tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82138065873829284952024-03-21T08:26:06.639-07:00Mandatory (a)MusingsSharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-78243445601170758242024-03-20T20:41:00.000-07:002024-03-21T08:25:36.035-07:00FearlessToday, you were student of the month. Again. For the last time. Even though it
was a little bit silly -- Ms. Fletcher nominated all the advanced art seniors,
no matter what kind of people they've turned out to be -- but, she saved her
praise of you for last. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_J8IkYQ_fehrDXmY2IpWYm_3HJsM59eKsKE233v5C-tZA7QCHQkWQvMDdh2cby6n-wq-4Dn3sdm9Z9WZh4R1qgoD7R5cB3Al4FzFr4I1TOXfjhDyhKfpB4MIsAEkOsiADIBbWBQme7SXxHNB0iL0DzdNl4AER_qF8yYdFbDdixqlNltHYdMCFrsvtkNL/s4287/IMG_20240320_073300762.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4287" data-original-width="2807" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_J8IkYQ_fehrDXmY2IpWYm_3HJsM59eKsKE233v5C-tZA7QCHQkWQvMDdh2cby6n-wq-4Dn3sdm9Z9WZh4R1qgoD7R5cB3Al4FzFr4I1TOXfjhDyhKfpB4MIsAEkOsiADIBbWBQme7SXxHNB0iL0DzdNl4AER_qF8yYdFbDdixqlNltHYdMCFrsvtkNL/s320/IMG_20240320_073300762.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /></div><div>She said you were a badass. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She said you were fearless. </div><div><br /></div><div>She said that -- no matter the challenge -- you take it on and you rise to it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I
know that you don't see that in yourself. All the time, you compare you to me,
you say that you can't power through, that you can't work so hard all of the
time, that you can't be as strong as I am. But I don't know that I'm strong,
kiddo. I'm just really, really stubborn. And I have a chip on my shoulder the
size of a railroad tie. That doesn't mean that I'm fearless. That just means
that...in many cases...I take on battles that I'm never going to win. Maybe it's
fearlessness, but maybe it's also tilting at windmills. </div><div><br /></div><div>But you, my daughter. You are
fearless. And you are a badass.
<div><br /></div>
That doesn't mean that you aren't afraid, because I see you and you are often
terrified. </div><div><br /></div><div>That doesn't mean that you don't feel pain, because I see you and you
are in pain all of the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I also see you -- again and again and again -- you
fall down, you get shit on, you pick yourself back up, you doubt yourself, you question
everything -- and then you square your shoulders and you get back in the fight. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5NqLbgisonjhB7EYEqQaKGXsX185QafteTKsvH0-C1wfT1GiO5A7FN-ahmx2krbsI1s0fj0BzLDwBA2FPZPRuer5u5Su7hOWFh8o5rC5vImLsZpZNaYJIj3BmxXs9KhEuE6AJtbbrdYMCbWy7mw8JrUqHENqvgJDroG2QUb0BPxECUJ-daGmblyadElq/s2048/430130072_122150628518081458_1975158671992718717_n.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5NqLbgisonjhB7EYEqQaKGXsX185QafteTKsvH0-C1wfT1GiO5A7FN-ahmx2krbsI1s0fj0BzLDwBA2FPZPRuer5u5Su7hOWFh8o5rC5vImLsZpZNaYJIj3BmxXs9KhEuE6AJtbbrdYMCbWy7mw8JrUqHENqvgJDroG2QUb0BPxECUJ-daGmblyadElq/s320/430130072_122150628518081458_1975158671992718717_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div><br /></div><div>You don't see the strength that I see. </div><div><br /></div><div>You don't see the talent that I see. </div><div><br /></div><div>You
don't see the power that I see. </div><div><br /></div><div>You don't see the forever friend that I see.</div><div><br /></div><div> You, my daughter, are a ball of anxiety. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I see you. I see you as you take a
minute and then pull it together, take a deep breath, and get back out there.</div><div><br /></div><div>It doesn't matter what the future holds because you are a powerhouse. You have a fountain of strength within you. A geyser. You will tackle whatever comes your way in your own way.</div><div><br /></div><div>You are my soul.</div><div><br /></div><div>My daughter. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I am so incredibly proud of you.
</div>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-34669453205453161492024-03-13T19:52:00.000-07:002024-03-14T07:08:13.754-07:00Under Pressure<p> I haven't written in ages. 9 months, to be exact. Maybe 10. Math is hard.</p><p>I haven't had the time -- made the time -- to write. And frankly, I haven't had the mental capacity to write. </p><p>There are so many things to write about. Helena's senior year and all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.</p><p>Sam's freshman year. And all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.</p><p>My job. And all of the joy and heartbreak and frustration that brings.</p><p>I still love my job, although I can't pay the bills. I'm still so incredibly relieved and fulfilled that I braved the jump to Okemos, but I'm still so incredibly broke because of that decision.</p><p>I still freelance when I can find the time. I still judge for Scholastic and the New York Times almost monthly. And now, I work concessions on the weekends at KWings stadium so that I have enough cash for Helena to skate her final year in derby. I don't remember the last day I didn't work.</p><p>I haven't written in ages because there just. isn't. time.</p><p>But today I had a wake-up call. And I feel like I have to write this down. Publicly. Transparently.<br /></p><p>Today, I found someone to cover my 5th hour class so I could donate blood at the blood drive before the fire drill that was scheduled 6th hour. I speed-walked down to the rubber gym (IDK, it's a thing at Okemos. Just go with it...) and I signed in and a student told me: "It's your gallon day! That's amazing!" and I was ready to go -- just stick that needle in me, I'm a fast bleeder, we can get this done before the fire drill -- and -- my blood pressure was too high.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAVTRHsbBpWeL5v03JGmVr4h3M5pAIoOEQ4UsQqC4df5Y-d2qMpyEoxSCPwS0IzN9XVwzZYNDcRHmwfOh_1RNui4ZRLZGFogfKfDQ9TaUOWuQwC1PbJ3UbFZRArYymSpGglIEGJE8vyhB0_iPrgVo1m_P8ZMhOaaKayydFUlGgfEVAqYVU51g3xljiLS1/s1920/getty_182174834_85740.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAVTRHsbBpWeL5v03JGmVr4h3M5pAIoOEQ4UsQqC4df5Y-d2qMpyEoxSCPwS0IzN9XVwzZYNDcRHmwfOh_1RNui4ZRLZGFogfKfDQ9TaUOWuQwC1PbJ3UbFZRArYymSpGglIEGJE8vyhB0_iPrgVo1m_P8ZMhOaaKayydFUlGgfEVAqYVU51g3xljiLS1/s320/getty_182174834_85740.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Literally, my blood pressure was above the Red Cross' limit.</p><p>I couldn't donate blood. My blood pressure was too high.</p><p>I've known, for a year now, that my blood pressure was an issue. I've tried to sleep more, drink less alcohol, drink more water, move more, breathe more. But my blood pressure hasn't budged. </p><p>There are so many reasons why. Menopause, COVID, the job change, the job itself, my weight, alcohol, the kids, the bills. So many reasons why my blood pressure is out of control.</p><p>And I know what lifestyle changes need to occur for me to get it under control.</p><p>But I haven't managed to make those changes happen. An extra 30 minutes of sleep a night and an extra bottle of water a day and an extra daily walk doesn't fix the problem.</p><p>My entire lifestyle is the problem, and that isn't going to change any time soon.</p><p>So, I made a doctor's appointment next week. I'm apprehensive. My longtime doctor left the practice and I'm stuck with someone new that I've never met. She will tell me I'm fat and that I drink too much and that I don't sleep enough and I know all of these things already, but I hope that she will prescribe me medication so that I can get this blood pressure under control. Because clearly I can't do it out of sheer will.</p><p>But I'd really like to live for a very long time.</p><p>Because I'd really like to be able to donate blood and hit that gallon mark.</p><p>Because I really want to be here to see my kids into their futures and cheer them on.</p><p> And frankly, I'm way too busy to have a heart attack and die.</p><p><br /></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-90116553384895470222023-05-14T19:59:00.001-07:002023-05-15T05:58:04.620-07:00Musings on Mother's Day<p> I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.</p><p>I was never sure I wanted to be a mom. I was worried that I would be a cold mom. That I would resent all that I had given up to be a mom. That I'd be fundamentally bad at it. That I would regret it. I am not a mother-woman.</p><p>It wasn't until an unplanned pregnancy and a miscarriage that I realized that maybe <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> just maybe <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> it was something that I could maybe <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> just maybe <span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span> do.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_OgWjjQlLsu65z2eLLuboXe8_xv2eo14sZjSn_uJSmC1Cw-HOIRI30T0hGmQH2KknM5f2v53Tbo6xiqDKe3HI84PSR7cgO6RDbNcuU6G1Clwhw2eocWiwxAdwxlEy3vgWq1twqjLA3xNaPv-cBq1wqJd5G_uXPOR-Dz2OVzNV84ZL2YCkv9vepm66Q/s604/4208_94685409539_3080798_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_OgWjjQlLsu65z2eLLuboXe8_xv2eo14sZjSn_uJSmC1Cw-HOIRI30T0hGmQH2KknM5f2v53Tbo6xiqDKe3HI84PSR7cgO6RDbNcuU6G1Clwhw2eocWiwxAdwxlEy3vgWq1twqjLA3xNaPv-cBq1wqJd5G_uXPOR-Dz2OVzNV84ZL2YCkv9vepm66Q/s320/4208_94685409539_3080798_n.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>I've never regretted the ultimate decision to have kids. I've also never regretted that I didn't manage to have a 3rd child, and I've never regretted my divorce. Sometimes the universe knows what to do.<br /><p></p><p>The thing is <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> kids do, ultimately, ruin your life. But they ruin the life you had, the life before you had this love, this mess, this chaos, these hugs, these conflicts, these moments. </p><p>I don't regret it.</p><p>I regret how messy my house is, how fundamentally dirty it is.</p><p>I regret what has happened to my body, the body that gave birth twice and never really recovered. Never found the hours in the day it took (before kids) to make this body "fit."</p><p>I resent <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> just a little bit <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> the cost. The fundamental debt, the working as many hours and as many jobs as I can to give these kids the experiences that I never had, that I never even knew existed, and still always existing in debt, not able to bring in quite enough to give them the experiences and life that I wish I could give them.</p><p>But I don't resent them. I don't regret them. I already miss them, as they are already pulling away, becoming their own selves, finding their own passions, hugging me in drive-by moments.</p><p>I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.</p><p>I grew up with a mom who did her very best, but who was also running her husband's business, and trying to raise two toddlers on the side. I was the oldest-only child, only half-related to anyone, the one who never really fit in to either family. Nearly a decade older than any of my half-siblings, I was the odd duck. The ugly swan. The black sheep. The label. But my mom always let me know that she believed in me. That I was her first, and that we <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> she and I <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> had a history that was ours, alone, that no one could take away.</p><p>An I was incredibly lucky <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> I had a second mom as well. I had two women in my life who loved me unconditionally, no matter how awkward or odd I was. I saw two ways of living in the world, and I watched them. I learned. I loved. I knew I was loved.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKYOE0mKnblw0hDenFMo4vZZ1Lnk9bCLM6C0INNNN6uUywKCMXKYbDbUp-2OqX-FXU9etWnp6twfSi_NcNMo6oLDcjyYigA-CT02rQyBd1qW20JpYwTPhgGXVvECsemKk3QzPy5YY1M-Ised9rQ9ZFKQTJ6EBCdgxDYxEWdYGoEB0mwG-OB7afPDXdw/s2048/346257430_729755835503713_7224709716019160841_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKYOE0mKnblw0hDenFMo4vZZ1Lnk9bCLM6C0INNNN6uUywKCMXKYbDbUp-2OqX-FXU9etWnp6twfSi_NcNMo6oLDcjyYigA-CT02rQyBd1qW20JpYwTPhgGXVvECsemKk3QzPy5YY1M-Ised9rQ9ZFKQTJ6EBCdgxDYxEWdYGoEB0mwG-OB7afPDXdw/s320/346257430_729755835503713_7224709716019160841_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As I write this, my son just did a drive-by hugging. "I love you mom. The weekend was epic. Thank you for taking me to Kentucky and for being an epic mom. I'll always be your snuggle bear." <br /><p></p><p>And then he grabbed his phone and his blanky, and he leaned into me and then his 6' tall self trudged up the stairs and went to bed (I hope). A fully formed human, a person I formed. A human whose dirty sock is in the middle of the living room as I write this. A human whose teacher I just emailed, a human who is eating me out of house and home, a human who has managed to lose all of our forks under his bed. </p><p>A human who calls me mom.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgnGa07nfpJQZWRw7k8TpH-LXYZ0jKOxjG94ik6kukhC3GbYpuFSJJ9WFX1h1ApetEahNUr3Ta10-hD2NuVfT4VocVX3aXFco72oP7sie4H8qZFp1GSLaODk2GOJ3aUZj3z2vO6scnEjMH2cwGc_1Pdh8TvMy7-6pArlBNtTqKVe6yPlejJURWR9Z2A/s2048/342851330_102950856120647_7027057917768006198_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgnGa07nfpJQZWRw7k8TpH-LXYZ0jKOxjG94ik6kukhC3GbYpuFSJJ9WFX1h1ApetEahNUr3Ta10-hD2NuVfT4VocVX3aXFco72oP7sie4H8qZFp1GSLaODk2GOJ3aUZj3z2vO6scnEjMH2cwGc_1Pdh8TvMy7-6pArlBNtTqKVe6yPlejJURWR9Z2A/s320/342851330_102950856120647_7027057917768006198_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>My daughter has a field trip to Stratford on Tuesday. She has an outfit crisis. We solved it. I can take her to Kohl's tomorrow. She will be able to wear her vision. I can pick up another freelance piece. She's worth every word. <br /><p></p><p>And my daughter from another mother? She has moved on to the rest of her life. She has found her own path and forged her own future.</p><p>I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.</p><p>It's Mother's Day, a day with an apostrophe I don't understand, a day that's never landed on "my weekend." But today I got hugs <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> real hugs <span id="docs-internal-guid-4aa188fa-7fff-5c2d-3574-0182dd0924f2"><span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> from both of my kids. </p><p>Today, as I write this, both kids are asleep (?) in their rooms. In just a few years, both kids won't be here anymore. </p><p>But these moments, these memories <span style="font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span>they will live on. They will live on in me, and they will live on in my kids. Whatever my moms taught me, I have done everything in my power to gift to my kids. And they, in turn, will pay it forward to their future generations, whatever those will look like.</p><p>I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.</p><p>But I have no regrets.</p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-64133084909689322352023-01-15T16:33:00.004-08:002023-01-16T08:08:25.474-08:00A Letter to My Students Who Plagiarized. Again.<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Students-</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Remember at the beginning of the semester, when I talked about plagiarism? Remember when I said that a number of you would probably plagiarize this semester because it happens every semester in this senior-level elective? Remember when you laughed when I said that the most commonly plagiarized assignments in this class every semester are <span style="background-color: white;">résumés and cover letters</span>? Remember when you commented that it was stupid to plagiarize a <span style="background-color: white;">résumé</span> and a cover letter and I agreed?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ope, you did it again.</span></p><p>This semester, three of you submitted cover letters with paragraphs lifted from the internet. Three of you also submitted essays clearly written by ChatGPT, an AI writer developed by <a href="https://openai.com/blog/chatgpt/">OpenAI</a>. ChatGPT essays are pretty obvious -- they are too perfect, too generic, too formulaic. To a student, they probably sound amazing, like "college-level writing," whatever that is. But to a human being who's been reading high school-level writing for almost 30 years, ChatGPT essays sound like they are written by a robot. Plus, if your essay only has 3 keystrokes recorded in Google docs, then you probably didn't actually write it. "Control C Control V" doesn't count as writing.</p><p>But why do you do this every year? Why do you cheat when it's always so obvious? Why do you cheat when the only person you are hurting is you? Why would someone cheat on a <span style="background-color: white;">résumé</span> or on a cover letter, when these documents are specifically about you and your skills and work ethics? (Last year, a student cheated on their scholarship application essay. I can't make this up.) If you aren't going to learn these writing skills in high school, when do you think you are actually going to learn the skills? How will you excel if you never do the hard work?</p><p>Students -- listen to me. You are not hurting me when you try to game the system. The only person you are hurting is you. </p><p>We worked on these assignments for days, sometimes weeks. You chose not to work on them. You put other classes ahead of mine, other conversations ahead of ours. You decided to play games on your phone instead of working to synthesize sources into a cohesive essay. You procrastinated, you backed yourself into a corner, you panicked, and then you plagiarized. It happens every year.</p><p>But you know what you didn't do?</p><p>You didn't learn how to write.</p><p>And you didn't learn to stop procrastinating.</p><p>You didn't learn to stop making excuses.</p><p>You didn't learn to be honest with yourself.</p><p>You didn't learn to own your own choices.</p><p>But you learned how to use ChatGPT. I guess that's something.</p><p>Listen, ChatGPT is a great tool. But like any tool, you can use it to do good in this world, or you can use it to cheat yourself and others out of something true and honest.</p><p>Good writing takes time. It takes passion. It takes thought and revision and reflection. Good writing is not generated by copy and paste, and it's not generated by ChatGPT.</p><p>What you submitted was not good writing. Instead, you submitted proof of your own lack of character. When times got tough, you took the shortcut.</p><p><b>And I want to be clear:</b> several of you plagiarized. <b>But most of you did not</b>. Props to the majority who put in the effort and did the right thing day after day.</p><p>Look. I'm writing this because I care. I care about teaching you skills that will help you in college and in your career and in your life. I'm writing this because I care about you and your future. </p><p>I hope that -- going forward -- you start to care about that, too.</p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-90630009650089595182022-12-08T21:24:00.007-08:002022-12-09T08:16:29.529-08:00 I walked out of my favorite bar today.<p>Not because of the food or the beer or the service, but because of the white guys down the rail. I couldn't unhear them and I couldn't stay silent, so instead -- I left. The bartender poured my full beer into a to-go cup and duct-taped the lid on. I wasn't leaving a full Edmund Fitzgerald behind.</p><p>"A Marine! They left a Marine -- who served our country -- and got a basketball player out instead!" It devolved from there. Her race, her hair, her sexual orientation, some pundit, Biden, some votes. </p><p>I tried to bite my tongue. But "he was dishonorably discharged, you know. And committed quite a few crimes. Maybe not the Marine you are envisioning" just slipped out.</p><p>"Oh really." I was clearly dismissed. And, they jumped back to their conversation that spiraled into the Black lesbian vote and optics. "She hates America," they said.</p><p>I asked for the check, a to-go cup, and some duct-tape.</p><p>On Facebook, in response to the same claim about her alleged hatred of America, I asked: "If she hated America, why would she expend the energy and deal with the fallout of peacefully protesting during the National Anthem? If she hated America, why would she even try?"</p><p>"Oh, you're her best friend or something?" the lady on Facebook retorts. She seems nice.</p><p>No. I'm not her friend. I've never met Brittney Griner in my life, nor will I. I literally just Googled how to spell "Brittney" so I got it right. </p><p>But my laywoman's observations tell me that somebody doesn't put themselves out there, somebody doesn't take a stand, somebody doesn't put their neck on the line if they don't think it's worth it. If they don't think it's worth saving. </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p class="gnt_ar_b_p" style="background-color: white; color: #303030; font-family: "Georgia Pro", Georgia, "Droid Serif", serif; font-size: 18px; font-style: normal; margin: 14px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">"I honestly feel we should not play the National Anthem during our season," said Griner, one of the top players in the WNBA and second in 2019 most valuable player voting. "I think we should take that much of a stand. </p></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p class="gnt_ar_b_p" style="background-color: white; color: #303030; font-family: "Georgia Pro", Georgia, "Droid Serif", serif; font-size: 18px; font-style: normal; margin: 14px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">"I don't mean that in any disrespect to our country. My dad was in Vietnam and a law officer for 30 years. I wanted to be a cop before basketball. I do have pride for my country."</p></em></div></blockquote><p>Doesn't really sound like hatred to me, yanno?</p><p>And, look, I don't know a damn thing about Paul Whelan, other than what I've found by Googling. But I know there's a whole lot more to his story than the narrative that he sacrificed himself to serve our country as a Marine. A quick Google search tells me that his history is way more complicated than that simplistic narrative and involves many more countries than ours. TL;DR: he was court martialed and convicted and dishonorably discharged from the Marines. Google it. There's some shady shit going on there.</p><p>So.</p><p>Should a notorious, nefarious arms dealer be traded for a basketball player? I'm not an international negotiator <i>and neither are you. </i>But I do know that this guy had already served 12+ years of his sentence, and lots of countries have a huge interest in him, not just Russia. And Paul Whelan has a shady enough past to be worth a whole lot more to Russia than what we could give. Paul Whelan literally wasn't on the bargaining table.</p><p>Sure, Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. Maybe you don't think she deserves to be rescued. But if that's the case, say it out loud. Say it. "I don't believe that a Black lesbian woman's life is worth international negotiations that are way above my understanding." Say it out loud. But don't hide behind the rhetoric of "he's a marine and she hates America." Do your homework. And think critically, just a little bit.</p><p>Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she was going to serve time for almost a decade for carrying a legal substance -- that she has a prescription for -- in her suitcase as she travelled to her second job. Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she's also a woman. And she's Black. And she's a lesbian. And she doesn't make enough money at her first job, so she has to go to Russia during the off season and play there for her second job.</p><p>If anyone should have a bone to pick with America, it would probably be Brittney Griner.</p><p>But her daring our country to do better and be better doesn't mean that she hates it.</p><p>It just means that she wants it to step up.</p><p>I dare you to do better and be better, bar guys and Facebook woman. </p><p>Step up. Do more. Be more. But, my god, please do some research, first.</p><p>If I was friends with Brittney Griner (and I'm not, but I totally would be, call me girl), my guess is that if there's anything she hates about America -- anything at all -- it would probably be the hatred and the ignorance that you so easily spew.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNtNhoouiXDkENMveUcjg9dwVyuwmq80PuMBjXEebiqNNuxr0Y9xPb1aq5jW2ZHy2Xplu2R9J0jPtMD1T0R3ZJ8qDm-mOKi9CqFkTwQIqzK9PYFbuX88xN_rQv2xLXDXhZYulhPR0oueiArYkilP83qadAXFUZLEwx1O1bSi--3ztW335F_IbRveBBg/s7360/michael-carruth-m_tnGfoHeko-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4912" data-original-width="7360" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNtNhoouiXDkENMveUcjg9dwVyuwmq80PuMBjXEebiqNNuxr0Y9xPb1aq5jW2ZHy2Xplu2R9J0jPtMD1T0R3ZJ8qDm-mOKi9CqFkTwQIqzK9PYFbuX88xN_rQv2xLXDXhZYulhPR0oueiArYkilP83qadAXFUZLEwx1O1bSi--3ztW335F_IbRveBBg/s320/michael-carruth-m_tnGfoHeko-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@michaelcarruth?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Michael Carruth</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/truth?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-3600386169448804672022-11-01T22:01:00.007-07:002022-11-02T10:06:27.214-07:00As Old as the Egg McMuffin<h3 style="text-align: left;"> "Hey, mom. Know how old you are? You're as old as the Egg McMuffin!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4cP3p1YMT8MNn7kjmDVIguA6GHX0aOatEIlXlvraUhIKTAU5MBAke5MqcpsI_CZi-CqVctBzwWM8yGWJJQC-AFDfpeRUiBYIFAURiVsnzFxO9RBV3A6F6-RgcD52tTDLpBxAmWRDE-s_oUtjI1WtwA018qkJFyo5L-RdLCXW8bcHaq1UgnxIqUJ5vA/s3000/McD-Egg-McMuffin.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="3000" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4cP3p1YMT8MNn7kjmDVIguA6GHX0aOatEIlXlvraUhIKTAU5MBAke5MqcpsI_CZi-CqVctBzwWM8yGWJJQC-AFDfpeRUiBYIFAURiVsnzFxO9RBV3A6F6-RgcD52tTDLpBxAmWRDE-s_oUtjI1WtwA018qkJFyo5L-RdLCXW8bcHaq1UgnxIqUJ5vA/s320/McD-Egg-McMuffin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Only minutes before, he'd been stunned to learn that I'm turning 50. "Fifty??!! But...that's half a century! I thought you were, like, 47!!" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember when 50 sounded old. It still does. I see my aging idols on stage, and they still have it going on. But they are 50. They are old. <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/11/01/dining/julie-powell-dead.html?smtyp=cur&smid=fb-nytimes&fbclid=IwAR0RRzoKSr43x9zvfn9cADeXfyhMA0AtU12pJzX4I-BZMkLeO1dbd2l6EBs">Julie</a> just died at 49. 50 has always been that threshold. Gateway to the elderly. There's no turning back now. I'm halfway to 100.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">But I don't feel old.</h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sure, sometimes my left knee does something wonky and I wonder if it remembers which way to bend. Sure, there was that week last spring when my arches seemingly forgot to arch and I immediately bought out all of the Dr. Scholl's section at Meijer. Sure, I dropped out of the Detroit 1/2 marathon this year because I was worried I wouldn't make the time cut.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">But I don't feel particularly old. </h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I got ID'd yesterday, buying bourbon. I ran a couple of miles over the weekend. I still understand the words coming out of my students' mouths. No cap. I kinda really want Taylor Swift tickets. And every day, I feel my quads as I climb the stairs. I feel my vertebrae as I stretch. I feel the potential. </span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">I don't feel old.</h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back in <a href="http://mandatoryamusings.blogspot.com/2022/01/50-things-week-1.html">January</a>, a million years ago and just yesterday, I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish this year, the year I turned 50. This was my to-do list. (Spoiler...I didn't do it all. Or even most of it...)</span></p><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Move intentionally for 50 minutes each day. Walk? Run? Dance (like a formerly Baptist white girl)? Channel my inner Jillian Michaels? Shaun T? Billy Blanks? Jeff Galloway? Adriene Mishler? What does that 50 minutes look like and how in the hell do I make it happen? Stay tuned…</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">I mean...sometimes? Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. I tried to get my steps in. I trained for the 1/2 marathon, and got up to 10 miles before life and COVID got in the way. But did I move intentionally every day? Probably not.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get rid of 50 items of clothing. Don’t pretend that I’ll have time to sell it. I won’t. I really should just delete Mercari and Poshmark. Maybe I’ll do the </span><a href="https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/the-closet-tric-35781" style="color: #f38c1c; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">hanger thing</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Maybe I’ll </span><a href="https://www.lifestorage.com/blog/organization/konmari-closet-method/" style="color: #f38c1c; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Marie Kondo</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the closet. (we all know I probably won’t do that.) Maybe I’ll just get rid of stuff that isn’t comfortable. I can do that.</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Girl. I totally did this. I got rid of a LOT of stuff. 3 boxes sent to ThredUp. 2 more dropped of to charity. I still have more to sort through, but I definitely got rid of some stuff.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Break the “</span><a href="https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20161123-shopping-a-sale-gives-you-the-same-feeling-as-getting-high" style="color: #f38c1c; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shopping High</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” addiction. Do. Not. Buy. Clothes (or shoes) in 2022. Do Not. (Except for bras and running shoes. But I will not buy impulsively. I will not buy online. I will not.)</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I worked really hard on this. I did buy some things. I blame my job. They changed their mascot, and that led to some purchases. Also, harem pants came back into fashion. Just sayin...</span></span><span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I was a lot better this year. A lot more frugal. Fewer impulse buys. Fewer hopeful purchases. Fewer Facebook scams. I did buy clothes (mostly hoodies. and harem pants) but I broke the addiction. And, fwiw, I still haven't found a comfortable bra.</span></span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drink 50 oz of pure water each day. Not coffee. Not tea. Not Coke Zero. Not Seltzer. Not Vodka. Not water with vodka. Just pure water. Drink it. (And then drink the other things.)</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yeah, no.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Write 50 blog posts. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be. Look, a list! Blog post #1 done.</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think I wrote 11. </span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lose 50 lbs. I know, I know. Weight loss should never be a New Year’s Resolution. But I’m tired of feeling run-down and I know why I feel this way, and I need to value my own health more than I value a drink or some fries or my pride. </span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There's a reason that weight loss should never be a New Year's Resolution. I only lost 5 lbs this year. But you know what? I don't feel tired and run-down and dragged out anymore. I'm not where I want to be, but I feel better about where I am. So...even though the scale hasn't really moved, I'm going to call this one a win.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Go to bed (on average) 50 minutes earlier S-Th. 50 minutes means more sleep, less alcohol, less mind-numbing. Rest more.</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I averaged 30 minutes more sleep/night. Except, yanno, tonight. 'Cause that's how averages work.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Make an extra $50/week through subbing and save it for something special. Maybe take that trip, finally, with the girls. </span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did take that trip with the girls. And I did start the upper half of my sleeve. I haven't paid down debt. But I did save for something(s) special. And it was worth the extra work.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Make an extra $50/week through freelance and pay down debt. </span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">See above. Still debty.</span></span></p><div><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><ol style="background-color: white; color: #4e2800; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do something technology-free for 50 min/day. Meditation? Reading? Going for a walk? Put the phone down and just exist in the world.</span></p></li></ol><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I actually read a couple of books this year. And that was huge. To sit with a book, screens off, and just allow myself the time --guilt free-- to read. I can't wait for the next break to be able to read again. I rebuilt some of that reading stamina, and now I just need to carve out the time.</span></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, that was my to-do list for 2022. My 50th year (that I know of) on this planet.</span></h3><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I really didn't hit my target(s). But I also feel pretty okay about where I'm at.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I'm officially as old as the Egg McMuffin, according to my son.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>But --spoiler alert-- I always have been.</b></i></span></span></h3><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the Egg McMuffin has been around for 50 years because it's a damn good sandwich. With or without the Canadian Bacon (I choose without, because, ewww, FLESH), it comes in around 300ish calories of reliable comfort food. It'll fill you up without making you regret your life choices. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And an Egg McMuffin? It's a classic. But also current. It's kind of fucking delicious. A perfect blend of crunchy and savory and salty and protein. It's satisfying. It's not going anywhere.</span></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has staying power.</span></span></h3><div><span style="color: #4e2800;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><b>And so do I.</b></h3>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-85833897130429184652022-08-22T17:24:00.004-07:002022-08-22T17:30:01.079-07:00Reflections re: my Mojo<p> I've been asked several times in the last two weeks: "So, did you do it? Did you get your mojo back?"</p><p>If you've kept up with my writing this summer, you know that I've been trying to work on me, and reclaim my love of reading, my love of self, my love of writing, and some semblance of order in my house.</p><p>You also know that I lost a couple of weeks of productivity with COVID. And, if you follow me on the Book of Face, you know that I've also spent some time traveling for work and for play. All in all, it's been a super busy summer, full of some amazing moments and a lot of nature (and a lot of coughing). </p><p><b>Here's a quick update on all of the things.</b></p><p>I didn't read all of the books I wanted to read. But I did read Kal Penn's <i>You Can't Be Serious</i> on a whim and it was amazing. I liked it as much as I liked Trevor Noah's <i>Born a Crime. </i>Other books were hit or miss; some I finished, some I put down after 40 pages, and some are overdue at the library as we speak.</p><p>I still have to go through all of my pants and get rid of the ones that will never fit again, get rid of the ones that dig into me and make me feel like a sausage. But everything else in my closet is cleaned out. 5 huge boxes to Thred Up and Volunteers of America. 10 pairs of shoes gone. Everything in my closet (except for the piles of pants) fits and makes me feel good about myself. I'm no longer staring at piles of clothing, mocking me for who I am now.</p><p>The rest of the house is as clean as it's going to be. Boxes of old toys, kids' art supplies, and old sports equipment are gone. The broken recliner and art cabinet are gone. The floors are mopped. That nasty space between the sink and the toilet is clean. That unopened jar of pepper jelly from 2005 has been thrown away. All of the mini-boxes of sugar corn pops and golden grahams have gone to the food pantry. The wrinkled apples are now a pie.</p><p>I didn't get my fitness level permanently nudged up on my Fitbit. It still says that my fitness is between "poor" and "fair." I had huge hopes of a summer of fitness, working my way back into running, getting my resting heartbeat lowered, and starting to feel fit again. I managed to drop my resting heartbeat about 10 beats per minute when I was camping, or on vacation. But here I am, the day before school starts again, and I'm right back up to where I was in June. But I also know that I AM more fit than I was. I can see and feel strength in my arms and shoulders. I can jog up a flight of stairs without holding on to the railing. And yesterday, I interval/ran 6 miles. </p><p>More importantly, when I look in the mirror, I'm beginning to see my beauty again. I'm not as mad at the scale, and I'm not mad at myself anymore. Sure, I'm a big<span style="font-family: inherit;"> girl <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— and I'm a beautiful woman. Both can be true. Both are true. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>So, did I get my mojo back?</b></span></span></p><p>I mean...kinda? I feel more like me. More like I can be me.</p><p>And I'm proud of me. I'm proud of my beautiful <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— albeit perpetually cluttered </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— home. I'm proud that I can go out and interval/run for 6 miles. I'm proud that I can go up the stairs without breaking a sweat. I'm proud that I can pick up a book and read a chapter, that I've built some stamina. I'm proud that I wrote about my journey this summer and that you wanted to read it.</span></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD51ySyWsrEfGZ8mcswGHgKt1AFn3BL8kEPUX2gw1TbDfZk8n810HLFT6fQymS-PtbyMUJ4BwAkee42m6PUtKuBRXxPj5mr-k-Z0sBSk-6dPKc7fZg-OJ0bwmiAD3qC63QiXc98Rpd0qA8WU9VfXPblV_CX6jBBfLUN5Z3p2G9nYEq7n4Z5XHRBPYf4A/s5579/denise-johnson--_cRkZvAtI8-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3464" data-original-width="5579" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD51ySyWsrEfGZ8mcswGHgKt1AFn3BL8kEPUX2gw1TbDfZk8n810HLFT6fQymS-PtbyMUJ4BwAkee42m6PUtKuBRXxPj5mr-k-Z0sBSk-6dPKc7fZg-OJ0bwmiAD3qC63QiXc98Rpd0qA8WU9VfXPblV_CX6jBBfLUN5Z3p2G9nYEq7n4Z5XHRBPYf4A/w400-h249/denise-johnson--_cRkZvAtI8-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@auntneecey?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Denise Johnson</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/beautiful?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And when I look in the mirror, I'm proud of who I see. It's taken me a long time to see her again, looking back at me. </span><p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">She is a beautiful woman.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">She is a work in progress.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">She is me.<br /></span></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-11464456703367519572022-07-27T13:22:00.000-07:002022-07-27T13:22:14.729-07:00Trying to Get my Mojo Back, Part 3<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me: I have body issues.</span></b></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a teen, I absorbed all of the toxic messaging of the 80’s and 90’s, with its hyper-focus on BMI, the “obesity epidemic,” and how many calories were in fats versus carbs and proteins. I remember looking around my high school classes, and realizing that there was only 1 girl heavier than me. And once I got to college, surrounded by college sorority girls, I was told that I was cute, but I was never told that I was beautiful. It was clear to me that college girls were hot. I was not. I was smart, competent, reliable, available. I was not hot.</span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-f8b3e078-7fff-54fd-42ec-016c015060c8"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then…a career teaching high school has me surrounded by girls at the fetishized age. I am surrounded always by 16 year old girls, before childbirth and life and menopause destroys their abs and draws lines down their legs and wrinkles their decolletage. Surrounded by the “perfect female form” that is not even yet an adult.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my teens and twenties, I used to define myself by the male (and female) gaze. Only if I could get that slight smile, that look up and down followed by a narrowing of the eyes and a quick jerk up with the chin —an unspoken but clearly communicated “whassup” of approval— only then did I know that I was attractive. But that kind of neediness and reliance on others was harmful —is harmful— not only to me, but also to my relationships. Needing approval from others who will always eventually desire someone else smaller, firmer, younger —it’s toxic. And it’s just fucking wrong. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>My physical attractiveness has fuckall to do with the gazes of others.</b></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our collective obsession with </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thin</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">fit</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and even </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">curvy</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">* has moralized weight, as if those who are thin and fit (and curvy*) are deserving of their size because they’ve worked hard for it, while the rest of us clearly are gluttonous, lazy, self-indulgent piles of lard.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But thin people aren’t more virtuous because they are thin. They don’t work harder. They don’t eat less. They don’t deserve more admiration because they won the genetic lottery. Thin people are thin because they are </span><a href="https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2019/01/190124141538.htm" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">predisposed to being thin</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. They are not morally superior. And they are not more beautiful.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s taken me 49 years of never being thin enough —never being fit enough— and a summer of listening to the podcast </span><a href="https://www.maintenancephase.com/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maintenance Phase</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and realizing how much of the toxic messaging I have absorbed in my lifetime…it’s taken me 49 years to say the quiet part out loud: </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if this is the size that I am for the rest of my life? What if I am never again a size 12? How do I figure out how to look in the mirror and see a beautiful woman looking back at me?</span></p><br /><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So that’s part 3 of trying to get my mojo back: trying to remember what it’s like to feel attractive, and to finally know that I am beautiful. But instead of relying on the compliments of others, the number on the scale or the number on the back of my jeans, I want to find other ways to measure. </span></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-f6UfC41U4oPw1wEcY2EMFIrBEDyoVO8nIvtYdAHu3YrDfA4RaPDSZhgS-pTPNfijZn49P5oT_a7oKJtQzMXVkoNH2nPajNwWnnl8o2RILqbmklUhmVAUvZKdEMp4vRUTTUJ8-BsQNbdhRnJ2cgljhR4w7PuJxKgIe9mM92adXW98GRhzoFEoLZrgg/s6000/aleksander-vlad-aN_L8EIyqOs-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-f6UfC41U4oPw1wEcY2EMFIrBEDyoVO8nIvtYdAHu3YrDfA4RaPDSZhgS-pTPNfijZn49P5oT_a7oKJtQzMXVkoNH2nPajNwWnnl8o2RILqbmklUhmVAUvZKdEMp4vRUTTUJ8-BsQNbdhRnJ2cgljhR4w7PuJxKgIe9mM92adXW98GRhzoFEoLZrgg/w266-h400/aleksander-vlad-aN_L8EIyqOs-unsplash.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@aleksowlade?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Aleksander Vlad</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/mirror?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I want to slowly run again, working intervals into a daily routine, moving because it feels good to move. I want to climb the stairs and feel powerful instead of winded. To feel the muscles in my thighs working, the strength in my calves, the tendons and ligaments working together in strength. </span></p><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></p></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to increase my lung capacity and lower my resting heart rate. I want to stretch and find flexibility instead of judgment in my movement.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But most importantly, instead of finding approval in the gazes of others, I want to find it in my own gaze. I want to look myself up and down, a slight narrowing of my eyes. A Mona Lisa smile smiling back at me. A slight nod of the chin. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An unspoken energy vibrating in the air. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span><span><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>“Whassup, girl. You look good.”</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Curvy = bigger, but still without rolls or wrinkles. Like J. Lo or Beyonce.</span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-18616823562431401982022-07-22T10:48:00.008-07:002022-07-22T18:26:15.653-07:00Trying to Get my Mojo Back, part 2<p>Hey, there! I'm back! </p><p>If you wondered where I've been, I've been in my front yard taking deep breaths and a lot of naps. Although I would consider my COVID case to be mild, it still kicked my ass for about a week and a 1/2. But, I'm coughing less, I'm less out of breath, and I'm heading outside to mow the lawn here in a few. All this to say: if you are following my "get my mojo back" journey for inspiration on how to do it, getting COVID is the <i>opposite</i> of what you should do. 0/10 would not recommend.</p><p>So, what's my Mojo, you ask? It's just me. Finding me again. Feeling okay in my own skin. Relearning how to love the things I used to love. Relearning how to look in the mirror and see beauty. Relearning how to fill my lungs with air and feel accomplished. Trying to learn some self-acceptance.</p><p>My journey this summer to try to find myself again has 4 parts to it: <a href="http://mandatoryamusings.blogspot.com/2022/07/trying-to-get-my-mojo-back-part-1.html">Reading</a>, Writing, Moving, and Cleaning. And my goal was to dedicate 30 days (non-contiguous) to to the journey. COVID took me out on day 18, so I've got a long way to go and not a lot of time left. </p><p><b>And now I'm going to admit to my life-long struggle with cleaning.</b></p><p>I grew up in households where moms maintained the cleaning, and where daily and weekly kid chores were the norm. Weekly, I scoured the bathroom sink. Why? I still am not sure. Like, doesn't the toothpaste just clean it on its own? Regardless, that was one of my chores. Dusting was another. Folding the laundry and doing the dishes were also on my task lists. </p><p>These houses were always spotless, as were the homes of my grandparents.</p><p>But here's the thing: these houses also had a cleaning lady who came in a couple of times a month for $25/hour and did the big stuff.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcNTAw5vlrXxQNxd9QUr1G-K801nDkPCqCKc9Afya8CTwqo0HqYMIE-aj2unvdMxC4EorJnmqHwRf5KpaPFIBXOoWRtTv0Cuhl4NB8Quev5WXu5dhIbzPIFJHM5IG8lSqYgD6Q-1UaRrfNNZCy8OPgVdHJzBOoQ1zHgbRK7P2SRrveDZbk77toS2baQ/s4200/jeshoots-com-__ZMnefoI3k-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2800" data-original-width="4200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcNTAw5vlrXxQNxd9QUr1G-K801nDkPCqCKc9Afya8CTwqo0HqYMIE-aj2unvdMxC4EorJnmqHwRf5KpaPFIBXOoWRtTv0Cuhl4NB8Quev5WXu5dhIbzPIFJHM5IG8lSqYgD6Q-1UaRrfNNZCy8OPgVdHJzBOoQ1zHgbRK7P2SRrveDZbk77toS2baQ/s320/jeshoots-com-__ZMnefoI3k-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jeshoots?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">JESHOOTS.COM</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/cleaning?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b>I have never had a cleaning lady. And my own kids don't chore.</b></p><p>And so, some things in my household get done: I pay the bills, buy the groceries, cook the meals, fold the laundry, clean the toilets, wipe down the sinks, do the yardwork and gardening. Michael vacuums the carpets and sorts and washes the laundry and unplugs the shower drain on the regular. Helena waters the plants. I'm trying to convince Sam to fill the bird feeders and scoop the cat litter. The trash gets taken out and the dishwasher gets unloaded by whoever is annoyed by it at the time.</p><p>But the other stuff? The decluttering and the dusting and the mopping of floors? It just doesn't happen. Ever.</p><p>I don't have time during the school year to do this stuff. I have too much on my plate as it is. And I also don't have the money to hire a cleaning lady. It doesn't make financial sense to take on another freelance job just to pay someone to mop the floors.</p><p>So, this summer, I have 30 days to get it done.</p><p>So far, I've deep cleaned everything in the main bathroom except the floor. And I've gone through all of the stuff in the pantry and refrigerator, and thrown out outdated stuff and donated the stuff we just haven't eaten in the last year. Two huge trash bags of stuff have gone out, and I actually (temporarily) know where everything is in these 2 rooms. I still have to clean out all the kitchen drawers, where crumbs have overtaken the silverware drawer, and where paperclips and coffee grounds have invaded the "cooking implements" drawers. And I still have to mop the damn floors.</p><p>Next up, the living room and storage area. Sports equipment and art supplies for days. Everything must go.</p><p>And finally, my own bedroom closet, where I am determined to actually purge 6 sizes worth of clothes that no longer fit. </p><p>I wish I had time to sell all the stuff, but I don't. </p><p>I wish I had time to Marie Kondo it, but I don't.</p><p>Instead, I'm shoving clutter into trash bags, I'm mailing bags of clothes to ThredUp so I can get 20 cents back on the 1000s of dollars I've spent, and I'm wiping surfaces down with a Clorox wipe and calling it good.</p><p>My house will never stand up to the standards of my moms, but I swear it's going to be cleaner around here by the end of 30 days. </p><p><b>Less stuff. Less clutter. Less dust. Less guilt.</b></p><p>As soon as I mop the damn floors.</p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-58290170316412780402022-07-14T19:00:00.005-07:002022-07-14T20:03:45.767-07:00The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 101<h3 style="text-align: left;">I've been trying to figure out exactly where and how I contracted this virus. </h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn't careful out in California. My goal was to make it there, enjoy every minute, and let the chips fall where they may. I purposely didn't wear a mask on the plane home (I announced) because <span id="docs-internal-guid-3a59c535-7fff-c97b-4eb6-48ca64324262"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span></span>if I was going to catch it <span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span>if I hadn't already had it at some point in the last two years <span id="docs-internal-guid-3a59c535-7fff-c97b-4eb6-48ca64324262"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span></span>then this next week was the perfect time to get it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so, here I am. Thanks, foreshadowing. You're swell.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">To be clear <span id="docs-internal-guid-3a59c535-7fff-c97b-4eb6-48ca64324262"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> there were others on the plane who masked the entire time who also got it. And there were even more who were unmasked all day every day who are magically in the clear. I don't actually think it was the plane. I think it was the public bathroom in San Francisco. But it also could have been a random cough by a passerby anytime, anywhere. It could have been just simply in the air. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes I wonder if it's all security theater.</span></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5T6dTqNQSuYf82FUcDQbd0vln6krEbEBpnGyC7tJQcebK1xPFxCwcP0cXKxV-QtJubb1hhXFE94AzxmYGmIvlg3yRIUJVO3ztjEmmncOfqhWqdYdHBT6jy-77_V8xd-BR-uY4w1ECUSCLNYSFeHNOPrsOri8JDg_S56D63SAF12NvO8K6DIh6OQgZxg/s3999/markus-winkler-cNtE1RGxExA-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3999" data-original-width="2666" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5T6dTqNQSuYf82FUcDQbd0vln6krEbEBpnGyC7tJQcebK1xPFxCwcP0cXKxV-QtJubb1hhXFE94AzxmYGmIvlg3yRIUJVO3ztjEmmncOfqhWqdYdHBT6jy-77_V8xd-BR-uY4w1ECUSCLNYSFeHNOPrsOri8JDg_S56D63SAF12NvO8K6DIh6OQgZxg/s320/markus-winkler-cNtE1RGxExA-unsplash.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@markuswinkler?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Markus Winkler</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/quarantine?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even so, I sequester myself outside from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., coming inside only to pee, get the kids out of bed, or find something to eat while I hold my breath in the kitchen. The other 12 hours I sit on my bed, watching Netflix on my computer propped up on a laundry basket, or try to sleep. It might be security theater but it also might not be and I'm still going to trust the medical professionals and science.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't feel particularly good, but I don't feel particularly bad. I'm vaxxed and boosted, and I'd been exposed 1000 times before in my job and in my own home, so I'm sure I've got a pretty high immunity to this asshole. Mostly, I'm just tired. Climbing the stairs makes me out of breath. My back is sore, both to touch and to move, like I got in a good workout whilst also getting sunburned. I've got a cold, but it's more annoying than horrible, making me cough at inopportune times, making me sound like a smoker, making my nose run <span id="docs-internal-guid-3a59c535-7fff-c97b-4eb6-48ca64324262"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span></span> not enough to blow, just enough to endlessly wipe on my disgusting sleeve. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I feel guilty. Guilty that I wasn't careful around my mom. Guilty that I had a long, joking (unmasked) conversation with the pharmacist and my son at the counter, arguing about the metric system, before I came home with my 8 free COVID tests and immediately tested positive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I'm bored, but not so bored that the exhaustion fades away enough for me to get the mulch down and weed the garden. I'm bored enough to feel put out that no one can hear me in the house unless I call them on the phone, and I just need to make sure that they took the pizzas out of the oven. I'm bored enough to scroll through my email, but not bored enough to overcome the malaise and respond. I'm bored enough to pull up a crossword puzzle, but I'm too tired to actually do it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I know that I am so very, very lucky. I am so privileged to have an outdoor space to sit, to have had access to vaccines, to have had this week of vacation time with very little on my plate, and to have a partner who will step up and take my daughter to practice and my son to get his glasses fixed, even if he also has to ask me how big to chop the onions, as if I have an actual recipe for anything I cook. I still make the coffee for him after he goes to bed, although I am careful not to exhale.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am one of the lucky ones. Over 1,000,000 people have died in our country alone. I have no underlying conditions. I'm healthy and relatively fit and only just pushing middle-aged. I'm vaxxed. I'm middle class in a middle class community. I'm white, with a history of health and longevity and prosperity in my genetic makeup. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This will just be an inconvenience, and then I will get on with the rest of my life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so...I am annoyed. I am bored. I am not feeling 100%. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But yet, I am totally fine.</span></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-63839798491495117362022-07-12T19:09:00.009-07:002022-07-12T21:07:37.405-07:00Trying to Get My Mojo Back, part 1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkKHwumXFu_g3THGzbNDF7V5Bs0QXFj1HoIKWTdvYEUTa2EkblUan7Dt5kTd1NEnRk9gSV3H6VyFL5CYeObsJ5jPZKeWf3TggtZzNg5OxXEg-4c5opesuaPZWkEwSRTFsU0R2BA8exESC5Mp4RBWOIph0ldSQRbeJyLwMxy1ijuWHXMP9_VVr4o_DiA/s718/Screenshot%20(69).png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="718" data-original-width="666" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkKHwumXFu_g3THGzbNDF7V5Bs0QXFj1HoIKWTdvYEUTa2EkblUan7Dt5kTd1NEnRk9gSV3H6VyFL5CYeObsJ5jPZKeWf3TggtZzNg5OxXEg-4c5opesuaPZWkEwSRTFsU0R2BA8exESC5Mp4RBWOIph0ldSQRbeJyLwMxy1ijuWHXMP9_VVr4o_DiA/s320/Screenshot%20(69).png" width="297" /></a></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Part 1: Relearning How to Read</span></h3><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you've been following me at all on Facebook, you know that I've been posting about my own 30-day challenge <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span>a challenge to get my mojo back. Merriam-Webster defines "mojo" as "a magic spell, hex, or charm; magical power." And my mojo is <i>gone.</i></span><p></p><p>One magical power I used to have, a lifetime ago, is that I used to be a reader. I read voraciously as a kid <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— under the covers with a flashlight, sitting on the floor by the christmas lights, in a tree, in the barn, down by the river. I read any book I could get my hands on </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">—The <i>Narnia </i>series<i>, Rebecca </i>(both Maxim's first wife, and also <i>of Sunnybrook Farm</i>), <i>Little Women </i>and <i>Little Men, Harlequin </i>romances with the sexy scenes Sharpied out by my Oma, <i>The Thorn Birds</i>, the entire <i>Love Comes Softly</i> series, the books in my Grandma's bathroom (next to her secret cigarettes) that would fall open to the sexy scenes if you laid them on their spines.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I used to love to read.</span></h3><p>But then I went to college and had to resort to reading CliffsNotes to make it through the reading lists of my classes while also trying to maintain relationships and work 30 hours/week. When I did read, it was to try to connect with my future husband, to read what he loved, so that I could love the things he loved (spoiler: it didn't work). And when I became a teacher, even that reading disappeared, replaced by panicked-reading of the books I had to teach, milk creates of journals, reams of research papers and personal narratives and short fiction stories where the protagonist always dies in a car crash on the way to prom.</p><p>Two decades ago, when we were all children, I was in a book club. Sometimes I read the book; sometimes I didn't. Usually I was speed-reading the night before our book club meeting, desperately trying to finish, so that I could both drink wine <i>and </i>talk about the book the next night. But book club petered out, as book clubs do, when people got married, had kids, moved away, got other jobs, got other degrees.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">And now I need reading glasses.</h3><p>For the last decade, I've vowed to read at least 2 books every summer, at least 1 book on winter break. That's it. That's all I read. I don't even enjoy it anymore, the eye strain and the terrible metaphors and the terror of finishing a book, knowing it will be over soon and I'll never see those people again. Over the last decade, I've fallen in love with <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Poet-X-Elizabeth-Acevedo/dp/0062662805">The Poet X</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/East-Eden-Penguin-Orange-Collection/dp/0143129481">East of Eden</a>,</i>and<i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/There-novel-Tommy-Orange/dp/0525520376">There There</a>; </i>I read <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Holes-Louis-Sachar/dp/0440414806/ref=sr_1_1?crid=38MCCXSRWAV48&keywords=holes&qid=1657677456&s=books&sprefix=holes%2Cstripbooks%2C96&sr=1-1">Holes</a></i> because my son said it was the greatest book of all time, I tried to read <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/All-American-Boys-Jason-Reynolds/dp/1481463349/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1T8KALAZLJVCT&keywords=all+american+boys&qid=1657677528&s=books&sprefix=all+american+boys%2Cstripbooks%2C79&sr=1-1">All American Boys</a></i> and got bored, and I read scores of books as I changed schools and changed grade levels and changed curriculum. But each book was a chore, a task I had to force myself to do, a job.</p><p>So, this summer, I am going to try to get my mojo back. I'm going to try to rediscover the joy of reading. I'm going to try to read because I want to, not because I have to. I'm going to try to read books I've wanted to read, books I've impulse bought, books that have been suggested to me, books with the sexy bits still intact.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">So far this summer, I've read:</h3><p><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Orphan-Keeper-Camron-Wright/dp/1629723320/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3NMDAOC0GMWJY&keywords=the+orphan+keeper&qid=1657675117&s=books&sprefix=the+orphan+keeper%2Cstripbooks%2C84&sr=1-1">The Orphan Keeper</a> </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— A good book, not a great one. The true story of an Indian boy, kidnapped, sold, then adopted in America, I was hooked on his story, the story of resilience of a little boy trying to navigate a system he didn't understand. And then the boy ended up in America, adopted by a well-meaning family who had no idea that the boy had a family back in India, and I wanted to keep reading...until the book skipped a decade and suddenly the boy was a man. I wanted to learn about how he survived American middle school, how he navigated high school, how he bonded (or didn't) with his adoptive family, but instead the book skipped all that, and focused on his return to India as an adult. I wanted the story of the child.</span></p><p><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Americanah-Ala-Notable-Books-Adults-ebook/dp/B00A9ET4MC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=10ATC0NFX6IYF&keywords=americanah&qid=1657675607&s=books&sprefix=americanah%2Cstripbooks%2C83&sr=1-1">Americanah</a> </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— Just go read it now. You're welcome.</span></p><p><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Oranges-Are-Not-Only-Fruit/dp/0802135161">Oranges are Not the Only Fruit</a> </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— Love, love, love. I love this quirky little girl, her obsessed mom, her imagination, her unique perspective on the world. I wanted to read it again as soon as I put it down. I wanted to look it up on Sparknotes, afraid I was missing something brilliant, and I wanted to not care that maybe I misinterpreted something because this was the book I read and this was what I got from it.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">So far this summer, I've put down and walked away from:</h3><p><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Funny-Farsi-Growing-Iranian-America/dp/0812968379">Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America</a> </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— I wanted to love this book. It came highly recommended, and I tried, for about 40 pages. And then I realized that I was dreading the book, skimming pages, trying to finish...and that's no way to read a book. I hated the narrator, hated the way she talked about her parents, told her funny stories that, to me, felt more mocking than loving. I wanted to read her experiences like I read Amy Tan, with awe at the beauty and pain at the tension, but instead I was skimming it like Foxnews.com, just trying to get through it and make sure I don't miss something in the narrative, but hating every word on the page. Finally, I put it down and walked away.</span></p><p><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Want-More-Than-Survive-Abolitionist/dp/0807069159">We Want to Do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom</a> </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— I'll come back to this one. I want to read it, and I'm learning a lot, but I don't want to think about work right now, and this book forces me to think about the students in my room, and how to be the best teacher that I can be for them. Right now, I don't want to think about the students in my room; right now I want to relearn how to love reading. Right now, I don't want to think about the enormity of my job; right now, I just want to read.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I have many more on my list this summer. I still want to read:</span></h3><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dream-About-Lightning-Bugs-Lessons/dp/1984817272/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3872Z41B7QO8X&keywords=lightning+bugs+ben+folds&qid=1657675665&s=books&sprefix=lightnigng+bugs+ben+folds%2Cstripbooks%2C122&sr=1-1">A Dream About Lightning Bugs: A Life of Music and Cheap Lessons</a>.</i> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I love Ben Folds. I've listened to his life story in music. Now I want to read it in prose.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-River-Cash-Blackbear-Mystery/dp/1641293764/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3JY2AN3S9H26R&keywords=murder+on+the+red+river&qid=1657676293&s=books&sprefix=murder+on+the+red+r%2Cstripbooks%2C100&sr=1-1"><i>Murder on the Red River</i> </a></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— A student recommended this. Unlike the other recommendations I got this year (<i>Anna Karenina</i>?? Just, no.) this one seemed worth a shot. Plus, I really liked the student, and it's a genre I don't usually read. I'll give it a shot.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Long-Walk-Stephen-King/dp/150114426X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=37Q6MIPTPL8AO&keywords=the+long+walk&qid=1657676448&s=books&sprefix=the+long+walk%2Cstripbooks%2C81&sr=1-1">The Long Walk</a> </i></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— I hate horror but I love Stephen King's writing, and I was promised that this one wasn't scary. I started it last summer and had to put it down when school started. I want to pick it back up again.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Firekeepers-Daughter-Angeline-Boulley/dp/1786079062/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2P5SEJI5EZD7V&keywords=the+firekeeper%27s+daughter&qid=1657676577&s=books&sprefix=the+firekeeper%27s+daughter%2Cstripbooks%2C81&sr=1-1">Firekeeper's Daughter</a> </i></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— I bought this last Christmas as a gift to myself, and then another one was gifted to me this summer. I've been waiting for the right time to read it, a time when I won't be interrupted 100 times an hour, a time where I can just read it cover to cover, even in a single sitting if that's how I want to read it. I plan to take this one camping, when I can be off the grid, laying in a hammock or on the beach...and I can just read.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/You-Cant-Serious-Kal-Penn/dp/1982171383">You Can't Be Serious</a> </i></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— I read somewhere that this was a great read. I'm hoping it is.</span></p>There are another 45 "I want to read" books on my "want to read" shelf...but for now, I am trying to learn how to read for pleasure once again. I am slowly building reading stamina, slowly trying to beat back the guilt of sitting and doing nothing for hours at a time when I should be cleaning or working or paying attention to everything and everyone else in my life <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span>and I recognize the irony of putting "Relearn how to read for pleasure" on my to-do list <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span> but right here, right now, I just want to get my mojo back, and rediscover my love of reading and my ability to get lost in a book.</div><h3 style="text-align: left;">Today, I wrote.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzoeuO5jw-XY5ur-aufPlZkmr7IZMSjqIeMnq_K9tmeWYIAKFTD6LfifKyzQhBPRh2nJUNvshULhMJgJ2Wqha1u4-nb-JOZTh7s76TzeOkjQwUk_iaCyfQqFobrFCqZw-jCCeLidx3mR-gpHlAo1WjvG0V44MMOxAY6Ljnay_TTR45xdfbGVvBUKqUNg/s4514/aaron-burden-6jYoil2GhVk-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3385" data-original-width="4514" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzoeuO5jw-XY5ur-aufPlZkmr7IZMSjqIeMnq_K9tmeWYIAKFTD6LfifKyzQhBPRh2nJUNvshULhMJgJ2Wqha1u4-nb-JOZTh7s76TzeOkjQwUk_iaCyfQqFobrFCqZw-jCCeLidx3mR-gpHlAo1WjvG0V44MMOxAY6Ljnay_TTR45xdfbGVvBUKqUNg/w320-h240/aaron-burden-6jYoil2GhVk-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@aaronburden?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Aaron Burden</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/reading?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;">Tomorrow, I'm going to read.</h3><div><p></p></div>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-54730636943568796162022-07-05T16:30:00.004-07:002022-07-05T16:30:59.182-07:00Imposter Syndrome<div class="separator"></div><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">They see me as the expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie is here with a writing workshop for you and she’s going to teach you how to write for college.” 20 eyes look at me resignedly…they don’t really want to be here. They are tired. They don’t really want to write. They’d rather be somewhere else. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I am the expert of nothing in this space. And yet, here I am.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-a2e81dd1-7fff-637f-024c-66ecd89a562a"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t sleep well last night. I am exhausted. I heard the rain, felt the thunder. Couldn’t get the song on auto-repeat out of my head. My fitbit says I got 4 hours and 5 minutes of sleep. How do I reach 10 kids I’ve never even met about “college writing” and get them interested in something? I wouldn’t be interested in that workshop, not then, not now. I have no idea what I’m doing in this space. I’m not even sure I know anything about how to write. I’ve always been nervous before a new school year begins —</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Can I hook them in? Will they think I’m funny? Will they trust me enough to go on the journey with me? Do I have what it takes?</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— but this is even worse. I have 3 hours to reach 10 kids.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am an imposter.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They see me as an expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie from Chippewa River Writing Project is here to lead Write Across America activity today.” Oh dear. I can’t get my sound enabled, my mic is a hot mess, there’s a dump truck driving down the road and the lady next door decided to choose this moment to mow her lawn. I have my doctorate in ed tech and I’ve been running zoom meetings for years and today I can’t figure out how to enable co-host, how to get the video to play with sound, and how to get my neighbor to pick more convenient times for her yard work.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am an imposter.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tell them I’m a runner. I have a running girl tattooed on my ankle. Just 3 years ago, I hit </span><a href="https://www.runeveryday.com/women_retired.php#:~:text=202-,Sharon%20Murchie,-2017%2D01%2D01" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1064 days</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> on my running streak before I broke my ankle. I was heavy then. I’m heavier now. I still list “runner” on my bio, but I know that my occasional slow jogs aren’t much. I probably couldn’t run much more than a mile right now. But I stubbornly hold on to that title. I am a runner. I am a runner on back roads in the country, where no one will see me, no one will judge my form. I hear their voices in my head…”awww, look at that fat old lady trying to run.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am an imposter. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="border: none; clear: right; display: inline-block; float: right; height: 174px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; overflow: hidden; width: 327px;"><img height="640" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/14f0ztKJpcYyU5PTv2jGlCPnkdRQ6opjaGIWwX7f4vaHI2HXESiQqzPjzjcyNhJSyLRRG9MYmQhTUl5WFjDNEva3aSge0oTTc4OeIS1P4xJxYZH2z5mxs1Q6YpIz6rGGKhFqCjAPoZ9oxSXmcCo=w323-h640" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: -67.91582041988801px;" width="323" /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’re such a great mom,” they tell me. I look at them out of the corner of my eye…if only they knew. My daughter didn’t come out of her room yesterday, even though her Nana was there to visit. My son hung up on me when I called him, mad that I’d ruined his summer by following his doctor’s orders and forcing him to go to physical therapy. They don’t know how to do laundry, how to do dishes. I hide nothing from them and they know about the world…but they don’t know how to make pancakes or mow the lawn. They drop the F-bomb every third sentence, even in front of Nana, when they should know better. They argue with me about everything. They are smart and passionate and compassionate and active and they were on their phones for 14 hours yesterday.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am an imposter.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder what it would be like, to see me through their eyes, the people who think I know what I’m doing. Am I smart? Mean? Fat? Old? Cool Mom? Weird? Lazy? Driven? What do they see?<span style="border: none; clear: right; display: inline-block; float: right; height: 434px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; overflow: hidden; width: 310px;"><img height="661.1301521595007" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/wyLiqT4w5z7Xg3UlYtHsVWC54xEXDRwtLmty9-UUpjnbLyAvWYW3duwbim_atfHo2i6K9oxSqqlas015eeyXXYKhgh8J3CEVrnQFPUSLZADAX9JplQncWTCweT1q2pVbuiV9v17sSjGM0a6w40M" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: -38.59815224700879px;" width="310" /></span></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Would I like me?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think, through their eyes, that I might be kind of bad-ass. That’s a strange thought…me as bad-ass. But I think maybe that’s what they see.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think, through their eyes, they might see me as strong and capable. As unique. As a pretty woman who doesn’t look bad for her age. I’m sure that the first thing they see is my weight, but what if it’s not? What if the first thing they see is my heart? What if the first thing they see is my soul?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think that, through their eyes, I might be okay. I might be an expert. I might be capable. I might not be an imposter.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think that they might be kinder to me than I am to myself.</span></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-52207162032964667812022-07-04T19:28:00.004-07:002022-07-05T16:11:47.915-07:00Our Country 'Tis of Thee<div class="separator"><span style="border: none; clear: right; display: inline-block; filter: brightness(0.94) contrast(0.94); float: right; height: 255px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; overflow: hidden; width: 251px;"><img height="255" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/xdtmD0cHMfjOO9ZjXLbNlHGcC-_6vOq7nO9EGyX3lQAUaI54S-tIS8rgvo4IBTk1R2fRwvSoPdE4ltYrRcQjZSQe8LTr_VhLaB3BRuX_DHpnQkmUpvuCO-WwUSFx_kDOCTztVnskXgfhClK_XA" style="margin-left: -111.683px; margin-top: 0px;" width="493.9403669724771" /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>We are not a Sweet Land of Liberty. We never have been.</b></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-707c6a6a-7fff-d4a4-8569-3533ce24bf39"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to find the will to celebrate our country, but it has been a difficult few years around here, a difficult few weeks. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">States’ rights to force birth now mean more than a woman’s bodily autonomy. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have more rights to own a gun than we do to own our own body. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We’ve lost the division between church and state; we now uphold a man’s right to publicly pray to a Christian god on center field with his high school team at a public school football game under the guise of free speech. Guns and Prayers. 'Murica. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://mavenroundtable.io/theintellectualist/news/analysis-18-of-the-u-s-population-elects-52-of-the-country-s-senators">18% of the country controls 52 senate seats</a>. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s hard to find things to celebrate today. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Highland Park, celebrated home of Ferris Bueller and Kevin McAllister, tried to celebrate today, but another white guy with a gun (or 4) decided that, once again, people needed to die. A Fourth of July parade turned to chaos when 7 people were murdered and another 45 were wounded by a white guy with a gun.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Purchased legally, of course.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was what the Founding Fathers wanted, right?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Liberty and Justice for All.</b></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I hear Lee Greenwood sing his anthem one more time, I might vomit. Because, until I know that I’m free — free from being murdered at a parade by yet another guy with a gun…free to take care of my own body as I see fit…</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">free to love who I want and how I want...</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">free from being murdered in my classroom…free to speak the truth in that classroom about the history of our country and the institutionalized racism and misogyny that continues to destroy us all…</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Until I know that I am free and that we all are free — I am not proud to be an American today.</b></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-61639228246050301582022-05-24T20:24:00.005-07:002022-05-25T10:09:33.925-07:00Tuesday's Thoughts and Prayers.<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It's Tuesday.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I sit in meetings after work, planning the summer professional development offerings. "Restore, Reconnect, Rejuvenate." We’re attempting to create an opportunity for teachers, dragged out from the </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">last yea</span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">r<span id="docs-internal-guid-93a9ea03-7fff-5ba9-85db-18b60036692b"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">— t</span></span>he least few years-- to try to find themselves again, to remember why they do wh</span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">at they do.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-24293b24-7fff-42f9-7d82-6b467610b8c6"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And then I refresh my browser and see the news. 14 children dead. 1 teacher dead. The shooter is dead.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Another fucking school shooting. Another 18 year old with access to guns. Another disenfranchised, angry, obsessed young man. Another one.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I pour a drink and I lay down on my bed, pull the quilt over my head, even though it’s too warm for a quilt. I lay there in the dark, breathing in my own carbon dioxide, and think about trying not to think.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I go for a walk later with my daughter. We talk about the shooting. 16 dead, plus a teacher. We talk about the fight at her school today that resulted in a kid being wheeled out in a wheelchair. We talk about the kid who insists on dropping the N word as he enters the room, and the kid who is so disruptive that no one can even begin to concentrate on the worksheet. We talk about her school year, her future, the debt she will accrue in college, the relationships she hasn’t had yet. I have managed to keep her alive for 15 years and 50 weeks. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">18 dead, plus a teacher.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My son wanders down, pulls out a frozen pasta mix, puts it in the pan. He is watching some YouTuber, an obsession I will never understand. I tell him the news. Another school shooting. Fuck, he says. That sucks. He goes back to his phone, watching the latest takedown of Dr. Strange and the Multiverse. He is suddenly taller than me, his voice suddenly lower. His feet won’t stop growing. I have managed to keep him alive for 13 ½ years.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">18 dead. 2 teachers. The math is fuzzy. The numbers keep climbing.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We sit down and watch a Thor movie. I can’t do reality right now. I can’t do real people. Superheroes are all I can handle, all I can emotionally lift tonight. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s a senseless tragedy.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Thoughts and prayers.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I tuck my own kids into bed, knowing that <span id="docs-internal-guid-93a9ea03-7fff-5ba9-85db-18b60036692b"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">—</span></span>no matter how hard I love them, no matter how many tools I try to give them<span id="docs-internal-guid-93a9ea03-7fff-5ba9-85db-18b60036692b"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">— </span></span>their lives are at the whim of some future angry, disenfranchised young man, some guy with a sense of futility, coupled with anger at being wronged, some guy with access to guns<span id="docs-internal-guid-93a9ea03-7fff-5ba9-85db-18b60036692b"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">—</span></span> their lives are not in my hands. I literally can’t keep them alive.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tomorrow, the alarm will go off and I’ll get everyone up. Make coffee, make peanut butter toast, make oatmeal. I’ll remind my son to take his band uniform to school. I’ll hug my daughter and tell her there are only 12 days of chemistry left.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">19 dead plus 2 teachers. Their summer vacation would have started in 2 days.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tomorrow, I’ll thank my partner for recognizing that I just couldn’t face anything resembling reality. Thor was as deep as I could get.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tomorrow, I’ll go to school and try to reassure my students that they are safe. I’ll email the counselors again about that one kid who scares me, with his angry eyes and his silence. I’ll email his mom again, begging her to get him some help, begging her for reassurance that he is okay. I’ll tell him I’m proud of him, that I see that he’s trying. I’ll try to make eye contact, to see into that darkness, to try to connect.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">19 dead plus 2 teachers. Many more hospitalized. Tomorrow, the numbers will probably be higher. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It's Tuesday.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Thoughts and prayers.</span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-87726027825004590042022-03-30T12:44:00.002-07:002022-03-30T17:38:16.021-07:00Never Punch Down<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seems like </span><a href="https://variety.com/2022/tv/news/oscars-will-smith-slap-twitter-response-1235217194/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">everyone has an opinion</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> on Will Smith’s actions at the Oscars.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-3eba8159-7fff-97f7-50a4-ad6ebae10d18"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>But I think I might be on #teamsmith.</b></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hear me out: <a href="https://johnpavlovitz.com/2022/03/28/defending-will-smiths-oscars-violence-is-wrong/">Violence is never the answer</a>. But <a href="https://www.facebook.com/fathernathan/posts/540412544146569">words cause irreparable harm as well</a>. A slap across the face stings for a bit. Words last a lifetime. Both are wrong. Both are human mistakes.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I feel like Will Smith is getting some heavy criticism for things that are inherently more about him than about his actions. If Jada had marched up there and slapped Chris Rock…would we be overwrought about her physical violence? If Patton Oswald had marched up there to defend his (late) wife’s reputation…would we be so quick to judge? How much of this backlash is because Will Smith is hot, successful, and—wait for it—Black? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a whole lot of “non-violent” rhetoric coming out of the blogosphere. And I want to agree. An eye for an eye makes everyone blind. Turn the other cheek. Violence is never the answer. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>But why is bullying from the stage okay? </b> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chris Rock should know better. You never punch down. You always punch up. And if taking cheap shots at Jada and Will is okay in your book, then who is off limits?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If someone had mocked my man or my kids or my mom or anyone else that I loved from the stage on national tv…are we required to just sit there and take it? Suck it up because violence is never the answer?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I find it very strange that </span><a href="https://www.mic.com/culture/will-smith-chris-rock-osars-slap-white-comedians" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">white comedians</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> like Amy Schumer, Kathy Griffin, and Jim Gaffigan are suddenly “triggered” by Will Smith’s violence; Jim Carrey is “</span><a href="https://people.com/movies/jim-carrey-criticizes-hollywood-standing-ovation-for-will-smith-after-smack/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">sickened</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” and would sue for $200M if Will Smith had slapped him. These people have the right to their opinions, but it is strange that they are so physically affected by an action that was not directed at them and is literally not about them at all. Chris Rock has a history of mocking Jada Pinkett Smith from the stage in very public fashion. If this was a roast of Pinkett Smith, then she should be expecting the attack. But at the Oscars? Why does Rock get to throw shit at her? Why does he feel the need to belittle her? And why are a bunch of white people all up in arms about his right to do so?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know what I would do in that situation, and I’ll never have to know. I’m not famous. I’m not in the public eye. I’m not dealing with a very public autoimmune disorder, and neither is my partner. But even more than that—I am not Black. No one is policing my actions or expecting me to be the poster child for all white women. And I just don’t think that we have the right to police the relationship between two Black men with decades of history. We don’t get to arm-chair judge the actions of one man, in a very emotional time, who slapped—not punched, but slapped—another man across the face for insulting someone he loved. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will Smith could have taken Chris Rock to the floor. He didn’t. His awards speech later in the night conveyed how emotional the entire situation was. His apology the next day was not only well-written, but it was honest, it owned his actions, and it recognized his errors.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe we could all just give our hand wringing a rest. There are real villains in this world destroying real lives. But at the end of the day, Chris Rock is fine after being slapped. And frankly, he deserved to be shut down. Because the harm that he causes with his words is more violent than any slap across the face that he received.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTGxya_JEGYzrG0EHZ923b04zRrul5h8m1C7VoXFcGa4qYNpBtSAdLWp2y0ZXBn_awsYq6Vb-m3S0CqFSIhD2y1YNxA-IyUtHA8EwqsSGHi752hc21TFYztsNt5FT5Ab7InvhSWRvJCyVowLEzKE1a645uvgiyOkmbFhKY_WJwSVfhS9N34LeMsWJvA/s4031/jurien-huggins-jLWlA1HQMbE-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4031" data-original-width="3225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTGxya_JEGYzrG0EHZ923b04zRrul5h8m1C7VoXFcGa4qYNpBtSAdLWp2y0ZXBn_awsYq6Vb-m3S0CqFSIhD2y1YNxA-IyUtHA8EwqsSGHi752hc21TFYztsNt5FT5Ab7InvhSWRvJCyVowLEzKE1a645uvgiyOkmbFhKY_WJwSVfhS9N34LeMsWJvA/s320/jurien-huggins-jLWlA1HQMbE-unsplash.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jurienh?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">jurien huggins</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/toxic?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If we really feel the need to pass judgment on this situation and insist on non-violence, then we also need to look in the mirror and reflect on what non-violence really means.<br /></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Words cause harm.</b></span></p><b><br /></b><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Words have consequences.</b></span></p><b><br /></b><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>We can do better.</b></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-62373804510265224952022-01-16T08:10:00.000-08:002022-01-16T08:10:14.258-08:00The 10 Year Challenge<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I swear, the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/10yearchallenge/?hl=en">10 year challenge</a> is some sort of corporate mindfuck, like Sweetest Day or Mother’s Day, meant to make us feel inadequate and drive us to spend money on things we don’t need to fill our self-esteem void. No one—I repeat—NO ONE looks and feels better after 10 years of a well-lived life. We may tell ourselves that we look wiser, more zen, more in control—but we are also older, greyer, lumpier, wrinklier, closer to death. Every 10-year challenge photo collage on my feed is conveniently followed by ads for fixes for menopausal symptoms, work-out programs, intermittent fasting plans, and comfortable bras. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are being played.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s impossible to avoid feeling inadequate, if we compare ourselves to someone 10 years younger. That’s 10 years of living, 10 years of hopes and dreams and struggles and frustrations and anxieties and illnesses and disasters and joys. Just look at the dust on the top of the ceiling fan blades. Multiply that by 10 years. That’s a lot of dust. That’s a lot of life lived.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I look back at 39-year-old me, and I was a hot mess. Single, trying to keep 2 kids alive, trying to pay the bills on a single salary, trying to keep up with an impossible workload, trying to be “fun enough” for a leadership team of childless men—that woman was thin and gorgeous, sharp angles and intense eyes. I see those pictures and I can’t believe how beautiful she was, a red-headed powerhouse who wore heels on purpose. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I’m not sure that person is someone I want to compare myself to. She was stunning. But she was also hanging on by a thread. Her best friend rescued her on the regular, as she locked herself and her kids out of the car, out of the house, lost her keys again and again in the snow. Her patience was as taut as her calves; she punched walls late at night out of frustration, trying to get her kids to just go to bed; her students thought she hated them, because she couldn’t keep the exhaustion and frustration out of her voice and off her face, as they asked a question she’d already answered 6 times, and then complained about having to read a book in English class.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not that woman anymore. My students still complain; I still get frustrated. That frustration still shows in my voice and on my face. And yet, they tell me regularly that I approach them with honesty and compassion, and they thank me on the regular for my understanding and grace. I’m not the teacher I was, thank god. My own kids no longer scream at bedtime; I don’t punch walls anymore. I don’t take long walks outside in the dark after they are in bed, just trying to remember to breathe, while desperately hoping the house doesn’t burn down while I’m gone. I’m not the mom I was.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know that, ten years from now, my kids will be out of the house and my workload will lighten substantially. I won’t be kicking out 100s of dollars a month to pay for clothes for kids who won’t stop growing, and to cover sports fees and school fees and music lessons and batting lessons and McDonalds. In just a few more years, I won’t have to get up at 5:30 in the morning if I actually want a warm shower; I won’t have to fold 8 loads of laundry every weekend; I won’t have to try to put food on the table that will appease all of the likes and dislikes and allergies and abhorrences in the house. In 10 years, my house will be paid off and I won’t have to work 3 jobs to pay the bills. 10 years from now, I will be 59. Maybe, when all of this current responsibility is gone, maybe I can get back to the size 12 that I was 10 years ago. Maybe that’s when the comparison picture will make me feel like I’ve come into my own, that I’ve finally aged gracefully. And yet, 10 years from now, the chin(s) will be lower, the wrinkles deeper, the skin more transparent, the hair greyer, the ads for bladder slings ever more prevalent. 10 years from now, will I be good enough?</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">David Foster Wallace, love him or hate him, mused about “making it to 30, or maybe 50, without wanting to shoot yourself in the head.” (Spoiler alert—he didn’t make it.) but he did tell the story about the </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhhC_N6Bm_s" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">two young fish</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that now lives as a tattoo on my forearm.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><blockquote>There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, "Morning, boys, how's the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, "What the hell is water?"</blockquote></span></div></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If we are so busy comparing ourselves to who we were—or to who we think we should be—we are never allowed to appreciate who we are today. There are </span><a href="http://mandatoryamusings.blogspot.com/2022/01/50-things-week-1.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">so many things</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I want to do this year, the year I turn 50, and so far I haven’t managed any of them very successfully. Life got in the way.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But life is the water we are in. <br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t want to waste this year of my life, comparing myself to who I was, or who I think I should be. I want to live this year of my life—right here, right now—and appreciate this water for what it is. I want to learn to extend the grace to myself that I try so hard to extend to my kids and my students and my partner. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgC10Tjv7gC_r2tm8ykigz30Ds55MPoo_SxYsB8h-nD7UEae7iIO_mek0D2fEU7U1cEqvBxbZiTdsyoDAHdDT0iEDWAtXJtTaBz9mfXDr8vjWEUhxhgVwOOLRRS340Ir00sIvqeKozeIckqdd2-Y6UaL--CSPPHEENHiYd68IWmL9nDxDR4CZzNDONPQ=s6000" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgC10Tjv7gC_r2tm8ykigz30Ds55MPoo_SxYsB8h-nD7UEae7iIO_mek0D2fEU7U1cEqvBxbZiTdsyoDAHdDT0iEDWAtXJtTaBz9mfXDr8vjWEUhxhgVwOOLRRS340Ir00sIvqeKozeIckqdd2-Y6UaL--CSPPHEENHiYd68IWmL9nDxDR4CZzNDONPQ=w320-h213" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@stevenlasry?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Steven Lasry</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/water-fish?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to look in the mirror and appreciate the beauty that is looking back at me, not because of who she was or who she might someday be, but because of who she is today.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe that’s my 10 year challenge.</span></div><span><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-20906149905821895422022-01-02T11:26:00.007-08:002022-01-02T12:04:30.664-08:0050 Things - Week 1<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>2022 is the year I will turn 50.</b> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s strange, because from the outside, it looks like I’ve lived an incredible, privileged life, full of so many experiences --so much education-- and surrounded by so many amazing people. And inundated with so. much. stuff.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-94f17ea1-7fff-792e-42e2-19d58293d75c"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, as is the norm, from the inside looking out, it feels like a life not yet quite lived. A life where “too much” doesn’t just apply to my personality, but to everything about me. Too much stuff. Too much obligation. Too much weight. Too much debt. Too much to do. Too many sleepless nights.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This year, I will turn 50. Even in the best possible Betty White scenario, my life is half over. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So what do I want the next 50 years to look like? And when will I start making that happen? What are the things that I realistically can do --or not do-- to live the life that feels truly lived, and not just survived?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>50 Things to Do Before I’m 50</b></span></p><br /><ol style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Move intentionally for 50 minutes each day. Walk? Run? Dance (like a formerly Baptist white girl)? Channel my inner Jillian Michaels? Shaun T? Billy Blanks? Jeff Galloway? Adriene Mishler? What does that 50 minutes look like and how in the hell do I make it happen? Stay tuned…</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get rid of 50 items of clothing. Don’t pretend that I’ll have time to sell it. I won’t. I really should just delete Mercari and Poshmark. Maybe I’ll do the </span><a href="https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/the-closet-tric-35781" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">hanger thing</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Maybe I’ll </span><a href="https://www.lifestorage.com/blog/organization/konmari-closet-method/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Marie Kondo</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the closet. (we all know I probably won’t do that.) Maybe I’ll just get rid of stuff that isn’t comfortable. I can do that.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Break the “</span><a href="https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20161123-shopping-a-sale-gives-you-the-same-feeling-as-getting-high" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shopping High</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” addiction. Do. Not. Buy. Clothes (or shoes) in 2022. Do Not. (Except for bras and running shoes. But I will not buy impulsively. I will not buy online. I will not.)</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drink 50 oz of pure water each day. Not coffee. Not tea. Not Coke Zero. Not Seltzer. Not Vodka. Not water with vodka. Just pure water. Drink it. (And then drink the other things.)</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Write 50 blog posts. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be. Look, a list! Blog post #1 done.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lose 50 lbs. I know, I know. Weight loss should never be a New Year’s Resolution. But I’m tired of feeling run-down and I know why I feel this way, and I need to value my own health more than I value a drink or some fries or my pride. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Go to bed (on average) 50 minutes earlier S-Th. 50 minutes means more sleep, less alcohol, less mind-numbing. Rest more.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Make an extra $50/week through subbing and save it for something special. Maybe take that trip, finally, with the girls. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Make an extra $50/week through freelance and pay down debt. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do something technology-free for 50 min/day. Meditation? Reading? Going for a walk? Put the phone down and just exist in the world.</span></p></li></ol><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieqLwi2OSahzH4--fFEJVufelp-XrA_Rq5lv-B-3NHJh5zlr9h5aKpf75kEpxhXq-WlIPmxt1akTqPjrdQgMT5897e6vE3oKL83i7swnv2vrwy95fMVupYaWX9C-8ogQKxPm72cJPzfyeL6fHrgnPL9gU4481pKMVoX_Gjqgbv3ol2Fn-RPRToD9fCUA=s5184" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieqLwi2OSahzH4--fFEJVufelp-XrA_Rq5lv-B-3NHJh5zlr9h5aKpf75kEpxhXq-WlIPmxt1akTqPjrdQgMT5897e6vE3oKL83i7swnv2vrwy95fMVupYaWX9C-8ogQKxPm72cJPzfyeL6fHrgnPL9gU4481pKMVoX_Gjqgbv3ol2Fn-RPRToD9fCUA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jeremythomasphoto?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Jeremy Thomas</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/wellness?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other 40 things? These are T.B.D. Maybe I’ll document them. Maybe I won’t. But I don’t want to just survive 2022. I want to truly live it. This is the year I will turn 50 and I want to remind myself that I matter. <br /></span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>This is week 1.</b></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-89641967929859358392021-12-01T06:47:00.001-08:002021-12-01T07:56:45.647-08:00Untitled.<h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was late at night when the phone rang. </span></h1><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-1ae0ce37-7fff-4de0-fff7-a9001f236985"><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My roommate’s little sister sat next to him in Chemistry. One of her friends died.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We talked about what it feels like, to see this happen over and over and over again, to see it get closer and closer and closer.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why?” I asked. I didn’t need to finish the question. She knew. Everyone knows the rest of the question. No one has an answer. No one ever has an answer.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Anger.” That was the best answer we could find. And yet, we mused, no matter how many times we have been ragingly angry, no matter how many times we have survived physical, verbal, emotional, sexual violence, we have never decided to kill people. That’s a white guy response. Overwhelmingly. Another white guy. Why?</span></p><br /><h3 style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It could have been anyone.</span></h3><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But that’s not true. My middle school son, a white guy with outbursts of uncontrollable anger, does not have access to guns. We work with a therapist. He’s learning to be aware of his body, of when his heart starts to pound, of when he feels anger building. We talk it out, every night. His day, his frustrations, his joys, his insecurities, his anger, his laughter. I curl up in bed with him at night, a full body hug, as he cries, apologizing for the plate he broke in anger. He does not have access to guns. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not anyone. It never is. It’s a specific person at a specific moment in time. </span><a href="https://www.politifact.com/factchecks/2017/oct/06/newsweek/are-white-males-responsible-more-mass-shootings-an/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Usually a white guy</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. The signs were there. They always are.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet it happens again.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, at school, the kids are quiet. Their eyes are serious and sad. The room is silent. Occasionally a student looks up. Makes eye contact. Looks down.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Are you okay?” I ask. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friends there, they were in the group chat as it was going down. It just kept blowing up all day. All night. Helpless. Scared.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. Just sad.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m fine.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I check the news again, looking for answers. Make it make sense.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My students check their feed. They text their mom. They make eye contact. They put their phone down.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it. You can text your mom.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I scroll my feed, looking for answers.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to hug them all, each and every one of them, an awkward, uncomfortable hug from a middle-aged not-huggy lady, because I want to tell them that I am here. That they will be okay. That they are safe. I want to give them assurances that I don’t believe.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell them.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The bell rings.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-74861372168843799112021-10-13T20:18:00.007-07:002021-10-14T06:16:48.177-07:00Time, Time, Time...13 years ago today, I was wearing an ice-diaper, staring at the biggest baby I had ever seen IRL. He looked like he'd eaten the other babies in the nursery; he was full-grown and so serious, compared to their shriveled hands and crying old-man heads. He was brave and beautiful. <div><br /></div><div>I walked out of the hospital at my pre-pregnancy weight. That's how big that kid was.
And his heart was just as big. He loves, fiercely. He plays, fiercely. He rages fiercely. He turns in circles in the center of the room, telling a story about his day, picking up this thing from here and setting it there, picking up that thing from there and setting it who knows where. He gives me a full-on hug, still my snuggle bear, and he wanders upstairs to watch grown men squeal on YouTube, while I rescue the remote from the bathroom and a dog toy from the kitchen counter and his phone from the back of the couch.</div><div><br /></div><div>In 6 years, he will be gone, suddenly an adult. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am not ready. </div><div><br /></div><div>Only this year, have I felt the ticking of the clock, as my kids grow into their futures. They have both started to settle -- just a bit-- into their own skin. Puberty is a fickle bitch and it has not been -- is not -- will not be easy on these two. They both sense and see the world for what it is. They call out injustice. They pick up on what is not said. They see hypocrisy and greed and they see beauty. They are both already taller than me. And they both reject societal standards of beauty and femininity and masculinity and sexuality. They are who they are and they dare you to ask them to be anyone or anything different. They refuse to cave to your pressures. </div><div><br /></div><div>But n 3 years, she will be gone. In 6 years, he will be gone. I won't have to feed them fast food in the car as we drive to practice; I won't have to stock the pantry with Cheez-Its because at least it's something they might eat. In 6 years I won't have to check the fridge for the remote. </div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jRkYTpm9jHOwrU4Uit5JybfXReqz2IlIi5jAuAsDAntHEHTb0JdmGcc3VsH8XrJbY6tu2s6zg2HYhedaLPquAFoy4FJtOrrmtgLHr8pc6OPG6B4IAQHKMrJ3UMWyYnoizKEY9RIOvrFT/s2048/delia-giandeini-rBBqOzbNhSw-unsplash.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1375" data-original-width="2048" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jRkYTpm9jHOwrU4Uit5JybfXReqz2IlIi5jAuAsDAntHEHTb0JdmGcc3VsH8XrJbY6tu2s6zg2HYhedaLPquAFoy4FJtOrrmtgLHr8pc6OPG6B4IAQHKMrJ3UMWyYnoizKEY9RIOvrFT/w320-h215/delia-giandeini-rBBqOzbNhSw-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@dels?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Delia Giandeini</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/dandelion?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Time is flying off the shelves like toilet paper.</div><div><br /></div><div>Currently, my house is a disaster, my me-time consists of bourbon and Hallmark movies and laundry, and there is a single Rick and Morty sock on the piano. </div><div><br /></div><div>In 6 years, this chaos will be gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure I will ever be ready.</div>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-42704877936681042702021-09-23T20:09:00.000-07:002021-09-23T20:09:10.113-07:00Pointlessly Biting My Tongue<p> I am biting my tongue.</p><p>It is not my place to interfere, to pull rank, to fight my kids' battles.</p><p>But everything I know about teenage development and about teaching with equity and about decent human behavior tells me that something fundamentally is broken with so much of our school system.</p><p>I get that I'm weird: I include students' own self-assessment as part of their final grade. I allow late work and rewrites right up until the end of the semester, as long as the work is authentic and not just grade-grubbing. I don't mark down for late work. I don't give traditional tests. I think that grades should ultimately represent the students' engagement with the material and mastery of the content, not their behavior.</p><p>I've done a lot of reading, research, and contemplation. I've read a lot of what <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ken-OConnor/e/B001JRVTX0%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share">Ken O'Connor</a> has put out there. I've read <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Point-Less-English-Teachers-Meaningful-Grading/dp/0325109516">Pointless</a>. </i>I think about grading with equity in mind all. the. time. Every 504 and IEP requirement? Those are universal accommodations in my room. Extended time? You betcha. Need the audio? Here's the link. </p><p>So I get that I'm weird.</p><p>But right now, my daughter is in tears because she doesn't understand her chemistry homework and she has a test tomorrow. She's had a cold all week (that I caught from my own students and then gave to her) and she's missed a couple of days of school. I kept her home because she was coughing, and even though we know it's a cold and not COVID, the stigma is there, and she doesn't want to get anyone else sick. She is exhausted and under the weather and she should have been in bed an hour ago, but she has to finish her chemistry and then read and thoughtfully annotate a 17th century passage for her American Lit class. It's her fault for procrastinating. Everything was posted online, so she should have kept up at home, and she only gets two late work passes per semester, so she has to get this done.</p><p>WHY? Why are we doing this to our kids?</p><p>What is she learning right now--long after she should be in bed--about chemistry? About American Lit? About responsibility? About humanity?</p><p>She is 15. Any metaphorical rebuttal you can give about accruing late fees on credit card payments and getting fired from a job when you didn't do your work by deadline is --frankly-- irrelevant. Because we are not teaching them about paying their bills on time or about the requirements of entry-level hourly jobs. We are teaching them chemistry. We are teaching them American Lit. We are teaching them Algebra. But we are grading them on compliance in a "gotcha" system that nails them if they are unable to pay attention one day, no matter what was going on in their lives.</p><p>I am really trying to bite my tongue. </p><p>But this is my kid.</p><p>These are my kids. </p><p>Quit punishing them for being human.</p><p>Grades should reflect understanding and mastery of content. And every damn kid in the room deserves the chance to truly understand the content, no matter what baggage they bring with them.</p><p>Are our policies in place because they make our lives easier? Or because they truly teach our students something meaningful?</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQGe7Qa-S5cXE1l0tq1eboPFC0yYdoWhLgH6lhsWCRlM1GyVTe1xJkZQGlyGEueD7zEVSWagvpxo32wIVyhbvbIAUatk5TK_hrH3PXbMQQNuF7-nxaDzanTlGyUuCA-K9d6ueFAm8bGDu/s2048/joshua-hoehne-CAokgx1GGKE-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1470" data-original-width="2048" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQGe7Qa-S5cXE1l0tq1eboPFC0yYdoWhLgH6lhsWCRlM1GyVTe1xJkZQGlyGEueD7zEVSWagvpxo32wIVyhbvbIAUatk5TK_hrH3PXbMQQNuF7-nxaDzanTlGyUuCA-K9d6ueFAm8bGDu/s320/joshua-hoehne-CAokgx1GGKE-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@mrthetrain?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Joshua Hoehne</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/school-grades?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table>Are our grading procedures punitive? Or are they meant to acknowledge mastery?</p><p>Are we truly trying to reach and teach each kid in the room? Or are we demanding that they conform to a system that works best for us?</p><p>My daughter needs to go to bed. She has a chemistry test tomorrow.</p><p>I am officially two weeks behind in grading.</p><p>And so, I am biting my tongue.</p><br /><p><br /></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-88352687809250516972021-09-18T13:04:00.001-07:002021-09-18T13:04:37.513-07:00Making a Memory<p><i> As my students were working on their personal narrative essays this week, I wrote my own, to model my process from brainstorming to revision to final edit, and to show them that writing is never done, it's just due.</i></p><p><i>The prompt: Write about an insignificant moment in your life that says something significant about you. Try to stay in the moment and avoid obvious "looking back reflection" at the end. Suggested length: 500-600 words.</i></p><p><i>The mentor text: "<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/27/magazine/my-secret-pepsi-plot.html">My Secret Pepsi Plot"</a> by Boris Fishman.</i></p><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-27da7eb3-7fff-a3ae-391f-5fc61d438124"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Making a Memory</b></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Come on, guys, we are making a memory today!” my mom sang out, while my Pops snorted and I rolled my eyes. As usual, we were starting out 3 hours later than planned, and it would be getting dark soon. We piled into the truck, seat-belts optional, my baby sister on my mom’s lap and me in the middle, awkwardly straddling the 4wd shifter and snow plow lever in the center floor hump.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBLpHtCXPe3j8TiMKKz7wehM6gX7Ktm3r71YTi6vJAdClyZrtYxyrePx-5mts4HfBPAx37rAVd5E8PaJQATx3s8zuqBf4HiNGOouk9VunBF9sAaKxgJI6wf4W-Y512WvP7gNJC3BYaGybH/s1600/s-l1600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBLpHtCXPe3j8TiMKKz7wehM6gX7Ktm3r71YTi6vJAdClyZrtYxyrePx-5mts4HfBPAx37rAVd5E8PaJQATx3s8zuqBf4HiNGOouk9VunBF9sAaKxgJI6wf4W-Y512WvP7gNJC3BYaGybH/w200-h200/s-l1600.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The only thing matching my Pops’ bitterness at being dragged away from work for “forced family fun” was the bitterness of the cold. I could feel it through my scruffy Moon Boots, a Christmas present to me the previous year, 3 years after they were popular. Everyone wore Duckies now, but I had knock-off Moon Boots, the silver lightning bolts on the side advertising my awkwardness.<br /></span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every year we had to cut down our own Christmas tree, a family tradition that Pops and I grudgingly put up with, because it made mom so happy. Trudging through the drifts, getting snow inside the scrunched up felt liners of my ugly boots, my socks working their way down my heels and bunching under my arches, jeans wet around the cuffs and fingers freezing because I couldn’t find my gloves, I grumbled under my breath. My mom held my sister’s hand, as she bobbled through the snow in her hand-me-down faded pink snow suit. Pops carried the chainsaw, ready to cut down a ridiculous, lop-sided tree that would never actually fit into our living room.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This one?” I pointed, but mom rejected it. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This one?” No, not that one either. Pops sighed in exasperation.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This one!” my mom breathed. This was the one, the perfect tree, her dream tree this year. The bottom branches were too wide; the top of the tree pointed slightly west. This was the perfect tree, the tree that would make this Christmas a perfect memory. These family moments meant everything to her, the family she’d built through sheer willpower and nursery rhymes.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stood with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, willing my fingers to stop aching. As Pops sawed down the tree, jumping out of the way as it finally creaked over sideways, my sister ate snow from a small hillside on the tree farm. My mom tried to take a picture, capturing this memory moment forever, but she’d forgotten batteries for the camera again, just like she did every year. It was too dark to take a picture without the flash anyway, too dark to capture this memory that would never make it into a photo album.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we finally dragged the tree back to the truck through the snow, Pops and I grunted and huffed, sticky sap and pine needles coating our fingers. I was on the pointy end of the tree, holding on through the scratchy branches, trying to keep the tree from scraping the ground and losing too many needles. Then, I tripped. The tree bounced to the ground and I landed with a face full of snow. Pops reached out to grab my hand and pull me back to my feet, but I yanked once, hard. He fell into the snow beside me, laughing as he landed, my sister piling gleefully on top.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And Mom smiled knowingly at her family, piled in a snowy, laughing heap on the ground, the mutant Charlie Brown tree momentarily forgotten, the snow glittering in the fading light.</span></p></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">
</span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6a0izq6TZ9pjRSjMgIP7XBD42yo4AuEjENS7Gp2bJxaSeBEsaaK6DwtjWLL7xh0974zuPDzkxc2DGnlbKfucxX60r8VID_njo74h2TLQ3NM2TsruEGa6Ksh2Awxpatf2Nie3EQU2Lz3B/s770/image-asset.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="578" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6a0izq6TZ9pjRSjMgIP7XBD42yo4AuEjENS7Gp2bJxaSeBEsaaK6DwtjWLL7xh0974zuPDzkxc2DGnlbKfucxX60r8VID_njo74h2TLQ3NM2TsruEGa6Ksh2Awxpatf2Nie3EQU2Lz3B/w480-h640/image-asset.jpeg" width="480" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is not our tree. This is <a href="http://idiottantrum.com/aih/2016/12/16/christmas-tree">someone else's</a> tree. Mom forgot batteries for the camera, so we don't have a picture of our tree.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-28225072059374630362021-08-24T19:18:00.000-07:002021-08-24T19:18:49.488-07:0026 years<p> The year I turned 25, I panicked. I had always thought that I would have my shit together at 25. That I'd have a career and a plan and I'd finally know what I was doing. Instead, I was waiting tables, bouncing between teaching jobs and sub jobs, trying to stay out of trouble but inadvertently blacklisting myself for "encouraging students to write letters to the school board." (Oops.)</p><p>It's been 2+ decades since my 25th birthday. The existential identity crisis hasn't passed yet. Today I started my 26th year of teaching. Do I know what I'm doing? Do I finally have my shit together? Will I manage to stay out of trouble this time? Do I have a plan? (Is is a good plan?)</p><p>The thing about teaching is that you will never, truly, be successful at your job. Kids will always fail, no matter how hard you try to reach them. Kids will always disengage, no matter how clever or creative or inspirational you try to be. There will always be a vocal parent or three who seem to drown out all of the support and make you feel like you are not only a terrible human being, but an awful teacher, systematically destroying kids' lives. 100 parents will be silent, 27 will be vocally supportive, and 3 will tear you down, and it will be those 3 who keep you up at night, questioning every professional decision you've ever made. </p><p>The first day of school of year 26, I caught a train. By "caught," I mean, the train was stopped on the tracks, blocking the road, and I was 20some cars and 2 school buses on the wrong side of the tracks. After I made an 8 point turn and backtracked several miles to get around the train, finally headed in the right direction, a family of deer decided to be indecisive in crossing the road...should they go? should they stay? should some of them go and some of them stay? Several minutes and two more stoplights later, I finally was within a mile of school, in the mile-long traffic jam, backed up all the way up to the student parking lot. I skated into my classroom exactly 60 seconds before the final bell. And the year began. </p><p>I'm not sure I accomplished what I wanted to accomplish today. Was I warm enough? Friendly? Approachable? Funny? Did I leave a good impression? (Was I a hot mess?) Did I inspire anyone? With anything? Will they be eager to return tomorrow?</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nBQBAvlxJHTO0ohlbe_FrXvXUv2EWYdPvZGX_KoBAyeLj2as8H_TMAtU3xM7MpC-LQBtmWRYFNLBXSdDwtK78cJNIRszBwvtwtK61uRMNqg5Yp6K0TkvwsuYoUpBMZ_gVIL0ZfQXOKaP/s2048/thought-catalog-RdmLSJR-tq8-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nBQBAvlxJHTO0ohlbe_FrXvXUv2EWYdPvZGX_KoBAyeLj2as8H_TMAtU3xM7MpC-LQBtmWRYFNLBXSdDwtK78cJNIRszBwvtwtK61uRMNqg5Yp6K0TkvwsuYoUpBMZ_gVIL0ZfQXOKaP/s320/thought-catalog-RdmLSJR-tq8-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@thoughtcatalog?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Thought Catalog</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/teaching?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table>26 years, and I still worry late at night (and all day long). Am I enough? Do I have what it takes? Will I be able to save this kid? Inspire that one? Challenge her? Comfort him? Support them? Truly connect?</p><p>Will I do enough?</p><p>26 years of teaching. Day 1 is in the books. Tomorrow is day 2.</p><p>I hope I have what it takes to truly make a difference.</p><br /><p><br /></p>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-88977223140648165702021-08-12T13:51:00.010-07:002021-08-12T21:31:25.716-07:0020 Books You Have to Read, According to Your Favorite English Teacher<p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgEgaUifKdI2qtlk6SsGug9wEXyAKB7VzRpRuta-uBw07O6Rt9_mS8FgRf_lFF_5WT3mKY61bPQH-Et7gcWIff2abNsIo05_EOoBaq-peHzp1NpbJT21XQDd9F2OrfeyLf8gPo4dnukr5/s2048/tom-hermans-9BoqXzEeQqM-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgEgaUifKdI2qtlk6SsGug9wEXyAKB7VzRpRuta-uBw07O6Rt9_mS8FgRf_lFF_5WT3mKY61bPQH-Et7gcWIff2abNsIo05_EOoBaq-peHzp1NpbJT21XQDd9F2OrfeyLf8gPo4dnukr5/s320/tom-hermans-9BoqXzEeQqM-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@tomhermans?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Tom Hermans</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/books?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">A former student contacted me, asking for a reading list of 10-15 classics she had to read. Because I can't follow directions, I came up with 20. Without further introduction, here are the 20 books you have to read, because I am your favorite English teacher. </h3><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dead (and mostly White) Guy Classics</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-f05ff561-7fff-c65a-4d69-f05a4d897c82"><ol style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Macbeth</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Shakespeare</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. There’s a GREAT article about it </span><a href="https://onezero.medium.com/how-data-science-pinpointed-the-creepiest-word-in-macbeth-3150995d3808" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Plus, the downfall into insanity of Macbeth, as he gets more power, as well as the downfall of Lady Macbeth into suicide as she deals with the repercussions of her actions...the modern parallels are stunning.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Odyssey </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Homer</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Find an easy to read translation...no need to wade through a hard-to-read version, because the point is the stories, not the language. It’s a great primer on mythology, plus it’s a great adventure story about a narcissistic asshole and his family...definitely insight into modern man!</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Hobbit</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by J. R. R. Tolkien</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. This is an amazing adventure story. It stands alone in its genre and creates a stunning fantasy kingdom with likable characters. Full of humor and warmth and bravery, Bilbo's unwilling and unwitting journey is pure gold. The </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Lord of the Rings </i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">trilogy is long and often heavy, but </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>The Hobbit </i>is brilliant.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Farewell to Arms</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Ernest Hemingway</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Hemingway was a womanizer and an alcoholic...but he had his finger on the pulse of what the American Man is. And his understanding of love, although seemingly skewed in his own life, really captures the insecurities and honesties of it all.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Great Gatsby</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by F. Scott Fitzgerald</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Fitzgerald was a lousy husband and father and a drunk, too, but much like his character Gatsby, he was also passing in society. This, to me, is the great American novel, exploring the juxtaposition between middle class and the rich, between midwest America and the East Coast, between honesty and lies.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1984</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by George Orwell</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. The ultimate dystopian novel, this hits uncomfortably close to home. Plus, Orwell’s manipulation of language is spot on. If you don’t have the words, then can you have the thoughts? They who control the narrative and the language control everything. Just think about our country’s issue with health care. We have Obamacare (boo hiss socialism) and the Affordable Care Act (yes please!) and they are the same fucking thing. The words we use control the conversation. Literally.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of Mice and Men </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">or </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Grapes of Wrath</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> or </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">East of Eden</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by John Steinbeck</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. No one writes like Steinbeck. His characters are gritty but laced with humanity. They are all flawed and all marginalized, but all redeemable and understandable. Plus, the way Steinbeck weaves hope and Christian iconography throughout (without being Christian or religious himself) is mastery. If there is one dead person I'd want to have coffee with, it would be Steinbeck.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Catcher in the Rye</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by J.D. Salinger</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. People love to hate Holden Caulfield. He’s whiny and he complains a LOT. But he is the most authentic teenage voice I have ever read. He is every teenager, even when they (and we) hate him.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Siddhartha</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Hermann Hesse</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Although this is in translation (Hesse wrote it in German, I believe) and it’s a white guy writing about Buddha in India, it’s accessible and it really helps us see the hero’s journey in another culture...not just another culture but another entire way to live. The search for enlightenment is profound and a great contrast to the search for love or acceptance or hope -- or the American Dream. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the same vein, pick up a copy of the </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tao de Ching</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Read one "poem" every night before bed. It is lovely and thought provoking. You can find it (and most of the books in this list) online as a PDF, but I’d recommend a pocket edition of the </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tao</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, so that you can just read a “poem” a day.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Great Expectations</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Charles Dickens</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I love love love this book. It’s long, but it’s really funny, and the main character, Pip, is so true and believable, both as a naive kid, then as a teenager, and finally as an adult. Dickens loves puns...even when little kid Pip talks about being “brought up by hand” and what he really means is that his Aunt slaps him a lot...Pip is innocent, until he’s not...and he’s one of my all-time favorite characters.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Different Seasons</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Stephen King</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. King is an amazing writer, and this collection of 4 short stories is brilliant. Each one stands alone and covers a different aspect of humanity, from horror to innocence, and in-between. It’s brilliant. I hate horror and I love this book.</span></p></li></ol><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Dead White Lady Classics</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></p><ol start="13" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To Kill a Mockingbird</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Harper Lee</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Ugh, this book. It is beautiful and it has been so misunderstood throughout the decades. Atticus Finch is not really a hero. He’s a distant father, a closet racist, and he's unethical. But he also speaks truth to his kids -- and their purity, watching this story unfold, is what makes this book live. Although the “white savior” trope and the “hulking but broken Black man with no agency” tropes are problematic, if you read the book understanding what Lee was trying to do, you see both the mastery and the flaws -- and the mirror.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pride and Prejudice </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Jane Austen</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. You don’t have to read the book (although it’s lovely) but if you decide to watch this instead of read it, you HAVE to watch the Colin Firth version. He IS Mr. Darcy. The newer version of the movie is crap and completely misunderstands what Austen is doing: passing judgement on society and on ALL of the characters, and yet redeeming those who are willing to be honest in the end. But I’d recommend the read, if you’ve got the time. Austen pointedly makes fun of people. I feel her. :)</span></p></li></ol><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">BIPOC Classics or Soon-to-be Classics</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><ol start="15" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Their Eyes Were Watching God </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Zora Neale Hurston</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. My favorite book in the whole wide world. It is so beautiful and thoughtful and the characters are so real. There is love and humor and hope and resilience and if there is just one book on this list that you read, make it this one. Although it takes a bit to learn to read the dialect, if you listen to </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZqDGDC7pUU" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this audio</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> for the first chapter while you read, it will all click into place.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Color Purple</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Alice Walker</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Written as an epistolary (written in letters), it’s raw and stunning and impossible to put down. The movie is good, but the book is light years better. It’s usually my students’ favorite book of the year.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Bluest Eye</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Toni Morrison.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> When I read this book, it took me forever, because I stopped at every sentence and reread it because it was written so beautifully. I love this book not only for the story but also for the incredible craftsmanship of the writing. It’s pure poetry.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Hate You Give</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Angie Thomas. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although this isn’t a classic...yet...it will be. This book broke the ceiling for Black YA writers and it was one of the first POC books to be adopted into mainstream ELA classrooms. The main character, Starr, is all of us, and yet she is fighting her own battles about race, about her community, about her friends and family, and with herself.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There, There </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Tommy Orange</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. This is a stunning "urban Indian" book. We are used to reading books by Native American authors set “on the reservation,” but this one places its characters in the city, where so many Indigenous people live, and it tells the stories of teens coming of age and their parents and grandparents, and what it is like to be Indigenous in our country today. It’s a story whose main characters just happen to be Indigenous, but that also affects every aspect of their lives.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Americanah</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> </i>by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beautifully crafted book about what it means to be Black in America...when you are not an American (the protagonist is a Nigerian immigrant). Adichie gave the famous TED talk “</span><a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_ngozi_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story?utm_campaign=tedspread&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=tedcomshare" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Danger of a Single Story</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” and this book captures those idea threads about identity. It’s a masterpiece and Adichie’s narrative voice is powerful and authentic.</span></p></li></ol><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7zxDzNRt2O-blag0FN-3i7wn0fg_DaSvZFat5x_AVvA4vqxjj5hsln7nG-MTJo_wL1FW7vuB48eF6NVWevWuNPRkVaNmZvNgIMCZYsFqsor7-WlWZZo-lk6-HSmy5dlt1st79C4cn8fo/s2048/sincerely-media-DgQf1dUKUTM-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7zxDzNRt2O-blag0FN-3i7wn0fg_DaSvZFat5x_AVvA4vqxjj5hsln7nG-MTJo_wL1FW7vuB48eF6NVWevWuNPRkVaNmZvNgIMCZYsFqsor7-WlWZZo-lk6-HSmy5dlt1st79C4cn8fo/s320/sincerely-media-DgQf1dUKUTM-unsplash.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@sincerelymedia?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Sincerely Media</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/books?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></span></span></div></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-38234645096599773852021-07-28T11:44:00.001-07:002021-07-28T11:44:58.198-07:00Learning to Just Say No<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYmSh2KQyIV8qADuHmozUZCM-MwevhcwuHKFhCnS3cbT8-vjozk-1I2uS6zMbNsDPG9an32kBKkzS6fH19g7s6dq1VhnHOkg8x8a5taL0UVTre4KktdPIq7c39ccIIT0apnIn9SYqN5Su/s2048/jon-tyson-2TzSuQZOHe4-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYmSh2KQyIV8qADuHmozUZCM-MwevhcwuHKFhCnS3cbT8-vjozk-1I2uS6zMbNsDPG9an32kBKkzS6fH19g7s6dq1VhnHOkg8x8a5taL0UVTre4KktdPIq7c39ccIIT0apnIn9SYqN5Su/s320/jon-tyson-2TzSuQZOHe4-unsplash.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jontyson?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Jon Tyson</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/no?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><b> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, I said no.</span></b></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-8ee1aa9e-7fff-dad0-14e6-f30635530f9f"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I said no to reviewing a submission for an academic journal. There was too much to tackle in the submission piece, and I only have a few days left before I’m off the grid for a week...and then I’m back to work. I said no because I didn’t have the time, the energy, or the mental capacity to tackle the job. I said no, even though I knew I was passing the work on to someone else, and letting a friend down. My inner child was stomping on the floor, yelling “I don’t want to!” I listened. I said no.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 1 a.m., after a glass of wine or several, I told my inner child it was time for bed. I emailed my friend back and said I could do it if no one else could. Turns out I hadn’t learned yet how to actually say no. (Thankfully, my friend emailed back and said no worries, he’d pass it on to someone else. I escaped my own trap through no skill of my own.) Today, I told myself that not only would I listen to my own instincts and my inner child, but I would honor my own needs. I would practice saying no and sticking to it. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Today, I said no.</b></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I said no to pitching 10-12 article ideas for a policing magazine, a possible career-enhancer and money-maker, building my freelance career. But I am not an expert in the field of policing; it’s not my passion or knowledge-base. My focus and energy needs to go into my actual career, not my side-hustle, not right now. And I don’t want to spend the year panicking because I have to create content when I’m not secure of my own footing and knowledge in the industry. I said no, and it was a breath of fresh air, knowing that I didn’t have to commit to that yearlong panic that I was going to let someone in the industry—or myself—down. I listened to my inner child, the one who was whispering, “I really don’t want to do this,” and I said, “okay. You don’t have to.You can say no.” So I did.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Today, I said no.</b></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I got back on skates for only the 2nd time since the great ankle breakage of 2019. I was nervous, but focused, and promised myself that if I felt tired, or unstable, or sore, or anything other than comfortable and confident, I would take a knee. I know that I got hurt before because I was competing with my own insecurities, with not wanting to look dumb, with not wanting to look weak or inadequate or out of shape or old. I’m Gen X, raised with that “No Pain No Gain” bullshit that left us all perpetually injured and consistently in our heads, measuring ourselves against everyone else and setting unachievable goals. So I put the skates on, and with all of the support and no judgement from the team, I slowly did a few drills. And when my back got tired, I took a knee. A few minutes later I got back up, did another drill or three. And when my inner child felt scared, I took another knee. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">By saying no when I needed to, I’ll be able to skate again tomorrow.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve read so many articles today talking about Naomi Osaka and Simone Biles and how they knew that they weren't in the right head space to compete. And I’ve read so many asshole comments from couch-sitters who seem to think that these women owe them—and this country—the sacrifice of their health and safety. I re-watched the horror of the Kerri Strug moments in 1996 when she didn’t say no—when she gave in to the pressure from her coaches, her country, and her internal monologue—and she nailed that 2nd vault and ruined her ankle. At the time, Kerri was celebrated as a hero. Looking back, we see a child who didn’t have a voice—didn’t have a choice—who didn’t have the power to say no.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t ever want to see another athlete say yes when they know they should say no. Simone and Naomi—THANK YOU. Thank you for showing us all how to say no.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t need to be a world-class athlete to follow Simone’s and Naomi’s incredible examples and listen to myself—not the insecure, judgy self who is sure that everyone is watching, the self who compares her progress to everyone else and falls short—but to listen to the self that is willing to take stock of her needs and is willing to say no.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUc1h6Cam8ksn0RcJwEkTceI_sngrOomwQjADEdwuMylN7cUiJFIdKYj_6u7tcaOmI2Gcnd3J3sREVsEMzkfYl13ZcaQA9uzKTFsqGgFh8FfoknHhD6koyM_FjZjla4Vx1kVLuFMh1a3x/s2048/isaiah-rustad-HBABoZYH0yI-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1368" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUc1h6Cam8ksn0RcJwEkTceI_sngrOomwQjADEdwuMylN7cUiJFIdKYj_6u7tcaOmI2Gcnd3J3sREVsEMzkfYl13ZcaQA9uzKTFsqGgFh8FfoknHhD6koyM_FjZjla4Vx1kVLuFMh1a3x/s320/isaiah-rustad-HBABoZYH0yI-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@isaiahrustad?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Isaiah Rustad</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/no?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>“No Pain No Gain'' is an abusive mindset.</b> It’s a harmful myth. We owe it to ourselves to listen to our minds and our bodies. To listen to our reservations. To listen to our inner child. To ask her why she really wants to say no, and to honor her. Because that inner child—she knows that it’s okay to say no, and she doesn’t have to justify it to anyone, least of all herself.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><br /></span>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8213806587382928495.post-37647071601107916772021-07-01T22:05:00.002-07:002021-07-02T06:19:57.257-07:00A Letter to Dreamers. Searchers. Strivers. Me.<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Dreamer:</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-8c729e1c-7fff-fad9-0145-df5bed9af071"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth is, you’re a lot like your dad. You take up a lot of room. You are a big presence, physically and emotionally. You are not delicate. You are loud. You can be unintentionally cruel. You wear your heart on your sleeve, even though you are so often told to be vulnerable. You sound like you know it all, even when you know that you really don’t. You care. You care so much. Too much.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But you are also striving to listen, to learn, to understand. You are striving to understand your privilege. The world. You are striving to understand yourself and why you’ve made so many bad choices. And you are brave AF. Maybe there’s a connection there, between bravery and bad choices. You should look into that in your free time. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You are striving to understand why you take so much on to pay the bills and feel like you matter —like you are making a mark— but then you buy another ill-fitting shirt from China at 2 a.m., hoping it will suddenly make you feel beautiful. Make you beautiful.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Girl. You ARE beautiful. I hope that someday, you can see it, feel it, know it. You are more than the space you take up. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9kvy8ojVtL4X3cOxENbhlSGsZ434qM6H3KaQVETqfvTnoDn_ITz0f_FARK_p6v_nCZnL4YfpeJXz6pTxCupKhhT3mUy8-ZNNDQAP9Bzg-JCL4Fx5Ytaz8wNsXRR2eldQeNucAOkNLwXC6/s2048/199269909_10159557183969540_5451643169144193768_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9kvy8ojVtL4X3cOxENbhlSGsZ434qM6H3KaQVETqfvTnoDn_ITz0f_FARK_p6v_nCZnL4YfpeJXz6pTxCupKhhT3mUy8-ZNNDQAP9Bzg-JCL4Fx5Ytaz8wNsXRR2eldQeNucAOkNLwXC6/s320/199269909_10159557183969540_5451643169144193768_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt;">This is the letter you should have written to yourself two weeks ago, instead of the letter of to-do lists and shoulds that you wrote and once again didn’t live up to.</span></span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that —this— this is why I write.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With love,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Me</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Sharon Murchiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12322656730599877839noreply@blogger.com0