In My Head

Another weekend is winding down. My husband and I decided to take this weekend off after gardening, house painting, and roof re-shingling. We've had a couple of busy weekends and really needed a weekend off. Of course, my weekend off still entailed cleaning and laundry and other little chores, but we did get some genuine relaxation in. However little gnawing thoughts kept entering my noggin and forcing me to resolve them. Even when my body is present and pleasantly engrossed in Netflixing The Walking Dead, I still find time to gnaw the cud of cultural issues that are vexing my thoughts.

Thinking goat's got some serious hashing out of personal truths going on.

The current political climate continues to cause consternation. I know who I will vote for, but it astonishes me the number of my logical and rather progressive minded friends who want to vote for Libertarian candidate Gary Johnson. Yes he is appealing in that he wants to legalize marijuana, he wants to promote civil liberties (although that pesky Equal Rights Amendment wasn't necessary--their platform, not mine), and he seems to be without email scandal or big money interests paying him off. Maybe that's why he didn't seem to recognize Aleppo--no one paid him to pay attention. Oh! and that Environmental Protection Agency is a frivolous agency that isn't strictly sanctioned by the Constitution. Besides the sun is just going to take the Earth out somewhere in the way distant future, so why try and make the world better now? That's ridiculous. While we're at it, we don't need the Supreme Court saying that homosexuals deserve things like marriage rights and wedding cakes because after all, should not the free market determine whether or not those businesses succeed rather than some silly law telling them not to discriminate? Because, you know, not shutting down discrimination through a national stance for equal rights for everyone works.

Oh wait. No it doesn't. That doesn't work at all. Fuck voting for Gary Johnson. 

Then there's the racial tension on the Internet and some news sources. Another fucking shooting of a black man. Another officer facing charges. A football player peacefully protests to draw attention to an issue that he feels deeply about. Yet, people still don't want to admit that racism has been and continues to be an issue in America. The Civil Rights Movement did a lot, but to think it accomplished its goals and is no longer relevant is stupid. Racism exists and to deny it seems like just another way to protect ourselves and our privilege. You see, my husband and my mom got a little heated in the topic this weekend. My mom has family and friends who live in metropolitan areas and in Southern border states. These individuals counsel her that we don't know the real issues and can't possibly have any idea of the tribulations because we live in fairly rural Montana. Umm, ok, so the increase in migrant workers or the increase in drug trafficking through our state, or oh yeah! That border less than two hours to the north means we can't possibly know what is going on in other regions or cities. You know what I think? I think telling someone from our area that we can't possibly know the real horrors is a convenient way to ignore the problem. It says that institutionalized racism is ok. It further divides people along tribal like boundaries. It protects privilege and keeps us from examining issues. It plugs our ears from listening to the marginalized in society and seeks to keep us apart. Sometimes it takes an outsider to point to the problems and pull them into the light. Racism is an issue. Police need better training in non-gun ways to diffuse situations with all people so that not only white people are taken into custody and people of color are not mistakenly shot in disproportionate numbers. 

Be the beagle! Open your ears and really listen to those who lack the power in the situation.

In other news, I am trying to learn my lines for the play. It's harder than it used to be. I'm tired as fuck most of the time because I can't seem to get a handle on the lupus. My husband finished shingling our roof, but he's hurting because he can't take ibuprofen along with his Otezla; autoimmune conditions suck ass. The restaurant where I belly dance got evicted because the refinery bought their lease and gave them four days to vacate. These good people lost their livelihood and our community lost a cultural, non-chain restaurant. A young woman from my high school was murdered Friday night and social media was covering it--for good or ill-- more than the local media was. Horrors. Injustices. Misery. Despite it all, life keeps pushing on. I can't help thinking of my favorite line of literature: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

Keep guiding the way forward green light. Remind us of the past, but keep us moving forward with the knowledge and the compassion to make it better for not only ourselves, but also our fellow humans. 

Remember What I Wrote About Pacing? I Didn't

Let me begin by saying I am terrible at taking my own advice. I know that pacing is important. I know that doing more than I ought to leads to brain fog and feeling like I didn't sleep at all when I wake. I know these things and yet, I totally ignored all of my knowledge this weekend.
Stuff needed doing dammit!

Success and eggs: breakfast of champions.

Yesterday, I did my usual coffee and surveys wake up. I do surveys online to earn points to earn possible $500 gift cards. I can also trade my points in for Amazon cards and the like. It's usually not that big of deal to spend a little time answering questions. Unless of course they send you a surprise box of toilet paper to try out...and it sucks! I digress.

 Me when I opened a box of toilet paper that was thinner than the stuff in campground outhouses.

Anyway, I started Saturday with all kinds of energy. I did my burpees and I did my surveys. I cleaned the house and practiced my lines. I'm doing fairly well on the opening scene. I hope to try it off book next time we run it. I did a little light banking and budgeting. Then my husband started on the roof.

Keep telling yourself that.

Awhile back, we got hit with multiple hailstorms and needed a new roof. I actually convinced my husband to let someone else handle it. We got estimates. We decided which company would handle the job and called them. Then we called again. They never called back. Consequently, my husband decided to say screw them and we'd do it ourselves. He used to do this for a living, but it's been a few years. Oh well, we needed to get moving because winter does not seem inclined to wait this year. He started ripping and I cleaned. I hauled wheelbarrows full of yard debris and shingles to the big dumpster. I carried old gutters and twisted metal edging to the dumpster. I worked hard along with my hubs for a few hours. And then? I practiced belly dance.

Goat gets shit done!

Yup, I had to practice a bit with my veil because last night was my 9 year anniversary of dancing, and we were at the restaurant. Nothing says beautiful like scrubbing shingle dust and dirt off only to then apply oodles of make up and wear sequins in order to dance for half an hour. Needless to say, by the end of the set, I was toast. But then we had to go talk to the audience for 30-45 minutes.

Goat says, "WTH, mate?!?"

By the time I got home and we had dinner, I was completely exhausted. Muscles were sore. Brain was jelly. I needed to sleep. And I did. I even dreamt about seeing humpback whales.

Hiya!

Right now I sit on my sofa though feeling like I should go take a nap. I woke slowly feeling even more tired than when I went to bed. I just can't seem to get my engine running. I've slept, eaten, had coffee, taken the morning slowly,  but I just don't have energy. I'm supposed to help more with the roofing and the cleaning. I have done that. I also ripped out the carpet and padding of the back room. We wanted to take advantage of the big dumpster and rip out the back room that we are planning to renovate next. I got the carpet and padding up and to the dumpster, but the idea of ripping down dry wall is too much. My arms are weak even while I type. I should keep pushing and keep making progress, but damn this fatigue!  I'm even too out of it to play Diablo 3! It's just too much right now to really concentrate. I'll likely type the draft of this post. Go take a nap. Then edit it later. I know that pushing more will just make tomorrow even harder. I won't be able to clear my head. I'll be muddled and incoherent. I hate that feeling.

And...we're done now.

I also feel guilty. My husband seems to be tolerating this very hard labor better. He could take tomorrow off if need be. He probably won't because he's who he is, but if he needed a day to recover, he could take it. I don't think I could. Being gone is just that much more work when you're a teacher. I feel guilty not helping more outside or with the back room. If I help outside or inside, I'd need to stay home tomorrow. Then I'd feel guilty for not being at work. It's a vicious cycle. I fucking hate fatigue. My brother in law is helping with the roof today. That's a blessing. It takes some pressure off my husband. It takes some pressure off of me. I'm truly grateful. I just wish I wasn't so fucking tired!

Stupid lupus!

OK. Enough self-pity. Time to go haul some more. Time to fold some laundry. Time to keep pushing.

Easing into Autumn's Rest

I've just spent the last hour and halfish out in the backyard with my husband tidying the yard for the end of the growing season. We've got a few weeks yet until Mabon, but a little bit of action each weekend helps ensure that we get all the little things done. Besides, we needed to put that new weed whacker to use!

I know, Goat. You'd have been perfect for the job. Silly  laws against livestock in city limits.

Today it is about 20 degrees cooler than yesterday. It's also cloudy and threatening rain. It drizzled while we were outside, but nothing major. Still, we donned our work clothes and set to our task. I trimmed the shrubberies along the alley. My husband took the weed whacker to the long and unruly growth around the garden, the alley, the neighbor's fence, and around the front. The thing is wonderful. Unfortunately, my husband's arms are more than a wee bit tight and sore from it. Stupid rheumatoid arthritis. He took the power tool for a spin yesterday as soon as the battery had enough charge to work, and even that short spurt made his body yell. Yet, he was out there today. Hopefully, with Epsom salt and some ibuprofen, he'll not be in too much pain.

Oh dear. Hopefully not that!

I got the weeds pulled out of my herb garden. The Russian sage and the oregano both died. Not sure if the frequent hailstorms took them out or if the neighbor's spraying got them. I don't think the August heat got to them. They are under the shelter of a mighty Box Elder tree and the drip system kept them watered. I trimmed down the lilly stalks, tamed the lemon balm, and apologized to several earthworms for rudely digging them up out of the soil. Seeing so many ladybugs still enjoying our yard filled me with happy thoughts. I wound up the drip hose and put it in the only container we have outside right now: a blue Rubbermaid trash can.

This is not our garden.

My husband tended the asparagus patch and blanketed it with mulch. He also trimmed the branches on the tree over the herb garden so it's not touching our heads or the cable line to the neighbor's house. He got some of the more wayward weeds out of the garden and rounded up the dead cabbage and cruciferous plants that have already given their vegetables. He discovered lemon balm and horehound growing by the raspberries and the gourds. He decided he won't be able to turn the compost until the gourds finish their season. We've got some ginormous pumpkins (one is 27" inches from stem to bottom and 47" inches around its middle) as well as some Jack be Littles that need some more time in addition to some of the largest acorn squashes we've ever grown. The gourds all decided that the garden really belongs to them and no other human or plant. So the compost shall wait. Probably until we do our final harvest in October with the gourds and the Brussels sprouts. Then we'll till the plot and rotate the compost and set the garden to rest until spring.

My! What lovely gourds you have.

While we worked, the smell of the lavender in the herb garden delighted me. I think next season I shall fill in the herb garden with as many varieties as possible. I've heard some growers say our area is too cold for lavender, but it's always grown well for me. I heard robins chatting, Canada geese honking, and the thoughts in my head being mulled over. My nose filled with scents of wood burning stoves. My long sleeved shirt provided little protection as the crisp, cool air raised goosebumps on my skin. It truly feels like autumn today.

I love this rainy autumn feel.

Now my husband has a roast in the crockpot for dinner. I am sipping a cup of ginger zucchini soup. I think some more candles and tea are in order for this Sunday. It's supposed to be a day of rest after all. The earth is making its transition to sleep during the dark time of the year. Apples, cinnamon, pumpkins, and cloves will be added to menus. Socks, sweaters, long pants, and scarves appear regularly. Leaves have started to turn and will begin to fall soon. My favorite time of the year has arrived.

That'll do, Snoopy. That'll do.

Day Dreaming

My husband and I are working on the exterior of our home. I wrote sometime ago about the yellow controversy. The Juicy Cantaloupe trim does indeed really make the happiness of the house come alive. Honestly, I feel an energy when I come home and see our joyous little abode. It just puts a smile on my face.

It's just so cheerful even Moose can't help but grin.

Today we chose an accent color. We joked about a shade of green so we could complete the Rainbow Sherbet effect. However, my husband also suggested a watermelon. I liked the red or the green options, but I thought a deeper shade of red would be better. Perhaps a cedar color. We went to the store. He held up the paint chips and brought home five options. We poured a delicious pint of Lip Ripper IPA and went to our porch to look at the choices. In the end, the brown shade was discarded easily. Ultimately, it was clear in the bright autumn afternoon sun: Fire Cracker. It's a delightful and deep red that will look fantastic on our eaves and doors. I can't wait. It's exactly what is missing.

 Well, no. There's more to be done.

We also talked about shingles as the multiple hail storms meant new roof. New roof shall be Buckskin Tan. It's all coming together.

'Nuff said.

You see, we bought this house 15 years ago with a lot of dreams of how we were going to remodel and revamp and make it ours. Then we got sidelined with autoimmune disorders. All of our maladies put us behind and honestly made dreaming about our house almost too much sadness for me to handle. One room took almost ten years to complete. I just could not imagine what more home improvements was going to take. I stopped thinking about the possibilities of our home. It was shelter. It was home. It was cozy and it was enough.

Goat was content.

Today though, my hubby and I let our hippie flags fly. We chose our colors. We talked about the vinyl fencing that we can now afford. We talked about a garage, a greenhouse, and raised bed gardens instead of lawn in the front yard. We bought a new weedwacker/edger. We shared a dream of our home together again for the first time in years.

And then we danced in our living room. It was bliss.

Tis the Season

For going back to school that is. I spent the summer not working. You're probably thinking, "You're a teacher. You never work in summer." Let me explain.

Have a seat and listen while I tell you a tale of a teacher whose plans go awry.

I did not work summer school. I did not work a side job. I did not complete a degree or other furthering of my education coursework. I took the summer off completely for the first time in my 15 years as an educator. Know what? It felt good.

Wait! You mean you don't sit around and sip margaritas?

I had planned on exploring freelance writing opportunities and squirreling away funds for my new car since I blew that nest egg on cervical fusion surgery last fall. However, I didn't do that. Not because I did not want to, but because instead of needing to work, we've finally gotten to a point where my working over summer isn't essential. After 15 years as a teacher, we finally had enough that I didn't need to work to make ends meet over summer. 15 years.

That's right. 15 years it took. No wonder burn out rates in education are so high.

Another factor in my decision was that instead of feeling like I had to establish a fallback plan for when I left teaching, I was actually content at the end of last year. I had a year where I was allowed to actually put to use my experience, my creativity, and my knowledge of the subject. Because I was content, I did not feel as though I had to stick to my Plan of Escape that I formulated a few years ago when my district's policy makers were essentially stripping my autonomy as an educator. I quit my side gigs last spring and opted not to push myself to earn, earn, earn!

 

That's right Miss Ives. Enough of that bullshit.

Instead, I read. I read a lot. I read classics, I read modern fantasy, and I read scholarly journals. I spent a lot of time filling up my empty cistern of self. I considered several points of view on education reform and policy. I evaluated how last year went for my students and what I could do to be better for them this year. I developed new novel units using strategies I've gathered from the last few years of teaching. I purchased materials that my students would need to organize their work in class to best implement class procedures. I wasn't altogether ready to return mind you, but when the first day back came, I was more relaxed and enthusiastic than I had been in several years.

Most excellent. Party on, Wayne.

That bliss lasted for about a day. Currently, I am on edge because I am waiting for someone to tell me I have to teach this boxed, scripted literacy program instead of the board approved English curriculum. You see, I teach special education. My students have reading and writing disabilities as well as some mental health and cognitive or behavioral challenges. Apparently, if you teach special education English at the high school, you can be told to teach a boxed, scripted literacy program instead. With no notice. Without input.

For fuck's sake! Not again you bastards!

Apparently there was a shift last spring. The student services folks and literacy coaches decided that not only would they implement this program at middle school level, it should also be taught by the English teachers in the high school special education classes. While the middle school teachers were told last spring, we high school folk weren't. We weren't included in the discussion or the selection. In fact, my counterpart at my previous school (I was involuntarily transferred in spring 2015 after 11 years) was informed via email by her building admin that she was required to attend training on one of two days available. Never mind the fact that this is the third intervention program in six years. I was around for the first two, but a third? Somehow this seems to fly in the face of best practice. There are now loads of materials and technology that will gather dust in a cupboard while funds that must have been conjured magically will now be spent on a new program that six years ago was too expensive to be considered for our district. "Have no fear!" she was told. "We've got the funds. We can sustain it." Never mind the fact that Y admin says X department is paying for it while X department says Y admin is paying for it. It's an ongoing struggle in special education to determine whether special education/student services will be footing the bill or whether the building/general education department will be footing the bill. We're supposed to trust that it's all going to be ok when they can't even state who is going to pay for it.

Skeptical chihuahua wants and explanation.

Now my colleague had my utmost sympathy because once again in her time at this school they shifted gears a week before school starts and without her input. However, no one had included me in any conversation thus far, and I had not received an email like she did. I had no reason to think that I too would be included in this restructuring. While she teaches at a full title school with a different English and literacy class set up, my school had not gone that route. I was told to teach the regular ed curriculum with modified materials, which I did. I also collected data to support my effectiveness that showed the students were making gains in reading and writing while still moving through the district curriculum.

I do good work and I have evidence to prove it. So there!

Then on the teacher prep day before kids arrived, a literacy teacher who I had worked with closely asked me if I was teaching the new boxed, scripted literacy program. I replied that to my knowledge it was only the other school. She mentioned that she was told the day before at a literacy meeting that it was both high schools. This chilled me. Students came to their first day of the new year in less than 24 hours and I am hearing rumor-mill second-hand information from someone who is not my immediate supervisor? Mmmmm. Something is rotten in the state of special ed.

Explain it if you can.

Then, I return to my room to continue setting things up for the start of the year and receive a phone call from the administrator of title services including literacy asking me what materials I need for the new program. I tell her that to my knowledge I don't need any as I am not teaching it. She's confused by this of course and let's me know that one of my building admin is ordering materials for someone in the building, surely it must be me since I am teaching special education English. I assure her that no one has told me I am to teach that program, but that perhaps the new academic literacy class that has just been assembled is the right class. After we hang up, I check with my department head who assures me that no, I am not teaching the boxed, scripted literacy program.

Whew! Goat was worried there for a minute.

The next day though, the two literacy coaches for the district show up in my room to invite me to a training for the boxed, scripted literacy program. WTF, mate? I am about ready to scream at this point, but I calmly tell them the same thing I told their admin the day before. They start stammering and shuffling through papers, but I stick to my story that they probably want the literacy teacher, not me. They leave--confused and uncertain, but they leave. I call my department head again. She is aghast and now clearly worried that something changed and no one told us. She tells me she'll look into it.

Don't make me release my monkeys!

I didn't hear anything before I left on Friday. I am hoping that when I return tomorrow, there is not an email or phone message telling me I must do this boxed, scripted literacy program. You see, my students do have learning challenges. From having used two different boxed, scripted literacy programs, I learned some interesting and useful strategies that I use currently. I also learned from looking at the data, that I am effective at increasing student achievement on the district's chosen data collection method without the expensive programs. The data from the lessons I designed actually looked better than the data for the boxed, scripted literacy programs.

Moose knows what to do. Moose has it handled.

Yet, here I sit worrying that the rug will be ripped out from under me again. The two big programs and one minor program that I had to teach previously, disrespect highly qualified teachers. By forcing this program on my students and on me, the administration is saying quite clearly that my voice and expertise do not matter. I wasn't given a voice in the decision, which tells me that the ones who did think they know better than me what needs to happen. No one told me last spring or before school started, which tells me that someone not only totally dropped the ball, but also thinks so little of me as a teacher that they think I am incapable of doing my job. Worse yet, they think that just because my students have IEPs they are incapable of accessing the district curriculum. While I do have students with very low reading ability according to the district measures, those students make gains with the way I teach. I also have students with very high reading and writing who could be successful in general education classrooms if not for their brain injuries or their anxiety or their inability to meet homework expectations. They are all more capable than any of the boxed, scripted literacy programs I've used give them credit for.

He's smiling because one of my students made a connection.

One aspect of my job I believe in earnestly is the concept of do no harm. This stems from my spiritual beliefs, but it also resonates deeply with my goal as an educator. Three different (four really for me if this goes through) boxed, scripted literacy programs in six years? That seems harmful. It shows a lack of forethought on the part of the district. It shows a lack of commitment on the part of the district. It shows discompassionate policy based solely on reading achievement measures rather than on individual needs. It shows a wastefulness that is abhorrent in an age where schools struggle to commmunicate a need of adequate funding in communities that are financially strapped and suspicious of education budgets. It shows utter disrespect for a staff who take their jobs seriously. I only hope that tomorrow, my fears are not realized.

Please?

My Space

In my basement, there's a space that is mine. It is in the northwest corner. There is a small square of flooring left from the previous owner. In this space, I once had a lovely steam trunk that I used as an altar. It's gone now. Ruined by so much cat urine as they competed for dominance in the ritual space. Now there is a tiered particle board shelf like you buy at Target to organize a closet. It works well as it has multiple levels that can hold ritual tools. I covered it in a scarf that is the color suited to the full moon rite I last performed many moons ago. On top, all my tools arranged neatly and ready for action should I wish to return to ritual. Mabon is coming; I could focus on that equinox harvest. As I cleared clutter, changed the cat litter boxes, and swept the basement floor this morning, I kept looking at my space and wondering why I don't dismantle it.

I find Wiccan and Pagan altars so much more meaningful  and lovely than Christian altars.

Performing rituals used to excite me. It felt empowering to dedicate time and energy to making life better. It filled a need in me to connect with something deeper than myself. I enjoyed honoring the seasons and spending time focusing on the work I needed to do. Writing my own rituals and spells fed my creative needs and revealed to me how similar all religious rites really are. Seriously. If you can't see the parallels between Catholic masses and Wiccan rites, I can't help you.

Don't be fooled by this.

Or this for that matter.

I've felt that connection to rituals slipping for a while now. I don't do full moon rituals much anymore. I've scaled back to my former moon gazing or as some call it basking. I don't do spell work as I simply don't see the point. I understand why some do spells or prayers, but I see the activity more like elaborate acts of futility now. What's the point? It does not really have any more effect on reality than a false sense of engagement and control. It's impact is limited to me and me alone. While someone else who also believes in the supernatural world of gods and goddesses may appreciate the efforts, the truth is, those energies have no more than placebo effect.

Gee, that's super helpful.

I'm not sure if it's being jaded or just realizing the senselessness of it all, but I cannot help feeling disconnected from rituals. I still practice mindfulness with breathing techniques and trying to focus just on what I'm actually doing rather than worrying about what comes next. For example, I pop in my ear buds and listen to some white noise or binaural beats for about 15 minutes before work. I try to stay present, but of course, I'm only mildly successful most days. It does help me maintain a calm exterior though. So I continue. I do read pagan blogs and ponder the turning of the wheel. This month is Mabon. I'll spend some time meditating and ruminating on the idea of reaping what I've sown this year. The sabbats help me reflect on my actions and where my life is going in that regard. While I do not believe in deities, I do find mindful reflection an essential part of my life.

Pagans do create magical artwork. I could stare at this Mabon piece while I meditate. 

Perhaps that is why I have not put away my ritual items. I still find the meaning in the sabbats, but calling the lord and lady or the corners does not make sense anymore. They don't exist, so why include them in my spiritual practice?  A few years ago, I wrote my own rites and tried to find the right words for what I believed, or didn't believe in might be a more accurate phrasing. Being Wiccan without the neo-pagan dogma: Is it possible?

This image. This one. The conical hat symbolizes the Wiccan, but in reality, she's just a person sitting in nature thinkng deeply about life's mysteries.

My spiritual path continues to evolve. It continues to be a deeply personal and thoughtful journey. Behind me, I've left Catholicism, I've left Methodism, and now I've left ritual Wicca. I've stripped away so much. What am I left with? Residual guilt and shame. Artifacts. A belief and appreciation in the natural world around me. A sense of calm in letting go of deities and ritual practice. For now, thinking my thoughts while I witness the beauty of a full moon across a lake provides tranquility. Marking the passing of seasons with personal reflection gives me purpose. Mindfulness centers me for living the life I choose. One day I may very well take down my altar and tuck away my cauldron, censer, athame, and wand. For now though, it reminds me of where I've been and where I may return should I feel need.

See what I mean? Gorgeous imagery.

It is September. It is raining outside. I feel like brewing a cup of tea, lighting some candles, and perhaps burning a bit of frankincense.

Blessed be.

I Finally Said Yes

If you've read any of my theater related blogs over time, you will be familiar with my anxiety and reluctance to return to the world of community theater. Well, the time has come for me to once again walk on the boards. I know. I just posted over the summer about all the why's that I have not said yes to a show. However, as I toyed with the possibility, I realized something: I am a picky performer. Period.

I make no apologies.

Recently, a few colleagues decided to mount a production of Arthur Miller's "The Crucible". I teach this play. I consider it the pinnacle of American drama. Not only does it reveal to us the origins of the idiom "witchhunt," our history of fear controlling policy, and a beautiful bit of art forcing the public to consider life's big questions, it's simply rich soil for performers to dig into. Consequently, when I saw the notice, I was torn between my fears and my belief that important art needs to be shown to my community.

I do believe this is what I looked like when I saw the audition notice.

One of my objections over time has been the director. I've worked with some not so adept directors and I have worked with some outstanding ones. I know who I will work with and who I won't. I know who can give me adequate guidance to bring forth a personal performance from me and the entire cast worthy of the material and who will let me and others be lazy. In this instance, the director is not a reason to forego participation.

Satisfied goat approves.

Another objection I've held in the past deals with material. I don't particularly enjoy musicals. I'm not excited at the idea of dinner theater. Classical plays like Ibsen, Checkov, and Shakespeare? Sign me up now! So too was my reaction to hearing about Miller's play being done. It's not one I ever thought I'd have the chance to be a part of other than teaching it. I finally have a chance to do a show that fits my talents and my belief in classical works. Saying no to this opportunity seemed like hypocrisy.

Side-eye moose calls you out every time.

The only objections that remain to be solved or addressed involve my health worries. Will I be able to remember my lines and deliver them without my brain fog getting in the way? Will my fatigue overwhelm me and drain me too much to function? Will my joints and muscles play nicely so that I can move freely without a flare? I really don't know yet. I know that this first week back to school has been exhausting, but it always is; I know that will alleviate. I know that I am taking less pain medication than I was just a few months ago. I know that I will never discover the answers to my worries without trying. I know I want this production to be the best so that more like it happen in the future. As insecure as I am in some of my worry, I know that letting worry have control feels an awful lot like being chickenshit. I don't think I could honestly say no to this chance without regret. So here we go. Back to Salem. Back to theater. Back to my love of performing outstanding dramas. I'm scared, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Come along, kiddies. It's time to conjure some magic!