The Ripples Come Faster Now

I only have 2 memories of the entire year of Fourth Grade.
1) visiting the capitol and eating a brown bag lunch at a nearby McDonald's
2) crying in the bathroom so hard and so long that Mrs. Willie had the
principal call my mom (who subsequently threatened me with
physical harm if she had to leave the restaurant where she waited on tables
to come to school and drag me out from underneath the stall door)

As my son headed toward these difficult in-between years of
"I'm old enough to run my own life"
versus
"Please still love me like a baby"
I knew I would have memories of my own horrible "tween" years
flood forth like increasingly rapid ripples from pebbles in the past.

I never expected a tidal wave.
After wave, after wave.

Putting him on the Big Bus for the first time, dealing with bullies,
watching him awkwardly come to terms with his budding sexuality,
it's been more horrific than I''d imagined.
And now, today, the principal (more politician than educator) called me
away from a class I was teaching to schlep up to his school, dry his tears,
and explain to the relevant staff why it was a good idea to keep him in school.

My first reaction was the impulse to tell him, "Put him on the phone"
and read him the same riot act my mother had read me in 1986.

My next reaction was to figure out what the opposite reaction would be:
straight up compassion? stern but loving boundaries?

I then shook my head, told him I'd be there as soon as I could manage
(I teach in a location 20 min. walking distance from the bus line and a
40 minute bus ride back up to our neighborhood) and that I would be
visiting the office first.

After I spent an hour advocating for my son (not apologizing, not excusing)
I snuck into his classroom where he was red-eyed and staring blankly
with an untouched reading assignment in front of him.
I bent down next to him and softly asked, "what are you doing?"
He blinked at me, seemed to wake up a bit, and smiled cautiously
before reporting,
"I had a bad morning."
I gave his shoulder a hug and said, "really? That's sad. I hope you have a better
afternoon. Remember, I love you no matter what."


I did not do what my mother did, and I did not do the opposite.
I did what I do best--love that kid with everything I've got.

The Silent Kingdom

"Are you a cat person or a dog person?"
I was asked, as though those were the only 2 choices.
At the time, I decided on "cat" but only because I
feel self-indulgent, seek affection on my own terms,
and like shiny things.
I am not a "cat person" or a "dog person" --in fact,
I don't think I'm an animal person.
I find the majority of the Kingdom Animalia to be visually loud.

I can't relate to, or process quickly enough, the sheer motion.
Animals just keep moving.
I'm reminded of 2 friends that I have,
very similar but from completely different
contexts of my life.
Both are dancers and they both MOVE through the world deliberately
and in constant activity. Both struggle to focus and spend a great deal of
their personal time trying to harness their energy.
Both try to move me- to get me back into my body
and when I lapse, as I have recently, into periods of existential coma,
this is a good and helpful thing.

Yet.
I feel the need to emphasize, to explain-- to justify that I am...
a "plant person" after all.
I remember being a small child and enjoying my free time by laying my
body in the center of a patch of sunshine. I have no memories of running, ever.
Sitting and reading, sitting and thinking, sitting and drawing.
Sitting.
Even as an adult, I will feel drained by the crise du jour and instinctively
step into a panel of sunshine, palms up like a ringtailed lemur,
and charge.
Silent. Still. Planted.

As I recently shared with one of my dancer friends, I DO move... just like a plant, is all.
I turn toward the light, grow tendrils and roots, seek nourishment- slowly.
You can track my movement only through prolonged observation and tracking.

I do move.

What's with the figs?

Here's the deal.
The literal translation of my name Beit-Ani (Hebrew) is "House- Dates" or, more conversationally, "House of Dried Figs" or, colloquially, "House of Poverty."

The idea is that one would go to Beit-Ani when in need and
could expect to be given adequate sustinance.
No luxuries, no rich banquets or lavish parties in Beit-Ani.
Rather, it is a haven for those who have been reduced to minimal living.

In Christian mythology, Yehoshua and his followers were hungry upon reaching
Beit-Ani and, seeing a fig tree with many leaves,
decided to indulge in a fresh meal of sweet fruit.
Upon discovering that the leafy tree bore no fruit
(because it was not the season for figs),
Yehoshua cursed it and, by the next morning, its roots had withered.

Christian scholars have interpreted this story many different ways
(it's the fate of Isreal, it's the rebirth of Isreal, it's a demonstration of omnipotence, etc.)
but I feel entitled to my own unscholarly interpretation, seeing as how it's my name and all.

For me, the point of the story lies in one often ignored phrase,
"it was not the season of figs."

Why do we reach into the leaves prematurely and expect treasure?
What sense does it make to curse the natural order of growth and rest?
I was productive in this time, but not in that time.
I bore excellent fruit in this context and have turned inward for renewal in that context.

Dried figs are evidence of someone who understands preparing for leaner times to come.
Someone who accepts that there are seasons of no fresh fruit yet makes plans
for nourishment in advance and has an abundance to share with those who
didn't see the seasons change in time.

I believe that I have a great deal to offer in the way of sustinence to those in need.
My ear is full of the secrets of strangers and friends, my heart is a safe vault for painful stories.
They come to me in need- sometimes they need to be needed, to feel powerful and kind.
Sometimes they need to feel loved regardless of their cruelty.
Mostly, they need to be seen and heard.
They need a witness.

I think it's important to note that my house is not the house of figs (bethphage)
but the house of dried figs.
What I offer is not fresh but it is lasting.