For this week's blog, I had every intention of posting about my week break from school and how completely relaxing it has been. I watched too much Netflix, drank too much coffee, and got just enough sleep and adventure to suit the lazy slothfulness I wanted to embrace. Maybe I can get to that next week....you know when I am exhausted from teaching kids who have just had a week break from school. Life intervened with Facebook memories and my obsession about organized files on a Google drive. Many times when I snap photos, I am merely amusing myself and do not have any intent to share. I snap photos of my random thoughts, small moments I want to touch later, and beauty I want to save for not so beautiful days. When I scroll my photos, they serve their intended purpose. I remember why I took the photograph or I smile just seeing the subject. Every so often I go through and organize my photographs into folders, so there is context for me when my mind and memories fade or for the unfortunate soul who is tasked with cleaning up my electronics after I pass. As I completed my sorting, I wondered what people would think if they could see all of my photos. I wondered how much of my story I was leaving out by simply having a photo in a file. Take the photo above for an example. I really had no intention of sharing it when I pulled out my phone. So, what is the story? Well, it could be...woman in a cold climate bundled up for outside while it's dark obviously doesn't know what the flash or nighttime feature on her phone is for. OR it could be, abused woman with deep fear of the dark ventures unafraid and smiling to walk in the dark to the grocery store by herself. Sitting here reflecting, I'm not sure which story I would rather my sons see when they view the photograph. I know now that it isn't for me alone to shape and create their definition of me, but I can be more thoughtful about giving a more complete accounting of my own reflections on myself. In all my struggles with how my own mother has impacted the person that I am, I sometimes failed to see that the mother I am impacted the people my own children have become. This hits even harder as a conversation with my youngest comes to mind. He LOVES music, and he's good. It was his life jacket in the choppy waters of high school. Even though he knew I encouraged music and played the trumpet, he never knew I played in a marching band or competitions until after high school. In my mind, music was so important to him and so much of his identity that I didn't want to dull his accomplishments with my own, so I spoke in the most general terms of my experiences. What a bonding experience to miss out on right?? Years later when we spoke more in depth, he was almost angry that I had held back that information. Inadvertently, I had taken something from him by trying too hard to orchestrate instead of provide information for his experiences. The thoughts in my mind are churning and swirling filled with words like perspective, filters, context, mood, and a song. "If a picture paints a thousand words...then why can't I paint you?" By the way, if you don't know the song, I suggest you look it up. If you do, let me weigh you down with the factoid that the song was released 49 years ago. Back to the photographs, we could discuss the truth of photographs, the perspective of the viewer as well as the photographer, and myriad issues that sprout from visual media, but that isn't where my mind ultimately wanders. Where I land is the importance of preserving the story whether through caption or asking. Now, I am not one of those scrapbook moms, and I always preferred flipping through the old photo albums with the boys and laughing together while we swapped stories. This can't last forever obviously, so when I go back to the photo albums next time I'm going to add some small anecdotes on some of my favorites. My initial thinking is to add a folded paper beside or behind, so that the viewer can still view through their own filters before adding the layer of my thoughts. My love of technology also has me thinking what I really should do is create a Google document and make voice comments. I would love to share with family and friends, though so they can add their own comments because no picture is only my story. This is for another day, though. For every photograph, there are thousands of moments that slip by possibly to never be remembered again. I'm going to ignore the nagging voice in the back of mind reminding me that history is always biased and that people are forgotten within three generations and that social media remembers. As general practice, I don't record the stories that pop in my mind. Everyone has those conversations that start with, "Do you remember when...?" which inevitably leads to someone else saying, "Or when.....!" Inside jokes abound in friendships and familial relationships. Maybe I should add those prompts to photo albums as well. The history teacher inside me is cheering and dancing about the more complete look at history and the value of primary sources, while the disorganized, messy mom in me blows hair from her face and says, "Really??"
You have to start somewhere. Through this blog, I am creating a written road map of where my mind has been through this journey and years from now I can look back for a reminder. Unlike social media, these posts aren't just a snippet of a moment with a short comment that could be meaningless years down the road. Perhaps I'll be embarrassed, maybe proud, but hopefully looking back I can see more clearly this leg of the journey. More importantly, if my children are ever searching or floundering, I hope that I can give them a clear picture of their roots and where they come from. That they can see that failure, sadness, doubt, struggle, reflection, and redirection is in every life, and that sometimes it is followed by more of the same until you feel buried. But even in the midst of these heavy times there are stories, humor, people, and connections; that they aren't alone or the first. But also that it is possible to overcome and emerge from those times in spectacular and magnificent ways while at the same time not know where the hell you are going next. Boy do I wish I had gone on this journey of serious self reflection so much earlier because I could be flipping through above mentioned photo albums with anecdotes and comments already included. Right about now I am supposed to say something about hindsight and inspiring others to do better, but all I can think about is how many photographs I should go caption and how many stories I want to tell. There is a spot of Tostidos salsa con queso on the ceiling of the dining room in the house where I raised my boys. Sure, it's faded and you have to know what you are looking for, but I saw it last time I was there. If I gave you a photo of that spot, probably the thousand words painted would all be questions and miss all aspects of the memory it would evoke for me. So sure a picture paints a thousand words, but this is precisely why it can't paint me.
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The week before any big break feels like drowning in a blender set on pulse. Everyone is on a countdown to the time off, and students smell blood in the water. As with anywhere I have taught, there are those kids that do not look forward to the break and search for attention in the worst ways. But we all made it. Friday was the first Valentine's Day that I have not been stressed out about parties, cards, treats, games, and managing a class of raging sugar monsters. Honestly, I enjoy the lessened focus on holidays here in Norway. As a matter of fact, we don't celebrate birthdays at school either. Parents plan the parties outside of school, and many don't even send the invitations through school. I was shocked when students showed up on Valentine's Day with little gifts for me. I think more than anything, I appreciate that the families reach out to remind me that they care about my culture too. I received a box of Pop Tarts that sucked me back to my boys' childhood with a glance. One student brought valentine bags for the entire class. My little Benjamin brought chocolate hearts to school Thursday to share with everyone, and he brought another box on Friday. He told me, "These are only for you. Don't share them with the class." I got an updated me and you drawing too. A big takeaway of the day was a lesson about candy in Norway. One girl brought me a beautiful box of chocolates in a heart shaped tin. When I opened the lid, I saw heart shaped chocolates drizzled with dark chocolate, dark chocolates, and white chocolates. They just looked so delicious, and of course, I have a weakness for chocolate. After being burned by raspberry cream and sub par chocolate ganache fillings on past valentines, I promised myself I would never eat chocolates without a guide again. But this is a new country, I NEEDED to try these chocolates. The solid chocolate heart that I tried first gave me a sense of confidence that was not dissuaded by the marzipan filled heart I tried next. However, it was absolutely decimated by a beautiful cocoa flecked white chocolate square bursting with a black licorice filling that had the consistency of toothpaste. As I wiped a paper towel across my tongue, all I could think was, "What kind of monster hides black licorice INSIDE a chocolate???" Oh, Norway. Most of my students had no idea what Valentines Day was, so I told them in the states, we use it as a day to tell people we love them. I gave them each a small valentine card, and the class was buzzing with happiness. When I asked if they wanted to make cards, the class erupted with excitement. They spent 35 minutes snipping, gluing, clipping, and furiously stacking stickers on their creations. They proudly displayed and compared their handwork which prompted some students to teach each other how to make their own hearts and some to layer on more stickers. There was one little girl that reminded me of the true love in holidays like this. When she saw other students giving me gifts, she started to cry. She told me she didn't have anything to give me, and I told her that that was fine. I didn't need or even expect students to bring gifts today. I told her hugs are free gifts and asked if I could have one, but she was completely dissatisfied with that answer. Later when I explained about using this day to tell people you love them, she started crying again and reminded me that she didn't have anything for me. She was a quiet worker in that 35 minutes, and she was grinning ear to ear when she handed me a card that said, "I love you, Ms Hill". My heart with these kids. Littles, they love as hard as they play. It got me thinking though. Why do we buy into commercialism and make such a big to do for holidays? Why aren't we, myself included, better models of free expressions of love and doing it more often? I know people who are. I have a student who has signed "I love you," to me everyday since I taught it to him. I have a couple of coworkers who are liberal with their compliments and consistently ask people how they are in a genuine, I-want-an-answer type of way. Yet still, maybe this girl was dissatisfied with my answer about hugs because I've not said enough times to her, "I love your hugs, and they make my day." There is something to be said for simple but meaningful gestures. Probably one of the most meaningful traditions my ex husband ever started was sending me one red, one white, and three pink roses every Valentine's Day. It became more meaningful when after the divorce, my boys started sending three pink roses to me every year. But do you know what was else is meaningful? That my boys would hug me in public...as teenagers. That they shared music and memes. That they introduced me to their friends, willingly. That they tell me they are proud of me. That they call on big days but call on random days too. That my son still contends, at least to me, that the best part of Norway was seeing me. I know I can do better to share my love of small things with my family and students because really those are the things we remember. I couldn't tell you what I received for every Valentines Day or Mothers Day or Birthday, but I could tell you a thousand little things my kids did that made me smile or laugh or love them even more. To this day, I can't hear Seven Nation Army without remembering the thump of bass from the basement and the pride beaming from my youngest son's face. It is the first of many songs he learned by ear. And not an April Fools Day goes by without an alligator in the bathtub. At the tender age of two, my oldest squealed with delight when dad and mom ran to the bathroom to see the alligator he swore was there only to be April fools. Little things like a personalized ring tone or a hug that lingers, these things make the world go round. Here's to never underestimating the power of a smile and to never having someone think a hug is a bad gift to give. Go love someone on purpose today. We all belong to each other. I wouldn't have thought Janus would actually drink coffee, but here we are. He has truly embraced lazy weekends with me. Friends, teacher tired is real this time of year, and I am just thankful to have next week off to unwind. The weekend before last, I went on a peaceful walk with a teacher friend and two new friends. It seems hidden treasures in Norway are slowly revealing themselves to me. My call was last minute, and I was lucky to catch the group right before they left. Otherwise I would have been stuck simply walking around a scenic lake. We hiked a road that led to a waterfall and a wonderful place for a picnic. True Norwegian hosts that they were, they brought Snabbnudlar (ramen cups), bananas, and Kvikk Lunsj, a Norwegian version of a Kit Kat candy bar. The scenery was absolutely fantastic and as usual I have too few photos, but how do you even do a place like that justice in photos? The weather is one thing that makes me feel right at home. The Tuesday following my hike, we had snow on the ground. I giggled to myself when I heard people say, "Wait a day, it's Norway." One huge difference though, is that there is guttering that drains right onto the sidewalk here. This leaves huge icy patches on the sidewalk that even the boot bottom grips can't protect you from. I took a spill on my walk to work, and I didn't realize how much I was aching until later in the days. As if the fall wasn't #nellie enough, I ended up purchasing a bus ticket because mine had expired, and then today the bus tickets are half price. This last weekend was spent relaxing. I use relaxing like I wasn't sleeping as many hours as I was awake. I did not feel quite so bad after I went to work and heard I was not alone in my occupation of couch territory over the weekend. It was windy, rainy, and cold, so the days were perfect for squeezing in a Netflix binge, too. I ended up watching The Witcher's full first season, and I am sad I'll have to wait a year to see more. Of course, now I want to play the video game so maybe I can tide myself over with that. Other than that, life is going well. I am not sure why, but I haven't had a bout of the blues this winter, and even the dates of Jerry's and my dad's passing weren't near as rough this year. Perhaps because I am busier in my mind and life, and perhaps because I feel healthier than I have in some time. I like to think that I have found some perspective as well as happiness here.
I'm learning more of the language and finding first grade is still a joyful place to be. My students are speaking so much English. I envy their quick acquisition. They have loved learning "adult science words". Today I taught them evaporation and precipitation, and they are tickled pink to be able to speak like adult scientists. I have also taught them to help me get control of the class by crossing their arms, looking at the people that are goofing around, and saying, "I want to learn." I have to admit, in these cases their voices carry more power than mine. While differences abound, the people here are among the most welcoming and helpful people I have met. I had read many blogs and "Things to Know about Norway" articles before I moved that proclaimed the standoffish and cold nature of Norwegians, but I am not finding that to be true. Norwegians are direct and don't apologize like Americans. Their television shows are less restricted, and their children are more independent. There is still much humanity that binds us, and I enjoy learning all the differences and similarities. For tonight, I am off to research some short trips for this next week off and to let my rear end recover from my lack of grace. I wish you all a fantastic week. |
Nellie HillJust a woman leaping outside her comfort zone and telling the tale. Archives
April 2024
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