He awoke with an ache in his back.  Straightening up, slow and stooped, swinging over to the right, he dropped one foot off the bed at a time.  He lifted his hands to his face and wiped away the film of sleep, scratched the top of his head, massaging through his ever graying hair.  He felt the oil under his nails and considered if he could go another day without showering. No. Probably not. With a sigh, he lifted himself off his bed and shuffled into the bathroom.  

The water, a shock at first, turned to relief.  He let it pour down his back and do the work of the only therapy he could afford: hot water.  His mind lingered on his back for a few moments before he picked up the shampoo. He hardly thought of it at all anymore.  Barely a scar of note. A mere shadow of a star, low and centered.

If he truly thought of it, life was easier without it.  He could keep his feelings to himself, no great tells. And clothing was certainly easier, he mused, as he reached for his towel and began to dry himself off.  The ache barely a hint now. Yes, it was as the doctors said, a much easier life without it. Yet, his joy always felt a little incomplete when all he had to show for his emotion was a mere nod of his head.

When he was young, before the procedure, he didn’t think of emotion much.  It happened to him, revealed itself through the swish and straighten. A plush remnant of his ancestry.  A living emotional weather vane pointing out his love and fear. Oh, how his heart raced when he would take off running.  Wind whipping past, dodging trees and passing pedestrians. He felt his life then. From the tip of his nose to the tip of his… well. No point in dwelling now.  There was work to be done. And his life was good now. Honest work, honest pay, and all that. Emotion wasn’t an external thing after all. It stemmed from within and could, with practice, be tamed so as to have a healthy relationship with the world around you.  He was in control of his emotions, not the other way around. Besides, he was older now, the young ones needed his guidance just as he had needed the guidance of his elders before him.

Right, speaking of work. He grabbed his keys and jacket, and, locking the door behind him, he started off down the lane.  If he left at this time, he could avoid the usual traffic. The fog was lifting and the sun was rising behind it. He felt the dampness begin to cling to him as he moved along.  The birdsong was loud above him, and he breathed in the cooling air. His ears twitched slightly with the breaking of a twig to his left, but it was only another traveler on their way to work.  He nodded slightly as they met eyes; he quashed the flitting in his belly, squared his shoulders back, and continued on his way.

The initial days after the procedure had been difficult.  There was a definite adjustment period. But, he knew what he had been getting into, and was happy to have made the choice.  Most everyone was in agreement. Sure there were still a few troglodytes who yelled about being true to our natures! And pushed back against the notion of equal rights, tried to relive their youths by wearing phony tails.  They all just seemed sad to him and a little desperate. It was time to move on. Time to rise above.

When he arrived at work, there were a few young pups already waiting with their book bags and lunch pails.  He unlocked the doors and held them open, made the usual good morning comments and jokes about whether or not they had slept here overnight.  The groggy-eyed young ones gave obligatory chuckles or had earbuds in and did not hear. Things were often quiet in the mornings. He knew by lunch time things would get more active.  Students would have their bellies full and more hydration and would be pinging off of each other’s emotions. The last few classes of the day were always a struggle. Tempers flared, hearts were broken, friendships severed and mended in a matter of minutes.  A whirlpool of instinct and hormones. Ah, to be young again. Or not. He went to collect his copies in the teachers’ lounge and fill his second cup of coffee for the day. Everything is a process, he thought. We do the best we can with what we know and have on this day.   

The first bell rang, he smoothed down his hair, felt a slight twinge in his lower back and instinctively rubbed the spot.  He picked up his copies and went on to his classroom. By the ring of the second bell, he walked into his classroom to find his class ready at their desks, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  

How does one speak of Time without slipping into cliché? You want to know what I want? I want Time.  Or better yet, I want to experience the Time I am existing in right now. Too often I find my self in what can only be described as a “holding pattern.”  Wanting to do so many things, but I am driving and have to wait till I get home, or it is the middle of the night, and I have to wait till morning. I am forever the little girl waiting for the clock to strike 7 am so my parents will wake, and we can go downstairs to see the Christmas tree, Easter Bunny, birthday cake, or first day of school.  

Somedays, I spend my time waiting between meals.  What will I have for breakfast in the morning? That was nice, now what will I have for lunch? And so it goes.  And Time continues to tick, slip, waste away. This is not a new subject for me. I have spoken about Time and waiting and wasting, feeling impatient for the next thing to arrive, and regretting the thing gone that I paid no real heed to.  Maybe it is the fact that I am feeling more adulty lately that this comes to me now – I do not know.

Maybe it is how we speak about Time, like a currency – Time is money, Time spent, Time wasted, frittered away, Time to pay the piper. And it all boils down to wanting more of it, never having enough of it, and the desperation to hold on to it when you do have it. Desperation. This is a good description of the want one feels with Time. Truly, what it boils down to, is existence. Time isn’t money, it’s life.

I want my life to be mine. I want to taste every second of it, I want to feel the satisfaction of every morsel slipping down my throat and warming me from the inside out. I want to breathe in afternoon naps and exhale the small victories of each day. The student who came in angry and goes out the door offering a hug and smile. The difficult conversation that went better than expected.

I know why we prize our scars and show them off, because they are proof that we live and have lived. Do you see this zipper on my chest, my back, my leg, my breast? Do you see it? It is my time on this earth, big moments, near death, but walking only parallel for now. Witness it. Do you have the same? Then we are brothers, my friend.

The thinning of my hair and my skin around my hands I was not prepared for. Wrinkles aren’t scary because they show your age, but because they are a reminder that Time is running out. Life is running out. Well, I want to run with it. This Time, this Life – Energy welling first in my belly, then a tingling in my feet, then up through my eyes radiating out and I find myself taking off and getting up in the morning and going to the gym and laughing loudly at school and freaking out the kids, like, perhaps, I am high. Nope. Just embracing my Time, my Life, my Joy

Seven years ago today I received a call from Sean, my brother, telling me that our Dad had passed away sometime in the night or early morning.  I was alone. In Cork city, just under 4,000 miles away from Jacksonville, Florida.  I processed, I screamed, I panicked, I made phone calls, I waited.  My friend, in the truest form of the word, was driving from Galway to pick me up in Cork – the last bus had gone for the night – and then bring me back to Galway to my Mum’s. Jen, I am eternally grateful to you.

Jen was three hours away, John was at a conference in Mayo, and my Father was dead. My Father, Jim Flynn, Mr. “Damned pleased to meet you,” was dead.  I had to get out of the house. Part of me was in a daze, foggy and uncertain, and another part of me was razor sharp and had taken on the role of self-carer.  She told me to grab my jacket, go into the kitchen and get the keys, “don’t lock yourself out, that’s all you need.” She marched me out the door, down the Western road and left towards the skate park.  I passed a lady and her daughter, a man with a little white dog, and three teenagers skateboarding on the ramps.

I walked across the bridge over the river Lee and stopped in the middle.  I held onto the side of the bridge and looked out over the river.  I have no idea what was going on in my mind.  I had no idea what was happening.  I felt like everything was about to come undone and I was stuck out here, away from home, no one knows me, I had only grabbed my keys not my wallet.  How would Jen find me? How would I get to my Dad? I believe it was a full on panic attack heading my way, and although I had been staring at down the river the entire time, I did not see it coming.

A blue heron rose up in front of me, wings spread wide. He flew right up and over me and soared back down below the other side of the bridge, levelling out along the water. It was stunning.  A few days later, I am standing in Florida on the banks of the St. John’s River and the Navy’s Gun Salute is happening.  My eyes move from the uniforms, past the podium with my father’s picture, to the river.  Just coming into sight was a blue heron, skimming the water.

I have thought of those moments for quite some time, marvelling at the synchronicity; I thought of how many times I have experienced a heron’s presence. How calming it always is; how beautiful.   I do not know with certainty if there is meaning beyond what I give it personally. Though, that is meaning in its own right, yes?

This past spring I took part in a wonderful grief recovery program.  On the eve of the final night, I was at my creative writer’s group thinking of the letter I needed to have completed.  In the letter, you process the relationship you had with your loved one who is now gone from your life [circumstances can vary], and at the end you say goodbye. Literally.  I hadn’t written the letter yet.  Something felt off.  I have taken a long time to say goodbye to my father, his presence was mighty. And the sign off at the end? It didn’t feel like enough.

At the beginning of some of our writing sessions, we pull cards as a form of inspiration.  That night I picked a random card, face down, and passed the deck.  When I flipped over the card — it was a heron.

Everything clicked then.  I wrote my letter and left off the goodbye.  That would come today:

So, here it is. Goodbye, Dad; I love you.

Post Script:

I know that my getting a tattoo would make my father chuckle.  When I got my first tattoo many moons back, Dad would tell anyone who would listen – “I spent 23 years in the Navy and never got a single tattoo! Now my daughter has one!” If I was present, I would reply – “Just making up for your lack, Dad.” He would purse his lips into a half smile, half “You’re a cheeky monkey” look and call me a “Turkey.”  I know the look well, I use it with quite a few of my students.  It means roughly, “I wish you hadn’t just done that, but you are wonderful nonetheless, and I really like your moxy.”  At least, that’s my interpretation. So, Dad, if you are making the face just remember, “I have three tattoos so far, and never spent a day employed by the Navy.”  Pretty sure that means we’re square.  I love you, Pops. See you in the dreaming world.

Veteran teachers will tell you that year 2 and 3 are so much better than year 1 because once you have a rhythm down, it becomes much easier – less planning, less last minute scrounging, etc. Though this is true to some degree, it is not always the case. I found that each year brought a different class of students with different needs and perspectives, and sometimes, one needed to adjust. Yet, in that adjustment – joy could still be found – as long as you are willing to go with it.

Wuthering Heights is one of my favorite stories. I love the book, the movies, the song. Every time I hear Catherine state “I am Heathcliff,” I am brought to my knees. My heart aches.

Teaching it would then be a great experience. Well, yes and no.

My first group of students was right there with me on their experience of Wuthering Heights, – it was ill-fated circumstance and classism that drove these two soul mates to ultimately destroy each other and everyone around them, all in the desperate need to try and be together despite the odds. Kate Bush became a regular on my students’ play lists and we thought Tom Hardy played the cruel and cruelly treated Heathcliff wonderfully.

My second group, not so much. At first, I was taken aback but listened as they too understood the text as it was written. Catherine was selfish and Heathcliff, well… One of my most memorable student moments so far came out of our discussion of Heathcliff in this class. The conversation went as followed with one of my students:
She, “I don’t like him.”
Me, “Oh yes, why?”
She, “He’s an asshole.”
Me: raucous laughter, recovery, and a quote from Stephen Fry “Heathcliff is a queer moody brute, but there is rich soil there if you care to dig.”
She, “I do not care to dig.”
Me: more raucous laughter.

What a beautiful response. Her frank and fearless response to a teacher who loved what she did not, allowed me to not only hear but also gave me the room to agree. Together we could discuss the silliness of both the characters, their unwillingness to speak the truth to each other, the inability to mourn or stand up for themselves or each other. And at what price? Death and depression in their wakes.

And from there, we discussed the outlying factors of why this might be the case. What was it about the setting, the windy, cruel moors, the North, the role of women in the age, the role of entitlement?

And in the end, it only added to my love of the novel. I was okay that they didn’t like the characters because feeling evoked by art is what connects us to it after all.
I once walked into an Art show when I was in my late teens. And there was nothing very explicit about the art, it was abstract, but I was overwhelmed with a feeling of disgust and nausea. I wish I could remember the artist or even the art itself, but that feeling, that experience, I won’t forget. That was an authentic art experience. And to become so involved in a novel that every time you see the teacher who exposed you to it, you remind her how much you dislike that fella, is too, perhaps an authentic art experience.
So the form this go round isn’t really a traditional form, but perhaps it is the most traditional of all. Write a poem like you normally write a poem. No set structure, unless you have one, no set rhyme unless you have one. Write like you write, and if you think Heathcliff is an asshole, just come out and say it.

My Artistic Style

I am learning
No, wait, that’s not it
I am drawing again
I say again
But that’s not right either
Well, it is but it isn’t
Let me start over…

I have found myself drawn to drawing lately
A little closer to the truth of it.
I haven’t drawn much in my life
I like bodies –
Can do a fairly decent lying down woman
Without hands or feet…
But I have her curves down.
Now, mind you I say fairly decent,
Not for showing to the public fairly decent,
But fairly decent for me.

I still draw with the same techniques
I was shown as a child.
In one of my only art classes –
taught by a nun who loved expression.
She taught me how to draw a tree
One line at a time.
And every mistake became a new limb.

But then we moved,
And I didn’t have art again.

I am, trying out perspective
And I find myself
Staring into the upper corners
of the rooms I am in
Trying to figure out
How to translate
The point where the three lines meet
Onto paper.

Straight line down,
Got that,
Straight line to the left,
Yep,
Now the line to the right,
That’s where it gets tricky for me.
Slightly up or out or down or in
Or…
Hey look!
A tree with two, three,
Four limbs!

I flip through my sketches
And they are heavy leaded,
Awkward, clumsy, smudged,
Childlike,
mine.