that I figured I would have a job by now, doing something else. I want to write. I want to be in an office setting again. I want to obsessively use post-its without having to adhere to state and federal insanity to manage children. I desperately need a break to figure out what I want to do with my life and doing something else, even for a year, would be just that. If it's terrible and I miss the kids, I go back and I teach. If I love it and don't want to leave, then I would've figured something out that I think I deserve to figure out.

So I guess I have a decision to make. I can teach at a middle school part time in the mountains 30 minutes away, or I can wait and apply for more marketing, social media, office jobs while my checking account externally hemorrhages. The middle school position leaves me available to do something else, whatever that else is I don't know, but it's also foreign territory. I know Sponge Bob and puppets: what do middle school kids even like?

With every transition in my life, I've always met it with such emotional anguish. Good, bad, weird, uncomfortable, indifferent, it has always been so hard for me. But here's a Tahoe lesson for you: patience. It's obviously not the time to completely change careers. For some reason, I'm not ready for it. And I think it's going to take time to figure out the why, but until then I'm going to keep blogging and possibly be able to dip my toe into some sort of "something" else on my afternoons off. I have no idea what that's going to be, but I hope it's something that doesn't involve food, hospitals or pet grooming.

My bleeding heart to teach in the inner city is gone. Maybe it's not a terrible thing to not feel like a martyr and just have a job: something that pays me and that I like, but not something that takes all of my emotional power and leaves me with a bad attitude and a drinking problem. Maybe this job will show me that balance and that it's possible to have a healthy teaching job. Is that possible? I have very high doubts but I'm willing to give it a whirl. My bank account and morale need a boost.

And sidenote: The thought of having to come up with something for a bulletin board makes me want to leave my Business Lady pants on the trouser hanger. Real talk.

Climb That Goddamn Mountain.

So when you're sad or stressed about that student loan or feel weird about turning 30, it's time to hike.

Is it possible that depression is a problem for people that can't hike? I'm starting to think so. I've been creating a nice routine where the weekends are filled with the outdoors: a magical land with which I can ignore emails and schedules and alarm clocks and unanswered phone calls. Sorry, I'm in the mountains and they don't care about wifi or cell phone coverage. It's out of my hands.

The weekend of the 4th, Paul and I set out to meet Eve and Alex for a backpacking night on the Rim Trail. 175 miles around the lake. Incredible views, sharp ascensions up those mountains and spectacular backcountry camping. Eve and Alex started the Rim Trail last summer and planned on finishing the last bit that weekend. We decided to join them for their last night, so we hiked from Grass Lake trailhead to Armstrong Pass and back. 14 miles round trip with elevation inclines of 1300 feet and 15-30 pounds of weight strapped to our backs.

We were so excited the night before that we couldn't sleep. We planned on making a really good breakfast, packing the last of our supplies, feeding Oatmeal and heading out. Grass Lake trailhead is south of South Lake Tahoe, so it would take us at least an hour to get there. And once we parked the Jeep, it felt like a holiday.

Strapped into our packs, we headed out and the incline started right away. We started out at 10:40 a.m. and didn't plan on meeting Eve and Alex until 6:30 at Armstrong Pass trailhead. It was 7 miles away and we allotted 7.5 hours, 1/2 hour for lunch and hiking around 1 mile per hour to account for our weight, altitude changes and plenty of water breaks. (It's easy to get dehydrated around here. I've done it laying on the couch.) So I sucked it up and leaned into my hiking stick, taking short steps, pausing slightly when I needed a drink from my Camelbak, and plowed through.

If you are not a hiker, maybe you don't get it. I will show you why....

The first vista.

With every new step, there was another incredible view around the corner.

We passed scores of polite mountain bikers asking where we were headed. "Toads" was on the way to our camping spot so all the bikers were inevitably headed there. 8 miles of downhill insanity, "Toads" is a trail named after the Disneyland ride "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride." I watched as some of them flew down that thing with marked intensity. I relished the fact that I was not on two wheels and kept on cruising.

We started getting into a rhythm and the miles melted away. Adrenaline pumped as the excitement of what was next increased. My shoulders stopped aching. My mind quieted. I was completely enamored with the mountains and trees and climbing life partner. This was amazing.

The map showed us way ahead of schedule and nearing our campsite soon. We picked up the pace, excited about killing our first hike and inevitably saw Eve's Big Truck hat sitting at the Armstrong Pass trailhead. I couldn't help but yell, "HEY!!!!"

My watch read 3:30. We were 3 hours early.

She was obviously surprised to see us so soon as they had just arrived from climbing the tallest peak in the Basin, Freel (it's for real). I was giddy to unload my pack but as I sat down for the first time since lunch, I realized how completely exhausted I was and that my feet were on fire.

We planned our campsite out just before the edge of a drop. The site was incredible.

Our "kitchen" stayed quite a ways from our sleeping quarters and before we planned on dinner, Alex volunteered to show us how to hang a bear bag.

So bears don't eat you.

Just kidding.

So bears don't nose around in your tent or pack for food, you place all of your food or any scented items in a bag and hang them from a tree limb that bears won't be able to reach. Alex instructed us to find a baseball-sized rock to tie onto one side of the rope in order to throw it over a limb. He tossed his with perfection and double-dutched the other side of the rope over a tricky part of the limb with tons of tinier limbs obstructing his pulley. After a couple more maneuvers, Alex's rope hung down with equal parts at arms length. It was Paul's turn to throw his rock and Alex and I watched with excitement as he baseball overhanded it......completely over the limb. He threw it so hard the other end went with it. He just threw it too good. It eventually got twisted around tiny limbs that we gave it up and put all of our food into one Blackhawks drawstring bag.

Next was water. We needed to find a source of water as we needed cooking water and drinking water for the hike out the next day. Paul went on a short hike down and found a great little stream with a perfect tiny waterfall within arms reach. After filtering it, the water was still so cold it felt like it came out of the refrigerator. Fresh mountain spring water is so good.

After cooking up our Easy Mac and Ramen, we changed into our jams and retired for the night. I don't ever remember being so tired, and sore, and tired.

Night got dark, quick. It was so quiet I could barely fall asleep. And, bears. Every crackle of sticks, or the tiniest break in the thick quiet, I conjured up a bear alert in my head. I didn't sleep well. Sunrise came quicker than the sunset and we were both up, exhausted and hungry.

Eve and Alex brought a percolator, thank God, and with a camping pot full of coffee, I was ready to go. The next 7 miles were harder than the first. We were tired, hungry, dirty, and ready to eat all of the things. We all talked about our post-hiking meal: an epic eating binge at a local eatery, MacDuff's. Paul would have pizza. I would have nachos. We would just eat. It was getting us through an early morning.

We set out around 8:25. Save a few breaks, we were on a pretty fast hike. Two hours in, we stopped for a short water break. Alex turned on his Jawbone speaker and cranked out Daft Punk for some morale boosting. It worked. We danced-hiked our way to the end, and at exactly 12:45, we marked the beginning of our backcountry camping in Tahoe, and the end of their long 175 mile section-hike of the Tahoe Rim Trail.

And MacDuff's was epic in all ways. We ate all their food and happily lounged on their patio until we were certain it was time to take a nap.

Two weekends ago, we decided go "car camping" which means "put all of your gear in your Jeep and park next to your tent." We have two sets of camping gear, lightweight and "it's okay if it's heavy" car-ready camping stuff, which seemed really insane living in Ohio but makes absolute perfect sense in Tahoe.

Paul's coworkers boasted beautiful camping trip stories one Monday morning from a place called Blue Lakes, south of South Lake. We set out on a Friday morning and with fresh groceries, we landed here.

This is what perfection looks like on a Friday afternoon. Real talk.

After fishing and starting a new book, we were eager to get dinner going and have a nice campfire as campfires are not allowed without having a fire ring. How is it summer if your hair and favorite hoodie don't smell like a bonfire?

 

(This is Paul's favorite thing to do: sit around a fire and chop logs into smaller pieces and then carefully find a stick to poke the fire with, which he leaves for the next campers.)


After lots of veggie dogs, chips and passing around a bottle of sangria (it's our camping tradition), we played a modified version of the Celebrity game and listened to our camping neighbors huskies fight each other with a mild sense of danger. But there is something about sitting around a fire, dodging the smoke and getting closer to it as the night inches in. With our heads back, feet up and eyes towards the billions of stars, it was hard to even imagine having half of a worry. This was all ours, if only for that night.

Nature is magical. It heals, it prevents emotional scarring and it has the ability to force you into being in the moment. And in the words of the mighty Jack Kerouac, "Because in the end, you won't remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that Goddamn mountain."

My Most Embarrassing Moment and The Lack of Any Nerve

I quit ballet in 4th grade because I peed all over the floor. I tell people that I quit to play softball but it was really because I peed my leotard in the studio. Truth bomb.

It's not that being a Longfellow Honey Bear softball player was terrible. I really enjoyed softball, especially since my dad was such a good dad-coach and would always ensure that I ran first base out. I was pretty fast seeing as though I was tiny but I really really loved ballet. I loved how light I felt flying in the air and how easy it was for me to pick up routines. My first dance recital was amazing, all decked out in a green tutu. We were the "Dancing Emeralds" and I felt like a star. I also got moved up to the older class after my first year. Nailed it.

My first ballet instructor was a mild mannered 30-something named Mary. She talked just like a kindergarten teacher and was extremely relaxed and easy. I don't remember her face, but when I think about my first year of ballet, Miss Mary has a sunshine happy face where her face should be in my memories. When there were new positions to learn, she always paired it with a funny story to remember.
"Now when you're in first position, pretend your feet are holding down a long wriggly fish. Don't let that fish wiggle you out of position!"
And we would giggle and she would giggle and then it was back to business. I loved her like I loved my Sunday school teachers, because like them, she radiated sunshine and candy canes and glitter and she smelled like Hair Insurance, hair stuff my mom used. But as she prepared for some of our transition to her younger sister's class, she warned us.
"Miss Cassandra expects her students to be serious about ballet. She can seem mean but she's really just preparing you to be great. And never ever ask to use the restroom. Go to the bathroom before her classes. She won't let you go." (She didn't add that she resembled that of the Rat King from The Nutcracker.)
I didn't listen. On a Thursday while we were practicing leaps, I had to go, bad. With each leap, it got worse and worse. And finally, on the landing, I peed. All over a corner of the studio floor.

I looked around like a wild junkyard dog, but no one noticed at first.
In a panic, I stood behind my guilty puddle and screamed, "CAN I GO TO THE BATHROOM?"" holding myself like kindergarten potty dancers. Cassandra looked baffled, then narrowed her rat face stare.
She let out a firm "Ok....." as she lowered her gaze and before she could lecture me, I ran as fast as I could to the nearest bathroom.

I closed the door and thought of a plan. I'm sick? I'll go to the office and call my mom? I surveyed my leotard and praised Jesus that the pale pink hid the pee pee stain extremely well. As I opened the bathroom door to peek out, Mary was waiting.

She was genuinely sunshiney-happy to see me.

"Hi Sarah! How's it going in Cassandra's class?"

I turned beet red and stayed silent. I didn't know what to say.

"You better hurry back, You don't want to miss her class!"

Mortified, I walked back to the studio, and there it was: 15 she-devils in slick-backed buns investigating the corner of the studio, pointing their pink-slippered hooves ominously at a puddle. My puddle. They snapped their stiff donut hair to the door and narrow-eyed-stared as I entered the room. Cassandra, her nose getting pointier and black hair getting blacker, stood at their helm.
Cassandra lifted her head gracefully toward me, like a wicked evil swan. If Miss Mary sneezed rainbow and glitter glue, Miss Cassandra coughed up flat bike tires and the avian flu.
"Class......did someone have an accident?"
She stared me down, and the rest of the mean pink tutu eyes never left me.
"Class.....raise your hand, did someone pee on the floor here?"
Still staring.
I started sobbing and raised my elbow, then my forearm and just stared at the floor.
"It's okay," Cassandra said.

NO IT'S NOT OKAY I PEED ON THE FLOOR LIKE A DOG.

I looked up to see Miss Cassandra's arms crossed, and her eyes never broke its squint on me.

"Now go on to the secretary and ask her to clean this up."

Without skipping a beat, she floated towards the record player and steadied the needle.

"Places ladies!!" She clapped twice and the bun heads sprang into a head-bending swirl of pink hues.

I ran out of the room and hid in the foyer which turned out to be the worst hiding place as my mom never got the message to pick me up early. So when Miss Cassandra closed up shop on her Thursday night class, her wild pack of nasties walked by me and stared, some of them offering up evil laughs. I never went back.

I wasn't that afraid of Miss Cassandra, although she was tough, led an entire class to be tough by being mean and didn't offer up the slightest bit of sympathy. It was then I realized how extremely mean your peers can be. Before class, I was yukking it up with at least half the class that I called friends for at least one whole season with Miss Mary. And after peeing on the floor like a badly potty-trained 3 year old, I was lower than dirt. I was that girl: the one that picks out her ear wax and eats it or the weird boy who wears the same shirt and smells like cat spray and barks at you during recess. Being a social outcast for the first time scarred me. So I naturally cut my losses and put my energy into elementary school softball, where my teammates only knew my rocket-like speed and that my mom designed a very popular and lovable Honeybears jersey shirt two seasons in a row. But I always regret not sucking it up and going back. I loved dancing. I still do. And I always wonder what I would've done and how far I could've gotten in ballet.  What was I scared of, going back to Miss Cassandra's studio? I had already done the absolute worst: what else could've possibly happened?

Someone says that failing isn't falling down, it's not getting back up. I failed at ballet, not because I peed on the floor, but because I didn't go back and tell all those terrible little jackwagons to eat my tutu and nail the rest of the leap class. But social situations have never been easy for me. And I guess that's why I leave friendships high and dry that aren't perfect or find it hard to return phone calls, even to my most favorite people in my life, because somewhere in the depths of my memory hallways, it won't matter in the end because they will eventually leave me after I commit social suicide, somehow, someway. I don't know what the 29 year old equivalent of peeing on the floor when you're in elementary school is but I never want to figure it out. (It's probably peeing on the floor.)

If you're me as a tiny green dancing thing, you never ballet dance again until you're in college and get a B- because you can't nail that stupid leap. You're a lot more than 42 pounds lurching in the air and your tutu isn't cute (it's really stupid). If you're me as a 29 year old, half-laughing at my pee story, half-saddened by my stunted Juilliard dream-deferred, you're annoyed that your nerves never used to exist, and even if you have nerves of noodles now, at least they are nerves. At least they exist. And that's better than where you've been.

Cidiots, Tourons and Bad Juju

I'm happy to report that I am officially 29, with all of my adult teeth intact, mildly sick with a bout of stomach unhappiness (self-inflicted - went H.A.M. on birthday treats), settling into real life with noodle nerves that seem to hover around al dente these days. Someday, they will be uncooked for longer bouts than a few hours and include areas outside my couch perimeter. I'm working on it.

It seems that stranger danger doesn't really exist here yet. It's fair to say that I deal with the same people most days: general store cashiers and various boat employees that are incredibly kind and understanding and have never flinched when I say or do weird things, like struggle to cram my change in my pocket, worried that I will inconvenience the person behind me as they must wait while I balance my coffee cup and change pocket in a strange juggling pattern that has to be painful to watch. Being here has gently let me realize that I care more about being weird than this entire region (maybe world?) and when I talk fast and make weird jokes, they take the time to do the exact same thing back, making the person behind me wait longer than they would've witnessing the juggling of the coffee and change. I love it so much. And I can now small talk with the best of them, which used to be my third least favorite activity, just after phone calls and sweating.

Specifically, the boat and store employees have begun to know my face, which means I may be a local and I am also not afflicted with "cidiot" syndrome, which is a brilliant word that I stole from Eve, Tahoe local and very bestfriend of ours. (Also, see: tourons, tourist morons.)

I'm not sure I'm allowed to define "cidiot" as I have only been here a little under two months, but maybe I should. I admit that I have had brushes with being a "cidiot." But on the weekends and when it's a summer holiday, (dear God, 4th of July), "cidiots" abound: mountain life gets weird and backwards, and living above a general store that supplies boat patrons with sandwiches and coffee and beer and BATH TOWELS (yep, they have everything), it feels more pronounced. The owners swear to us that literal tumbleweeds will roll by the general store come mid-September as we ask, "When does it slow down?" half-apologizing for the "cidiots" and knowing that we're really asking, "When will they stop coming?" They know. And we all try not to complain too much as their money makes business great in Tahoe. But they just add a very strange energy to this area.

A "cidiot" is the perverse marriage of two words: city and idiot. This does not mean that every city dweller that comes to Tahoe is a "cidiot" and is only used when a non-Tahoe local is being mean or a jerk or a self-inflicted idiot.

And it's really easy to spot "cidiots" driving.

It is California law to break when a pedestrian is crossing the road. There are flashing lights that warn drivers that there is a pedestrian about to cross on a busy road. There are also striped crosswalks in town centers that alert drivers to pedestrian crossings. During the week, this is followed to the letter. EVERYONE cautiously drives around pedestrian crossings and when you don't, you're a jerk and you feel bad and say you're sorry to the stranger who has to wait. That's just how things work around here and it's a little jarring at first coming from the city where your time is always more important than the rest of the world.

And you know when you're around "cidiots" because they never break. It's kind of like they all have color blindness to yellow. Maybe they see green? They never ever look to see if someone is waiting to cross. Even with flashing lights. Even when the road is painted bright yellow. Even when a local just pumped the breaks and let a family of 6 cross to get to the beach.
My city brain, upon showing up and seeing this for the first time, just thought Tahoe locals were super-human nice people, but in reality, they're just good people that care about others. And "cidiots" are just always too busy, even in Tahoe.

The pace is slower in Tahoe. I'm not entirely sure why it's this way, but I've been told it's the majority of the Northern California culture. In short, people take their time (see: not hitting pedestrians). This goes for cooking food, talking to you, making your coffee. It gives me a much-needed lesson in patience as my instinct is to go fast with everything, but Tahoe doesn't really let you do that (unless you're driving where there aren't pedestrian crossings, then you are free to drive fast but most "cidiots" don't because they're scared of driving off the cliffs). What you get is excellent food, a really nice conversation that isn't forced because they are trying to weasel a tip out of you or a really funny story to tell about your ice cream sundae maker and how she was from planet Mars.
Real quote: "Yeahhhh so that looks so good. I'm gonna make that when I get home! Yeahhhh"
Repeated twice.

Locals know it, they just don't talk about it. We ran into the owners of our general store/marina while out riding bikes on Saturday night. On bikes themselves, they invited us to a very local beach bar to buy us our first ever "Chambers punch." A winding downhill driveway lined with trees opens up to a 180 degree view of Lake Tahoe, with Chambers Landing bar floating above the water. It was tiny, insanely beautiful and not nearly as crowded as other places.  They kept emphasizing how it was "mostly locals" that frequented there, and introduced us to so many people, I wished for name tags. And without coming out and saying it, partly because they are the nicest people in the world and partly because they earn a living off "cidiots," they showed us a new place to hide on a Saturday night. If a "cidiot" was there, they were sorely outnumbered. I met the owner of the magical bar, who was just as unbelievably nice as anyone else, waitress to DMV worker to luxury property owner.

Because being a "cidiot" doesn't mean you have a lot of money or hail from the city. The essence of being a "cidiot" is expecting a product for consumption. If your iced coffee is too sweet and there is a line out the door, a "cidiot" thinks it's okay to actually nudge waiting people with their shoulders in order to complain to the barista, who is also working as a deli clerk, that their coffee is just a "tad too sweet" and then ordering them to make a new one. You cannot be bothered with crosswalks or other people that get in the way of what you want when you want it. Frankly, you are more important than the entire planet and your parents probably didn't believe in timeouts.

Witnessing this and seeing how jarring it is compared to weekday life is alarming. All of these stories are normal in city life, but when it disrupts a beautiful flow of mountain life, it makes me angry, which isn't an emotion I normally feel here. But it makes me mad.

I've been asking our local friends when I'm allowed to buy a Big Truck hat. It's a local company that blew up and their booth is always at Truckee Thursdays and on heads of all dope locals, which would launch me into (un)official (summer only: I haven't ripped down enough mountain on skis yet) Tahoe local status. I thought it was when I completed my first major day hike, with fishing and tram rides and exhaustion. Then I thought it was when I completed my first backpacking trip, filtering water out of a mountain stream and sleeping on the side of a cliff. But I think I've finally reached local status, not with my California license plate or matching driver's license, not with a P.O. Box in Homewood or Drink Tahoe Tap sticker on one of my Nalgene bottles. I think I'm finally a local now that I want to protect Tahoe from bad-energy spreading "cidiots." It's a feeling of protecting something that I love so much from negative city clouds "cidiots" bring in their spotless SUVs and freshly blown up river rafts.

But it's not their driving or rafting or jerkiness that really gets to me. It's that they never unpack their stuff.

They are so worried about the sugar in their coffee that they don't even show up to this amazing place that feels like a gift to me every time I get to explore it. So they drive too fast and complain about their perfect bagel sandwich because they have no idea where they are. Because if they knew, the smallest hiccup in a day wouldn't be a huge explosion of idiot-jerk energy.

And if they really just simply looked up, anytime, at all, they would probably never leave. Honestly.
(So maybe they should never look up? Kidding...)

But with everywhere that you are, even momentarily, there is always something to be present for.

"Be here now" has never meant more to me, and it should never leave, even when I do.

Twenty Nine and Birthdays in the Mountains

 

 

Tomorrow I turn twenty nine. The number is irrelevant: it's my birthday tomorrow. For the past, well, since the inauguration of my life, tomorrow has been met with a sense of ticker tape and marching bands, which has translated into over-the-top parties, over-thought outfits, professional hair and makeup and lavish shoe purchases that are not only impractical, but frankly painful.

Simply put, every year I prepare for birthday war.

I am always looking to celebrating it bigger. Concepts usually begin to take shape in March. (Okay, January.)

But something funny happened this year. Something I never thought would happen.

There is no birthday party this year. I know. There isn't even an outfit.

Instead of shopping for the perfect party dress to compliment my party theme, Paul bought me a fishing license and a fishing pole.

Instead of Steve Madden stilettos covered in glitter, I bought myself barefoot running shoes so I can rip up mountains like a boss.

It's easy to say these changes have taken place because I only know two other people here. But in reality, I think it's just because I'm happier.

Birthdays used to mean celebrating once a year for a day (okay a week). You only get one day (week) to be ridiculous and do whatever you want. And when my mom passed away, her absence has always been so pronounced on my birthday because she was the authority on celebrations.

But I don't have to go to birthday war to remember her. And I don't have to stress myself out and force myself into shoes I'm only going to wear once, for an hour, in order to win at birthdays.

This year, with such an exaggerated fresh start, I wanted to be honest with myself and really figure out what I really wanted. So here are my birthday plans, boiled down into all of my favorite things.

Tomorrow, Eve is going to take me to a place in Truckee that serves Blue Bottle coffee from the Bay, which is the best coffee I've ever had. Then I'm going to the beach and I'm going to read a lot and maybe take a nap. Then we are going to eat ice cream before dinner because my mom always said, "Life is short: Eat dessert first." Then Paul is going to make dinner and then we're going to Commons Beach to watch a kids movie at dusk. Thursday is Truckee Thursdays, which is a weekly street fest and we will attend to eat tacos out of a food truck and eat a huge cupcake at Cake Tahoe and drink a sloe gin fizz at Cal-Neva Casino while playing three rounds of nickel slots. And I will wear an outfit I bought a year ago that I love because looking for the "perfect" birthday outfit is stressful and usually makes me look like a fashion victim, not on purpose.

This birthday, and from here on out, is about absolutely no stress. There is no perfect way to celebrate your birthday or to wear your birthday or to eat your birthday. What matters is tacos and cupcakes and being around people that really love you. I will miss all of you Ohio-Michigan people that I love dearly and that have put up with my birthday nonsense for so many years, but Tahoe has taught me yet another lesson of keepin' it casual and authentic. Fishing makes me feel like a kid again catching blue gill at the farm pond and I can't hike up a mountain in stilettos. Professional hair and makeup aren't necessary as I am really okay with how I look without any of those things. (Honest moment: I've only worn makeup thrice since I've been here. Liberating. I love my face without it.) And if I'm really true to myself and the birthday legacy that my mom left, it's that birthdays are supposed to celebrate your life, not the one you think you should have.

I still love my birthday week. I'd be lying if I said I haven't been thinking about this day for at least a month. But there are so many great days in your life that you can celebrate. Why only settle for just one week? Celebrate a random Wednesday with a cupcake and make a wish with the first bite. Hollow out a portion of your weed-whacking weekend and just get out of town, even if it's just for an hour. Let yourself do something completely self-fulfilling instead of laundry. Remember what it was like to play for hours outside after dinner.

That's the essence of birthdays: there is always something worthy of a celebration. Finally out of birthday party jail, twenty nine may be the best one yet.

Here's to believing in everyday.

 

My Incredible Birthday Legacy

 






And to the one who started it all......

 



Lifetime Student and the Beginning and the End

When you're a teacher, a part of you never grows up. Especially if you never broke rank from high school kid to college kid to teacher kid, fall means something that maybe the rest of the world thinks of as a fresh start. Think: New Years Eve. The hallowed ground that makes you feel like anything you did before doesn't matter and you will own that treadmill and salad lifestyle! Teaching in August is similar: you're ready! Pencils are sharpened and they smell so good! Last year was horrible, so you're due for a better year! New clothes! School supplies on sale!

But June is different. As you wrap up the year and reflect on the heaven (or hell) you've been in, there is a distinct bitter and sweetness to your bubble-wrapping, text book-sorting hours. You're so close to flip flops, hoodies and jeans, obsessive cleaning/reading heaven, but there is that "I should've done" list that you harp over. And inevitably, what you'll do better in August.

I've had the hardest year in my short teaching career. I became a teacher I never wanted to be: I yelled, I cried, I argued with 6-year-olds about being respectful, I left a 3:30 without my papers graded or pencils sharpened. Moments brought me to a certainty that Starbuck's would be my employer in the fall. But the last couple of weeks of the school year made me love what I do even more. It's quite possible that being a teacher is like being in a really terrible relationship where the highs are HIGH and the lows are terrible. I always thought it was those moments that make your heart swell: a note from your hardest student about how he is sorry, hugs when they apologize for doing wrong, when they slip and call you "mama" or hold your hand in the hallway when they're just a bit too old. Those things are all great, but to see a student that used to hide underneath tables during reading centers, throw chairs across the room and fight EVERY DAY at recess begin to argue (passionately, but respectfully) instead of pound his classmates, sit (with a mean mug, but sitting) at reading group in centers and only angrily shove his chair in his desk when he's had it is the most amazing miracle and you get to be a part of it and say, with some certainty that you were at least a part of that kid's transformation. Sometimes, when you stop to think about it, you could have changed that kid's entire world, forever and ever.

That's some heavy stuff.

But wait a second. I've doubted this teaching thing since my first teaching job. Moments and stories of storybook success are rare, paperwork is driving us all crazy and legislation is not only maddening but it's downright insulting to people that give their lives to their classrooms: their money, their family time, their sanity. I packed up my classroom with fervor, and honest casualty, as packing up meant moving, adventure, HUSBAND, new life, all of the things I badly needed for a long time. And now as I near in on a summer ending quickly, quicker as the prospect of teaching in California gets dimmer and dimmer, I'm not sure how I feel.

Here comes my 1/3 life crisis. I've officially stopped applying for teaching jobs. Yeesh.

I thought I would feel relieved, but it's not that simple. A part of me longs to be the teacher I've always wanted to be: creative, fun, silly, stern and soft and honestly love mostly every minute.

I have it in my head. It's there and it involves puppets.

But after three years, I'm getting to the point where the glorified teaching moments in my head constitute for less than 30 percent of my days. The rest are filled with asinine policy, never-ending mandates that slash time to create and dampen fun and silly ideas. The part of me that's sad to leave my teacher tote behind is balanced by the constant feeling of being under-appreciated, over-worked, stressed out and emotionally bankrupt, cursing the pending "endorsements" that aren't cheap while I still labor to pay back my never-ending student loans.

There could be a difference here. I could get out of the inner city, teach in a less stressed-out, more affluent district. But a part of me doesn't really think it will matter. And as 29 years of age is literally around the corner, NEXT WEEK, I'm struggling to identify with a new career. Two non-teaching interviews next week and somehow I'm not sure about any of it. Am I allowed to hire ski instructors for a living? Can I really have a job where it ends at 5 everyday and on Friday? (What does that even mean?)  What do I even do with my library of kids books and movies, half-dried gallons of Play-doh, Christmas glyphs, patterns for puppets? Is there life beyond my flash drive full of Smart Board files?

Sometimes in life you get to this point where there are no certainties. There are multiple ways to go and nothing is guaranteed or certain or even halfway clear. But maybe in that chaos is something I really need: a wild sense of possibility that scares me so much I can't sleep. I can literally do anything I want and at least two prospective employers halfway agree. What does that mean? Maybe this is the best time to start something brand new. Maybe it's time to embrace the unknown instead of letting it scare me. For if I stayed in the same place all of my life, I'd miss out on some of the best things in my present life. Paul. Oatmeal. California.

Here's to rolling new dice, which probably means I should play craps on my birthday....yes?

Off-Roading and The Dumbest Thing We've Ever Done

It was around 7:30 when we headed out after dinner. We took the Jeep (affectionately called Brother Sport, or Bro Spo) to Page Meadows to do a evening hike but soon found the bugs to be overwhelming. Walking back to Bro Spo, Paul had an idea.
"What if we took Bro Spo through?"
The "road" was wide enough, but the trailhead cautioned "only off-highway vehicles."
Paul shrugged.
"It's got good tires!"

The drive was amazing. It was built for 4-wheelers, obviously, as we tramped over man-made sand hills. We had no idea where we were headed, but it was beautiful. We were finally dumped out into a main road half an hour later.
We were hooked.
We headed to the Blackwood Canyon, where miles of paved road winds you up to the Ellis Peak trailhead. Getting out of Bro Spo for a quickly-fading sunset, Ellis Peak was a 3 mile hike, too much for sunset time and no illuminating devices. We took in the amazing view of the canyon, dwarfed by the massive mountains and monstrous pine trees, and the pink and yellow sky.

The road had us turning around back towards the lake, but ahead of us was a dirt road.
"Want to see where it goes?"
And without hesitation, we were off-roading again.
Dusk fell as we turned off our lights wanting to steal peeks of wildlife. We drove passed the signs that cautioned cars with x's drawn through them "not recommended."
We scoffed.
"We're in a Jeep!"

It got dark real quick. Our short joy ride in the wilderness had Bro Spo climbing further into the mountain. Whenever we felt like we were descending, another road jogged up the canyon. I felt the unease creep in. What if we don't find the end of the road?
"It's fine, babe," Paul said, patting my leg.
I took a breath.
Enjoy the ride, I told myself. All roads lead to somewhere, right?

But the road got worse. What began as a worn dirt path turned into piles of rocks and deep holes of water.
Adventure flew out the window and I started to seriously worry.
We set out around 8 and it was nearly 9. We had no idea where we were or if we were going the right way, only hoping that this road would lead to somewhere.
Then the gas light turned on.
I shot Paul a worried stare.
"Are we going to make it out?"
"We're fine! We have at least 25 more miles on the gas light."

That's when we saw our first sign.
Tahoe city, 8 miles.
"Does that say 0.8?"
I felt better knowing, sort of, where we were.
And I wanted to believe in the 0.8 miles.

But the road got even worse. Piles of rocks became boulders sloping down. And just when the road became bearable again, it sloped back down and shook Bro Spo so hard that I had to hold on to the door frame. Jostled nearly out of my seat for an hour, I just wanted to be home.
I started coming unglued when Paul took his hat off declaring this isn't fun anymore.
And then we came to the biggest boulder yet. It would test Bro Spo.
Paul gingerly peeled his foot off the brake, easing Bro Spo through the treachery, and with a very loud thud, Bro Spo came down hard on his right side.
"NO!" Paul yelled. "No no no!"
He tried reverse. Drive.
Stuck.

We were stuck on a boulder in the middle of nowhere. We both hadn't brought our cell phones and only had half a Nalgene of water between us. No food. Bear, mountain lion country. I started crying hysterically as Paul reached for his flashlight to check the damage. I sat in Bro Spo, severely leaning down on the right side, my mind racing with what would happen next.
Bro Spo is totaled.
We would have to sleep in the Jeep on the side of this boulder until someone came and rescued us.
We would starve to death.
A bear would eat us.

Paul came back and climbed inside.
"No damage. Just need to rock it back and stick it in 4 wheel drive."
I knew what he wasn't telling me. One bad move and it could crack something underneath, and we could really be stuck.

Paul maneuvered Bro Spo so beautifully that I almost felt better. We glided down Boulder Alley that tossed our bodies in every direction possible, but after another hour, with the gas light still on and no easement of the road, I just started praying.

I prayed to Jesus, I prayed to the mountain, I even did 8 Hail Mary's  (Ok, I just repeated the only part I know "Hail Mary, Full of Grace). And then flashes of light.

Is that a car? I said excitedly.

TRAILHEAD. MAP. OTHER PEOPLE.

Paul slammed Bro Spo in park and rushed outside.
Stumbling in the pitch black with a wind up flashlight, we scrambled to figure out where we were.

The Rubicon Trail.
We drove half of the Rubicon Trail. In the dark. By accident.
If you aren't familiar, the Rubicon Trail is one of the toughest OHV (off-highway vehicles) roads out there. Jeep named one of their Wrangler models after the trail.

 

 

(I learned later that they call many of these rock-infested trails "rock valleys," quite fitting and extremely jarring.)

A poorly marked map showed us halfway through. Grabbing a paper map from the trailhead, we hurried to get back in the car and were elated to find a paved road. It was over.

Our drive into town to get gas was amazing.
Can you believe that? I can't believe we did that. Man that was crazy.

 I've never been so thankful to see a paved road in my life.
It was 11 when we finally made it home. Paul struggled to stay awake and read the map, trying to figure out how it all happened.

We will hang that map of the Rubicon Trail on our wall tonight, marking the dumbest and coolest thing we've ever done. And I will now never leave this house without a cell phone and a protein bar, and contemplate getting a Jeep of my own. (Paved road driving only, of course. At least for now.)

Homewood is Home and Small Town Mountain Charm

I walked into Homewood's post office while Kings of Leon's "Sex on Fire" was playing. There wasn't anyone at the counter so I rang the provided bell. 

Someone shouted "Be right there!"

A short stocky man, shaved head with frameless glasses popped up. As he walked, his naked head bobbed to the music and started singing as he walked towards me. 

"Yeaaaahh....Hey! What can I do for ya?" 

His name tag said Angel and he had a thick New Yorker accent. 

"Here to get a P.O. Box." 

I provided my lease and ID as Angel casually shoved paperwork at me. 

"Fill this out and ring the bell when ya finish," he said. 

The radio blared U2 and he bopped back out of site. 

Countless locals came in ringing the bell and smiling as Angel came to greet them by name. 

"So how's ya wife?" he would ask, leaning his deeply tanned arm on his weathered counter. 

"Ain't your daughter at 212? I know all youz Snyders' numbahs!"

I finished the paper and rang the bell again. Angel came back. 

As he entered my information in his computer, he added, 

"Betcha can't tell where I'm from, eh?" he said with a "hah."

He picked at the keyboard and started his manifest destiny story. 

It began with a snowboard addiction and ended with a love affair with Tahoe. 

I nodded at all of it and my smile took over my face. 

Angel handed me two keys. 

"Welcome, Sarah," he said with a genuine grin. 

And that was my first day in Homewood. 

On Friday, Paul and I woke up early for a full day of Reno shopping. We live roughly 50 minutes from most big box stores (thankfully), but when we want to get good deals on backpacking gear, it's time to drive into the city.

But first we went to look at our second apartment. Located on the top of Obexer's General Store and in front of the marina of the same name in Homewood (15 or so minutes south of Tahoe City), we were already excited, especially with the Craigslist pictures being beautiful. Our backyard could be blue. Underneath us could be unlimited coffee. Wow. 

We met Joanne to show us the property and as we walked up to see the place, she offered the

"where are you from?"
"Ohio, but we grew up in Michigan."
"I'm from Michigan, too!" she said with excitement. 

As I asked her "where," she calmly raised her hand and pointed to the bottom left side of the back of her left hand.
"Right about here," she said, beaming.
I couldn't help but beam back.
It was then that we began our ascension to the second floor of the general store. The entire stairwell was filled with the scent of bacon being cooked.
"You'll probably smell that a lot," Joanne said, half-apologetic, which sent Paul's eyes wide with excitement. Think: Beggin' Strips commercial.

When we entered our new home, it already felt like we lived there. The old hardwood floors, the open kitchen/living room, and the crown jewel: the lakeview from the kitchen.
"If you don't mind climbing out the window, that could be a patio," she offered, pointing to the roof outside the window of the kitchen. 

"It's sturdy enough!"

We left Joanne with plans to finalize the details and meet the owners on Monday. Following the bacon smell like well-trained hunting dogs (even though I've given up meat rather easily here), we decided to visit the general store downstairs. Right away, Sharyn greeted us, introduced herself and asked us how we liked  the place. The mustached deli-man made us an amazing bagel breakfast sandwich (brown sugar peppered bacon on the side) and while it cooked, I pumped myself some coffee and browsed the aisles. Small town mountain charm. All over. I felt like I was in a movie and I didn't want to leave. Sharyn told us bear stories as she rang up our bagel-coffee-tea purchases, adding "That's such a Tahoe story," shaking her head and smiling. 

We met the owners and their two darling children on Monday. Standing in our soon-to-be kitchen, we talked about Oatmeal, Jeeps, Michigan, Paul's awesome conservancy job, coffee addictions, and meeting on the beach for beers at sunset. When we finally got around to the business of leases and first months rent, we had chatted for nearly 30 minutes. Our conversation moved outside to the back of the general store. The rain started to soggy all of us. We shook hands and rolled over some more details about our lives as they added, "Welcome to our crazy little family, guys!" 

As they walked down to the lake, we looked at our new backyard. 

A rainbow arched over the marina into the lake. 

No, seriously. 

I nearly lost it there. Instead, I just squeezed Paul and smiled a lot. 

So you know that small town friendly picture that you have in your head from watching Gilmore Girls? It exists, in a slightly better version, and we live in it. We start our official life in Homewood, California, population 243, or as Paul likes to say, 245 now. We can walk to the post office, the ski resort (all across the street), and our backyard is Lake Tahoe. Writing this, I'm still not sure it's actually happening. I have prepared myself to live in a crappy apartment, in a not-so-desirable part of the Lake with the, "but we live here," symbolically pointing to a tree or a beautiful body of water.

I have literally been looking at apartments on Craigslist since February. Early February. I have planned and looked and stressed out and planned more. And in the end, we saw an ad on Tuesday, called on Friday and signed a lease on Monday.

Lesson learned.

Because the path to inner peace, and with things that truly matter like where you're going to lay your head, you have to give them space to unfold instead of trying to manipulate them into happening how you want them to, when you want them to. Things just don't work that way. Why didn't anyone tell me this a long time ago? Well, maybe I wasn't ready to hear it.

Our last week at Granlibakken starts today and it's very bittersweet. Eve, Alex, Jungle and Biscuit have been a part of a very intense transition for me and when we're all watching TV on Sunday night and the cats let us play with them and we all laugh at something happening on social media or in the 80s music world, it feels like home. My heart is brimming with thankfulness and gratitude and fear is turning into excitement, as with every unknown turn we take, something great is always beginning.

What's next, Tahoe?!

Obexer's in the winter. We live in the pointy part of the barn shape. 

My First Test and Doubting Everything

Ok. I made it through 5 solid days in the mountains without a trace of anxiety, strangerdanger warnings in my head or doubt or fear about any of it. Then we went to San Fran. Then things got weird.

Leaving the solace of mountain life is tough. 5 days of a beautiful rhythm of coffee in the morning, lunch, afternoon hike, dinner with Paul in the little sleepy town of Tahoe City melted all the stress I stored in my neck all school year. It was like it was never there. And then we headed to the bay to do some exploring of what is now 3.5 hours away.

The traffic, the people, the noise, city life. It made me feel panicky again. All that worry, doubt, hesitation, crept up and leapt onto my nervous system, like a cat attacking a taco.
DANGER: THERE ARE STRANGERS WHO WANT TO MURDER YOU.
YOU CANNOT AFFORD TO GO HAM IN AN EXPENSIVE CITY.
YOU DON'T HAVE A JOB.
PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT YOU BECAUSE THEY KNOW YOU DON'T HAVE A JOB.

There I was, once again, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, unable to leave my hotel room.

Having noodly nerves really blows sometimes.

But it turned out okay. I married the best dude who got snacks from CVS and we spent a wonderful relaxing lazy Friday night in our awesome hotel room and watched Nat Geo and ate cookies and candy and a bottle of $5 wine and slept in.

I woke up better, but not great. Paul's wish was to hike in the Muir Woods just north of San Francisco. Muir Woods is known for gorgeous redwoods in honor of John Muir, one of Paul's hiking heroes. But unlike our Tahoe hikes, this one was wall-to-wall people: some in tight cut off jean shorts, others in stilettos. What kind of hike is this? I thought, lacing up my hiking boots in the frame of my passenger car door. Parking was so insane that we had to board a shuttle bus to enter the park.

When we arrived and paid our admittance fee, it felt like a tree zoo. Adorable stroller-pushing families in floppy hats meandered down a wide, paved thoroughfare and we soon neared a "food court" with organic coffee and locally grown vegetables. You couldn't make a sudden movement without bumping into someone trying to get to the next tree and I felt that rise of noodly nerves again. Luckily, we soon found a "real" trail and started our ascension to Ocean View.

Which was, great. It was nice to get away from the pack that hovered too close and felt suffocating, but the 3.5 hour drive, plus an hour in traffic both days, plus waiting time for the shuttle and 30 minutes on a crowded bus to pay 24 bones to enter....just seemed unauthentic. The unspoiled wilderness in Tahoe just seemed so much...easier to start...and dare I say...better?

Great hikes in Tahoe:
1.) Park on side of road.
2.) Hike the trail or wander off to leap across a stream to get a better view of the lake/mountain.
3.) Enjoy the wilderness solo as you will probably only come across two other hikers, total.
4.) The only money you spend is on the snacks you take with you.

I brushed those thoughts away and tried to enjoy the moment. A beautiful hike on the West coast of the country with a husband I'm getting to know again was a wonderful experience. But, wow: I was excited to get back on the road toward my Tahoe home.

Anxiety lingered, but lessened being back in the mountains. After laundry on Sunday, we went to see our first possible apartment. It was insanely tiny and extremely weird, which was a major letdown of sorts. Then we had to talk about money. Do we up our rent budget? Do I need to lock down a job before we even think about getting a place? Variables mounted in my head, doubt, fear, money problems, inventing problems and the future swirled around like a dust cloud. Insomnia that I hadn't had since being here came back and I couldn't sleep, even being exhausted from an epic hike in Squaw.

I woke up confused. What does this all mean? Creating a budget, very conservative and planning for mostly everything pointed to a pretty significant surplus at the end of the month, even with me making significantly less that I have been. But it didn't make me feel any less scared. Fortunately, I have the means to go into nature and be quiet and wait and dig around for what I need to figure out.

I just finished this amazing book called "Only Pack What You Can Carry" and for anyone needing to understand themselves and how to answer big life questions, it's an amazing read. The last chapters are about understanding fear. The author, Janice Holly Booth, writes about understanding her perceived fear of heights. She thought, for so long, that she feared being up high in the air, but discovered that her fear really comes from being on the edge. It may not seem like a big distinction, but once I read this, it resonated with me. Understanding your fear puts you at a better advantage of conquering it, owning it, resolving it. And that's exactly what I need to do.

This blog was created to explore the reasons why I'm afraid of life, and to help others deconstruct their fears in order to live a better life. And the root to my noodle nerves stems from a fear of failure. If there is any chance of failing, I crumble like an overcooked piece of pasta and fall into a crippling bout of depression. Knowing that, I've also realized how many things I've missed out on just by not being open to failing. And this is one of them.

I'm a baby. I'm looking over at the edge of a new career, with significantly less stability and a continent full of self-doubt, self-sabotage and the intense urge to give up and go back to my comfort zone. There are many things that I enjoy, and one of them is lying to myself about having control over things I cannot control. But fear only lessens with practice. You're never going to get over fearing the edge of you stay away from the edge. And it's time to go ahead and live on that.

I don't really know how to do that but I'm trying. I made a list of what I want to do for a living and all things pointed to using my English and education degrees. That led me to researching curriculum content writing/editing, which led to an abundance of opportunities to write, event plan, the list goes on. Nothing has come of it and I'm holding on to the very thing that got me this far: that faith will bring me to the edge and not let me cower until I learn from it. Reprogramming your brain to believe in yourself is a lot of work and it is easy to go back to the way you've been all your life: playing it safe. But I need a constant reminder that playing it safe hasn't led to anywhere but regret.

So instead of hiding in my hotel room, or hiding behind a career that just doesn't make sense to me anymore, I'm going to do something I've never done: trust that it will all fall into place. Nerves of noodles, or steel, it's a process that doesn't happen overnight and it doesn't just happen when you move your life and your pig across the country.

"If you don't bring it with you, you won't find it here."

Here's to hoping I packed some courage for whatever lies ahead of me.

Chapter One: Be Silent and Still

I arrived in Tahoe for good on Sunday after three days of driving my Chevy Impala, Judy Densch. That girl worked up the mountains, through Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, weighed down with two bikes and my entire closet. Oatmeal did great on the road and even got used to hopping around in his cat carrier. And when I arrived here, this second home of mine, everything obviously changed.

It was in Eagle Falls yesterday, staring into the running water over a cliff, that I realized how quiet I've been. With every change in my life, there has been a period of intense deconstruction, immense personal reflection and incessant chatter about all of that. Here is so much different in so many ways. For the first time in maybe forever, there is nothing to figure out. There is no emotion to unpack and repack and look at in all different directions. There isn't a sea of faces to impress or hide from. People are generally content, always smiling, and small talk is just a way to get to know each other. The weather is kind and beautiful and there are mountains in every direction to explore. It is quiet. And I am, in every way, quieter.

I wouldn't use the term happy to describe my life here: it's better. I just feel content. And looking back on my old life, I've realized now that I was just existing, but not really living. Everything was done to make money in order to buy things and pay bills. That was my focus. And although that's a necessity, it's not my whole life. People don't lead in with, "Hi I'm Sam, I'm a teacher, what do you do?" because their job isn't their identity. People take care of themselves and the rest follows. It's really a beautiful way to live.

I'm really not concerned with a job. Tahoe problems are like, Man there are so many hiking options, which one should I choose? Or, should I go swimming first or ride my bike first? Or if I buy a truck I will probably have to get a dog to ride in the back...and then you're so fulfilled with your life that your nerves aren't noodle-y and you talk to strangers like they're old friends. I met a girl named Abby at dinner who went to Northview and she helps adults with disabilities find jobs and her company is hiring....and then I got to talking to Brian at the hardware store who just happens to be from Kalamazoo, Michigan and tells me the perfect drives to take in fall that will remind us of back home fall, but better. And then I come home with my husband and feed Oatmeal spinach and fall asleep together, and wake up together, and eat dinner together, and no wonder all of my empty hollow places have been filled. This is the life I dreamed about and made happen and this is what it feels like to get exactly what you want.

And I'm going to preserve this feeling. Here's how:
1.) Whenever I'm in that moment where time doesn't seem important and I'm incredibly in love with everything around me (which has been 97% of my time here so far), I'm not going to question it or try to figure it out. I'm just going to be quiet and let it happen and ride it as far as it goes. I'm going to live in that moment for as long as the universe allows and I'm going to let it be.

2.) Whenever I'm in that moment where life is hard and things aren't good, I'm going to learn from it and move on. That's it. The end. I'm not going to live in it, I'm not going to try and figure it out. I'm just going to let it be and go for a hike.

3.) Whenever I'm starting to be critical of myself, my appearance, others behavior, others appearances, I'm going to stop and look around. I'm going to resist the urge to make myself and others perfect because it's destructive and leads to nothing positive. I'm going to love myself and take care of myself and do the same for others, even when they don't deserve it.

And in the meantime and in all the in-betweens, I'm going to be grateful for this life because it's better than I could've ever imagined......