FROZEN

Dart

Foggy Morning

The Huntress

Currier and Ives

Posing Pretty

Shallow Shadows  

Reflecting

How would you describe the distinctive sound of a Skype call coming in – and my head over tail dive to the stair-well when I hear the bubbles and taps – a headlong dash to my corner of the office where the cordless phone is buried under piles of neglect?  It’s not every day a person gets a call from Ethiopia.  I didn’t know when it was coming and didn’t intend to miss it.

 I’ve been schooling myself about worry.  Duane was hesitantly comforting when assuring me of Mindy’s general safety, which may or may not contribute to my concerns. Headlong dashes through various obstacles may result in injuries or bruises at a certain frantic pace, but calls from Ethiopia rank right up there importance with the Super Bowl and the State of the Union address combined.

Worry is like a Jack-in-the-box (the child’s toy rather than the merchant of hamburgers) and you would think after the many adventures of my very own little Minnie the Pooh, I’d have conquered the beast.   I went to Greece with every intention of laying it to rest, and have made some progress, I’m happy to say.  Still, you know how it goes.  Push the little clown in the box and close the lid.  Crank the handle and crank some more.  Just when you start to relax – Surprise!  He pops up again, just like you knew he would.   

No matter how many times I stuff the worry clown into a box, if I keep cranking the handle, it’s going to pop up again.  Concern because she hasn’t called or written for ___ Days. How’s Mindy, asks so and so?  Haven’t talked to her since _______ precisely.    Enough already: just stop cranking the handle.  Nice clown.  Quiet clown.  Stay in the box and everything will be just fine.

The truth is that worry won’t change a thing.  The girl is savvy.  She’s been around the block a time or two.  She has handed a dressing down to more than one student full of wild oats, although a few battles did not produce a clear winner.  I know her biggest challenges are the mouthy teeny-boppers with a sorority attitude.  And that’s just in the classroom. 

Now she’s facing the battle she can’t win – brown skinned, brown eyed Ethiopian beauties around the age of nine.  Give her a handsome lout to punch and she’ll let him know who’s boss, but there’s not a little kid who won’t be able to count coup over her.   Third grade?  Why did they give her third grade?   Still, velvet-eyed third-graders may have her twisted around their sticky little fingers – but she’s on to their thieving ways.  That jack-in the box is easy to set aside. 

The bigger worries are what I’m working on.  Imagination, fear, hunger, loneliness – what she doesn’t or may not be telling me.  Those Jacks have to be stuffed in more resolutely.   Mama’s optimistic  but Mama has her passport if needed.  I’m glad she’s got a sucker punch and isn’t afraid to use it.

Meanwhile, the report on the scene of  the resolutions is mixed.  Some success.  Shall we say one step forward - strong uptrend on friends and family connections which is lovely, (although have one belated birthday card idle), and one step in place for all the wishful thinking I've entertained. There are several other important misses.  

Chaos hasn't been getting enough push-back around here, but I never said this would be easy. Signing off facebook seems like the solution for taking control of my time. See you in two weeks, or two hours, or maybe two minutes.  Yeah.  I think I've identified the problem:  a facebook addiction. Time for a 12 step program.  Ciao for now.  If you don't see me, I've won.

Coming soon: 12 Steps.  This beast must be conquered.  Stay tuned.