And So I Dream

     Like many middle-aged women, I am obsessed with my weight. (I had to pause there for a moment after I wrote the phrase, middle-aged, because it's true. I am 43; therefore, I am middle-aged. I don't feel it. I don't think I look middle-aged, but I am.)     I've tried all sorts of diets over the years: Weight Watchers, South Beach, Atkins, Low Fat, and now I've decided to try intermittent fasting to get rid of those last few pounds that have been haunting me for years. Several women I know have had much success with intermittent fasting, so why shouldn't I?      My window for eating opens at 11:00 a.m., and closes at 7 p.m. I had my first "meal" at 11:00- a protein shake that's supposed to taste like chocolate, but no matter how hard I pretend, it's not chocolate. It's good, and it's creamy, but it's not chocolate.      It's 12:21 p.m. I am hungry. My stomach is growling: feed me, please feed me. My head aches. It feels like

        "I get the news I need from the weather report. . . " It's come to the time of year when I am afraid to check the weather report: snow, ice, sleet, frozen rain, snow, ice, sleet, frozen rain, repeat.       I am desperate for the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, for the the scent of freshly mowed grass, for the flowers to dance in the spring breeze.      I, like many people, suffer with seasonal affective disorder, and until I experienced it for myself, I thought it was a made-up disease. It is not. It is as real as it gets. I've found my SAD to be worse this year than ever before, and I am sure there is a connection among COVID fatigue, SAD, and the feeling that this pandemic will just never end. I, like many people, miss my family, my friends, my freedom.         As I was leaving for work this morning, I noticed that the air was not as cold as it was yesterday, that the icy patches on the walk were slowly melting, and that my nose was not turning into an ici

       I never thought I'd be a farmer's wife. Yet, here I am- Mrs. Farmer-in-the-Dell. Three years ago my husband and I purchased forty-one acres of raw land which is slowly being turned into a farm.  My husband maintains the farm which is about 250 miles away from where I teach, so our marriage has turned into a long distance relationship.      Our farm, Birches Bend, is named for one of my favorite Robert Frost poems, and for the beautiful birches that gather in small groups in the beginning seven acres of the farm. I love to watch as  their leaves flutter in the breeze and as their trunks sway in the wind that swoops in from the west.       Because we have so much acreage, we have a variety of landscapes. The mostly cleared land that is  dotted with birch trees and apple trees slopes gently down from the road. We have acres and acres of dense woods that, when we explore, remind me of being lost in a fairy tale. I expect to stumble upon a witch's cottage one day. I have

    I inhale the cold, crisp air. The snow is under my skis. I slide off the chair lift and glide over to the top of the mountain to my launching spot. . . and just like each time before, I pause- fear rushing through me, over me, into my belly.      You can do this.      You can do this.      You've done this how many times today.      Practice your turns.      Bend your knees.      You can do this.      Often I stop and watch the children ski; their small bodies speed down the mountain; their hands in the air. I imagine exhilaration on their faces. They don't know fear. They're not afraid of sustaining an injury.       Taking up skiing as an adult has been an interesting experience. I am in tune with my body, with my legs and, especially, with my knees, in a way that I never had to be before. I pay attention to every crick, creak, and twinge. The last thing I want to do is injure myself.   Yet, I continue to sneak away to the mountain, to practice, to encourage myself. Ea

      "A freshly fallen silent shroud of snow. . . "      We've had so much snow this February that it's hard to believe that we're not even halfway through the month. It was so still, so quiet during yesterday's gentle snow fall; a complete contrast to the storm of the previous week that came in like a lion, and attacked the island as if it were her prey, for two days.      My mother is in a nursing home with a broken hip. We are not sure if, when, she will be discharged. She can run her mouth, bark demands, bellow orders, but she cannot take care of her physical self, her physical needs. She calls me, my sister, and my dad to complain and command; but she cannot command her legs to move as she needs them to. She cannot control her life anymore.       It's hard to watch.       It's hard to be on the receiving end of the vitriol.       It's hard to not be able to see her because of the strict COVID rules.      I had to go through her papers the oth

       Today, like most of the school days this year, ended not with a bang, but a whimper. . .       The seventh graders are working on a storyboard for a PSA that is meant to teach others about water and why it is so precious. This is a lead-in assignment for the novel, A Long Walk to Water, by Linda Sue Park. The students completed the research last week and gathered their facts, their statistics, and their thoughts. They began the application and synthesizing today.  And, as they sat with their faces hidden under masks, behind plastic shields, and obstructed by the front of  a ChromeBook, I was struck by the silence, by the isolation, by the aloneness. . .  Yes, they were focused.  Yes, they were applying the skills.  Yes, they were engaged.  But there was no communication, no chatter, no giggles, no buzz- nothing that would make an outsider peering through the small rectangle on the door realize that this is an English classroom.  I've come to accept that this the present sta