Out of My Dreams

OMG! Thought you'd LOL at that...
I was sound asleep when I heard "Mom! Bambi!" I looked around and of course, no one was here except me and Lil Bear.
So I began channel surfing and the movie version of Rogers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma was on. Really? It had started at 12:30 and it was already 1:45. I wondered if the dream sequence I always believed was in it really was, but I really didn't want to watch the whole movie. I selected it anyway and Shirley Jones was just singing the line, "Then out of my dreams I'll go, into a dream with you" when the ballerina came in for the dream sequence. Sometimes a movie is just a movie but it seems as if I read something into everything lately. The whole beginning appeared to be a metaphor for my life, a dream life that was expected, that should be. It quickly turned into the nightmare part of the dream and, honestly, one of the worst choreographed interpretations ever (given the expert on dance that I am...). But still, my life, your life, our lives.
I've wanted to see it for some time and thought about it last night when I was thinking of names and how they are chosen. Was it you that yelled my name to awaken me? "Out of my dreams and into..."
I don't know if this is true, but I remember my mother telling me she wanted to name her children after the Peter Pan characters, hence Michael and John (Pat) and I was to be, wait for it...Wendy. But before I was born, she saw a ballet where the prima ballerina was named Bambi Lynn. So Bambi Lynn I became. As for Andy, I guess she skipped the fairy tale names and opted for a more presidential name. Otherwise he might have been Tinkerbell!
I hope it was you who yelled. You can yell at me anytime. I even miss that.
Shirley Jones looked very much like my mother at that age. And the ballerina? She looked like you...

Out of My Dreams-Bambi Lynn

Another of my favorite Shirley Jones songs

The Beatles version with the intro (and subtitles) "Sarw/saw" 

Follow Your Bliss

Kenton and I had a heated discussion this morning following my mere suggestion that he post his music on You Tube. I'm sure you could imagine the conversation that followed, suffice to say his passion about his art came through loud and clear. And once again I tried to say that we are entitled to our own thoughts and ideas and opinions. Thoughts and ideas are so personal and often stubbornly unchangeable, but opinions, not so much if you have any intelligence at all. And because he was so adamant about why he wouldn't "you tube", my opinion about that part of it changed. I mentioned the 11 year old who posted his music for family and friends and now has a recording contract. Your brother's head almost exploded. (Good thing I didn't mention The Black Eyed Peas. Remember how you went off on me for liking those "sell-outs"?) And I had the very clear thought that this was one of those times he should have been able to call you and commiserate about your crazy mama and my heart ached for both of you that that is gone.
But I am glad he has such convictions about his gift and that we can shout about it. You were as passionate about your writing. From the time you could write in school, you would not let us help you with any assignment (in any curriculum area for that matter), and you were adamant about that! When you turned in a report on a California mission, your fourth grade teacher called us and said that the writing was too sophisticated for a student in her class. Perhaps she forgot that the Rapid Learner class had a basis to it's founding, like "gifted". Regardless, your dad took the call and said he hadn't seen the report as you wouldn't let us ever proofread your work because you didn't want us to correct it and make it ours. Smart girl! The teacher said she would send it back so you could redo it in a fourth grader style of writing and then she would rescore it. When we read it with you, we could see how crushed you were, but the real Kenna showed through in your deep indignation. Your dad did something that I, as a fellow teacher, might not have done, but I still applaud him to this day for having done so. He calmly told you to take a bath, get ready for bed and he would take care of it.
Then he proceeded to redo your report that you had saved on the computer. His goal was to redo your report in the style of a typical fourth grader. His only experience with this age was obviously you and Kameron, so his "typical" was quite skewed. I smiled as he struggled to rewrite your words and "dummy down" without using his hundred dollar words. Believe me, that was a challenge for him! He stayed up all night, writing, rewriting but trying to keep your voice. At one point, he asked if he should really do this and what lesson could he be teaching you.
The next morning he told you he had just fixed a few things and we would see what happened. You didn't question it but you were still hurt by the teacher's disbelief that you could have written such a good piece without plagiarising (which you did not do, ever).
The next day, you brought home the report, head down, and silently handed it to me. The comments in red on the cover said "GREAT JOB! This is more like it. I knew you could do it, Kenna!"
And then I questioned what lesson that teacher had taught you.
I couldn't live with it so we met with your principal. We gave him fresh copies of both reports and asked him to read them and tell us which one you had written. He knew full well your gift in writing and said that both were good (your dad was oddly relieved), but he could easily identify yours. Then we explained what happened.
Our goal was not to embarrass the teacher nor teach you that cheating was a good response, but we did not want you to ever compromise your ideals. We had allowed that once with Kameron and his teacher and never forgave ourselves. Remember his beautiful blond, curly hair? He got a haircut one day and the young woman talked him into leaving a short 1 inch "tail", the style at the time. It was just a small curl at the nap of the neck, hardly noticeable, but he was pleased.
He came home from school the next day and asked us to cut it off. When we asked if his friends liked it, he said they all did. It finally came out that his teacher asked whose idea was it, his mother's or his father's. That was all she said but the way she said it delivered her message loud and clear to this 8 year old and he did not want to have her disapprove of him in any way. He actually felt shame while we felt fury! We tried to talk him out of cutting it and staying true to his beliefs, but there was no convincing him. And in the end, we all compromised to allow him to let go of the feeling of any further ridicule to come and cut off the tail. It still makes me cry now, 25 years later. Kameron, of course, in his pragmatic way, would tell me it's not worth feeling sad about. Can't you just hear him?
These two instances actually made me a better teacher and person on several levels. I look for the gifts in all children and get to know them as well as possible, as quickly as possible. And no matter what I think of someone's hair or clothing, I always frame comments in the positive. (Ignoring it can hurt as much as disapproval). Who are we to pass on negative personal opinions to children who just need us to like them?
What I learned early on is that my own children are entitled to be passionate and I am so grateful that I am allowed to be a part of that journey. I know you all gagged when I gave you each a little sign in your Christmas stockings that said "Follow your Bliss" but I have the right to be as passionate about that as you all are about your ideals. And isn't the word bliss a good one to have in your heart?
And did you not follow your bliss in your poems and stories and Saturday Night Live skits? Someday I might share your writings but I'll wait for a sign from you. If it's what you want, I know you'll smack me upside the head with it when the time is right. Sadly, I have nothing but time now. I miss your tenacity and your spirit and your uncompromising view of the world. It kept me grounded at times when I wanted to float away in Bambiland. Where's my anchor now? I guess it's in the white butterflies and the silence at night when I listen for you under your stars...and in our boys.

Enough Said

To my boys, my reason for being...

 

 
If not for you,
Babe, I couldn’t even find the door,
I couldn’t even see the floor,
I’d be sad and blue, if not for you.

If not for you,
Babe, the night would see me wide awake,
the day would surely have to break,
it would not be new, if not for you.

If not for you, my sky would fall,
rain would gather, too,
without your love I'd be nowhere at all,
I’d be lost, if not for you.

If not for you,
the winter would hold no spring,
couldn’t hear a robin sing,
I just wouldn’t have a clue, if not for you.

If not for you, my sky would fall,
rain would gather, too,
without your love I’d be nowhere at all,
I’d be lost, if not for you.

If not for you,
the winter would hold no spring,
couldn’t hear a robin sing,
I just wouldn’t have a clue, if not for you.

If not for you…

Dylan 1970

Many versions of this song, but this has Harrison and Dylan!

A Morning of Mourning

Today is the 10th Anniversary of 9/11. It is a day of remembrances and tributes. The speeches are touching, the songs beautiful, the poems remarkable. You once asked that we share the lines you chose from this by Longfellow...the perfect poem..
 

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Grandparents

I composed a blog entry in a magazine recently. When I reread it today, I realized not only how important Pam is to me, but how much I love her for how important she was to you. She and Grandpa were your best friends. I often thought about how happy I was that you were so near them and able to spend time with them. When your Grandma Madge passed, you were heartbroken because she was your best friend at that time. She died shortly after your assault and there was no space for grieving for any of us and I am still sad and sorry about that. When you moved to Mammoth, I missed your belly laugh and worried constantly about you, but I was happy that Dad and Pam got to know you like we did, your sardonic humor, your wit, your incredible intelligence, your ability to put people in their place while they thought they were receiving a compliment. Your laughter filled any room you entered, your generosity was quietly demonstrated on so many occasions. I am forever grateful they were able to know you and love you so deeply. How lovely the relationship of granddaughters and grandmothers and grandfathers! The following 300 word blog was written July, 2011:

“She’s not much older than me” I whined when my father told us of his upcoming marriage. Visions of the evil stepmother from the fairy tales I’d grown up with loomed large in my head.

“Maybe you’ll become friends one day,” he said hopefully.

“Never!” my seventeen-year-old mind shouted.

Even though I had reconciled my parent’s divorce after twenty years and four children, my allegiance was to my mother. My way of showing loyalty to her was a promise not to send Mother’s Day cards to “that” woman.

  But of course, years passed, we all matured and our families grew. My father was happy and healthy, and married to his best friend.

  She would never give birth, so it seemed fitting to ask her to be there when we had our first child. Afterward, she wrote the most beautiful letter I’ve ever received. It was gracious and heartfelt as she thanked us for allowing her to be part of something so special. It was then that I realized how much I had grown to love her.

  Thirty years later, just days before my mother passed from cancer, she whispered to me that I could send Mother’s Day cards to my stepmother now. “You know, honey, she’s been very good to all of you.” Guilt joined hands with my grief.

  And as far as the fairy tale goes, the stepmother actually became the Cinderella in our story. She emerged as the intelligent, funny, independent, beautiful woman with her prince.

  My brothers and I may not be her children, but we are her family. Our children are her grandchildren and their children are her great-grandchildren.

What started as a predictable fairy tale became one of my most cherished happily ever after endings because she became my friend.