reading mrs. dalloway

have you ever read virginia woolf's modernist classic mrs. dalloway? if you haven't, i don't know that i can explain it to you. if you have, you know it's a cluster---- of characters, points of view, and insights into isolation vs. connectivity, among other things. having to read this for the AP class that i am about to teach once my cooperating teacher delivers her bambino, i've spent some QT with the book (a pro AND con of being an english teacher: getting to read vs. being forced to read and analyze until you've analyzed every last period and adjective). i hated the book at first. loathed, even. it's an extremely difficult read, and being short on time and patience, i met the book with much trepidation.

and then i kept reading.

and reading (even at 5:30 this morning!)

and, lo and behold, clarissa dalloway and i came to some good understandings. what i most took away from this novel, and why i felt compelled to write this blog, was its commentary on our connectivity with everyone in the world. from showing characters across the city of london all observing a plane in the sky to the wind affecting multiple people who have never met, we all, strangers or not, are connected in various ways. from observing a stranger's mood and disposition on the train (why are they stern? is he a lawyer? where does he live?...and to think people wonder about me, too!) to looking across the street to see a neighbor whom you've never met and being able to recount his routine (take dog out while not wearing shoes (socks only!), have cab take you to the grocery store, smoke while sitting on the fence, spend hours toiling on the computer), we are intertwined more than we know.

in addition to connectivity (i'll spare the commentary about isolation, which is also present throughout the novel), mr. dalloway, clarissa's politically involved husband, states, "[...] it is a thousand pities never to say what one feels," which i found to be such a poignant thought. it is a pity. truly. there are so many things in life that go unsaid (i know! i'm the queen of hoarding my thoughts). how would this world be different if we told how we feel? better? worse? will we ever know?

and just as random as mrs. dalloway is, so is this blog. goodnight.

traveling back

part i

on the first leg of my trip back to iowa, i stopped in marion, ia to stay with my dear friend, amy. we enjoyed conversations about friendships, proximity, and our oh-so-similar families. we sat around on all too familiar furniture: couch (my permanent napping spot when living with amy in the Res), papasan chair (which garnered her freshman dorm room on Vollmer 1), and the gliding rocker (a garage sale find that fit well into her graduate school apartment). inevitably, she reminds me who i am again and again.

the next morning, amy went to work. getting hungry, i ventured into the small town of marion to scrounge up some chain restaurant grub. on my way, i got stopped at a stoplight. red, green, yellow, red, green, yellow. no one moved. my chicago road rage kicked in, and instead of laying on my horn, i peeled off down a side street only to see the cause of the traffic jam: a funeral procession. feeling like a mega bitch, i drove to jimmy john's with my tail between my legs. on my way, i stopped at a small boutique called willow tree or willow something or another. after talking about the weather (naturally), the owner told me about the coyotes and barn owls she had heard the night before. i was jealous, for a second.

part ii

after leaving amy's, i backtracked to iowa city to visit lovely angela. i made a pit stop along the way to see an old boyfriend (old as in ex, not age), only to find that, while it was great to see him, some things never, ever, EVER change. and that's okay.

angela and i drank mojitos, watched beyonce videos, went to target, got pie at village inn, and dreamt about our futures. refreshing, no?

i left her house late, determined to get to waverly to spend some time with my parents.

part iii

i was going to drive to her house alone. i could cry that way. but on saturday morning, my mom suggested i just come with her. so i did. and i pinched my elbow the entire way up the hill. this way, i didn't cry.

we all met on the hill, grandma's possessions laid out like trinkets at a bazaar. she was so...exposed. i opted for sentimental items (her favorite mowing hat, sweat stained as it may be) over tvs and vacuums. i had planned to spend the night there, but everything i loved about the house was gone. the walls were stripped, the kitchen table was gone, and her smell was replaced by others. it was easier to leave this way. i felt a sense of finality. closure. understanding.

part iv

i pondered whether or not to drive by her house once more before i left town this morning. i didn't. but i did cry most of the way home. not because of the house soon being sold, but because i can't believe she's gone. even with her possessions in my trunk, it hardly seems real, which was evidenced by the two times i picked up my phone to call her. i drove back to chicago, and when i got into the city, i was greeted by homeless people, people walking in the middle of the street, and throngs of people hurrying to and from the train. with my grandma's spatulas and blankets in tow, i imagined she was coming home with me. and i think, maybe, she did.

crossed

ah, the perks of working at a Catholic school. yay ash.

teeter-er

i'm a teeter-er.

i constantly teeter between wanting to lay down roots and wanting to explore...

between loving and hating...

between happiness and abysmal sadness...

between wanting it too much and not enough...

between insomnia and deep dreams...

between forgetting she's gone and thinking about her absence with each breath...

between being a kid and a grown-up...

between caring too much and not caring at all...

between strong and weak...

between ying and yang...

i'm a teeter-er, always balancing on a thin line.

i hope it's not always so.

student teaching...

means being parched. constantly.

makes you feel like you're the dumbest person in the world.

reminds you that you know more than you think you do.

means faking it until you make it.

teaches you the magic of hearing someone call you "ms. legel."

is another way of saying "kiss every aspect of your life goodbye."

teaches YOU more than you teach students.

humbles you. daily.

makes you realize that there is textbook knowledge, and then there is reality.

makes you want to cry and smile and scream and rejoice, all at the same time.

makes weekends look like glorious gems from God.

is worth it all.