I have yet to live in a city or town that's famous for much of anything, other than colleges. However, I've discovered recently that we've beaten out Syracuse, New York in terms of total snowfall for 2012-2013, as noted at Golden Snow Globe. Hooray...? I guess...?
Today there is still snow on the ground, but it is melting away after two warmer, sunnier days in a row. On a drive earlier this morning, the car windows were lowered as I enjoyed the balmy, luxurious 50 degrees Fahrenheit that Mother Nature had on offer. You cannot possibly fathom my delight! Well, to be fair, you probably can, especially if you have perpetually cold hands and feet and live in the cold, snowy parts of the world for at least half a year.
Naturally, with the warmer temperatures, sunshine, and approach of the spring holiday season, my thoughts turn toward spring! Spring! AT LAST! All winter, we periodically purchase plants from the local florist in vibrant colors. Bright yellow daffodils, robust red roses, and delicate pink carnations adorn the dining room table and the counter top along the edge of our open kitchen. I love this! It keeps the beauty of nature alive throughout a season that is often thought of as a season of stasis (although anyone who has been through a blizzard can attest that "stasis" might not be the best descriptor).
As the tulips bud and burst through the still-cool earth, I am flooded with memories, but I am surprised to find that the memories of this time of year are limited and center around sports. The smell of snow becoming mud becoming dry dirt reminds me of chocolate bars and parades to kick of the start of softball season.
Softball season was a big deal in our town, or it was a big deal within my family and among some of my friends. Although we had an active Minor League in town, I never seemed to hear as much about them as I did about Girls' Softball. At school, you could find more girls playing softball than not. Many of my friends and acquaintances were involved in the teams. It became such a vibrant community activity that an old bike racing course was transformed into three softball diamonds, parking lots, and a big concessions stand. My first job was as a babysitter, and my second job was as a softball umpire for the younger leagues in town.
I loved to play, although I was not the strongest player. I found a niche for myself eventually by playing first base on our league team, and then later for the B-Team during tournament season. It was my sister, however, who played softball by what a college friend calls "California Rules." No-holds-barred, take-it-to-the-limit, badass softball. She routinely hit doubles, triples, home runs. Part of this was her powerful and accurate hit. Another part of it was that she would routinely ignore the third base coach and tear around to home plate, sliding in just as the ball reached the catcher and, since teams tended to place people who couldn't catch in the catcher position, my sister's carpe-home-run attitude paid off more often than not. We would come home, she doing her best to clap off as much of the dirt and mud as she could from her pants and shirt and shoes (and sometimes cap) while I stood next to her, running a hand along my slightly dusty knees and wishing I could slide into base without looking like a crash test dummy.
When I went to high school, playing softball was no longer practical, and I moved on to play on the school's lacrosse team. I loved playing lacrosse and the release it provided from the pressures of life. I couldn't shoot on goal to save my life, but that didn't matter because I was a fierce defender who could keep up with most of my opponent offensive players. I had a stick and I wasn't afraid to check. Sometimes I found myself in the path of a ball flying through the air, like the time someone shot on goal and the ball struck me in the center of the chest. It hurt, but I got over it and moved on.
As an adult, spring brings opportunities to hike in the woods and go camping. I love being in the woods with a backpack and my thoughts, and maybe a few people to travel with while I immerse myself in the richness of thick green leaves on trees and tiny buds poking through on their bushes. These days, I bring my camera and a book. I write poems and take photographs of waterfalls against a backdrop of wooden bridges and rocky hills. When I get home and see neighborhood kids outside running around and playing catch, I smile and remember the excitement of the outdoors as a child. I remember that winter is finally done and spring has returned again.
While I was out on maternity leave and home with my then-almost-a-month-old daughter, I decided to start listening to the stereo during the day. This is something my mother always did while I was growing up. Leaving the stereo on and one light whenever leaving the house, she always returned to a lighted, sound-filled home. I don't know what her reasons were for this, but I assumed it had something to do with not wanting to come home to a dark, quiet house. As I sat at home, nursing, changing diapers, sometimes cleaning the house, and sometimes eating lunch, the combination of our grandmother clock's steady tick-tock, and intermittent newborn cries could have induced a turn for the worse in my mental health. Fighting this decline was critical, and so I started listening to the oldies station.
I love music in general, and the oldies are no exception. Much to my surprise, I've noticed the music of my childhood years edging its way onto the local stations, indicating that the tunes of the decadent eighties are now going the way of the dinosaurs. It was noticing this, combined with decent pattern recognition skills and auditory recall, that led me to realize the local station was rotating a few playlists. Tiring of being able to predict the next song to play, I decided to really shake things up and listen to NPR instead.
Although there is predictability to NPR, it didn't bother me because I knew I'd be listening to different topics each day. I started to learn about politics as I changed diapers, and listened to people I've never heard of talk about their new books while I nursed.
Then Sandy Hook happened.
It was one of those moments when I knew I'd remember where I was when I heard the news. That day, I was eating lunch at my dining room table and my daughter was on the floor in her jungle animal play gym nearby when the news broke. It was the first major tragedy to make news since my daughter had been born, and I had no preparation for the impact it had upon me.
I looked at my daughter. I thought of my workplace friends. The teachers filling in for me on leave. My students. In particular, I thought of an elementary school in which I work. The principal, the office staff, the students with whom I work in the halls on travel skills. The dedicated teachers who support them in their educational programming every day. I thought of the people at Sandy Hook, desperately waiting for children, spouses, and friends to leave the school building. I looked at my daughter again and finally understood why some people live in desperate, controlling fear, and cloak their children in it.
Oh, how I cried.
The photos started to go up online. You know the ones I'm talking about. Young children and the educators who lost their lives. The person who carried the gun, and the person who brought him into the world. I have never cried so much over the deaths of people I did not know.
I began this post intending to write something about safety versus independence, and how being able to live fully means being willing to accept a certain amount of risk, to deliberately exchange our attempts at keeping ourselves safe for the richness and joy that can be ours when we stretch beyond our habitual ways of behaving. All of that is true. Sandy Hook is a painful reminder that we cannot be certain that this moment won't be the last one, and of how limited our control is over what happens to us.
We do have control, though, over the spirit in which we approach life. After all, we only have our lives, our loved ones, our memories and values and dreams, for so long.
Let us be grateful for what we have while we are fortunate enough to still have it, and let us express that gratitude by living as fully as we can.
