I was going to work over the summer, after camp. I must have hated the first day in the institutional feeling building next to Haven Middle School. Maybe I worked all day or only 2 hours. However it went, it wasn't the joy of nature. It wasn't full of laughter, feeling the afternoon breeze on my skin. I decided not to go back. I quit.

Instead of returning to the work site the next day as I'd said I would, I went to Allison's house. My parents showed up there after a while, said it was time to go. This was not unusual, so okay, whatever. Then I noticed we weren't going home. Where to then?? NO! Not back to that place, not back to the work site. I don't like it. I don't want to be there! They responded with silence. They ignored my tantrum, ignored me kicking the inside of the car, being called liars, told they couldn't make me. They were helping me honor my commitment to see this program through for a year. Again, I was huddled up crying, this time very angry.

When we pulled into the Earn and Learn driveway Rick came out to get me. He didn't get tough or stern. He saw me. He smiled so kindly. He joked around and made me laugh. Then he led me into the work site, now willing, though still tender and scared. There were only a few others there that day. We stuffed envelopes for what seemed like hours. How long was it? I sat across from someone named John. He was funny and sweet. We laughed all afternoon, tears running down our cheeks, the kind of laughter that makes every sad thing fade for a time.

Once school started, each Earn and Learn student took a slip of paper to school. After every class, the teacher marked the appropriate box with a 1 or 0. Categories included getting to class on time, doing class work, homework, I think something about participating in class discussions. The more 1's in a day the longer one could work at the site that afternoon, the bigger one's paycheck. I liked school so this was fun. Being on time became a happy game.

Once at the work site, we were divided into stations. These included, on various days, envelope stuffing, small parts assembly, collating and many other simple repetitive jobs. A short time into the school year I was allowed to work in the office which was way more fun to me than being on the work floor. I remember the office being a privilege for those who showed themselves to be reliable and wanted the change of scene.

Earn and Learn was considered a dork program by the general student body at my school. I knew I was seen as a bit defective but I didn't care. I may have disliked it a bit, but in a way a 14 year old knows things, I knew I was in a lucky position. I remember 8th grade better than any year of school. My closest friends went to two of the other Evanston schools. I was part of a group, the core being Leslie, Chuck, John, Melissa and I. I wish I could remember the names of others. I see their faces against the plain walls, the metal framed windows, their smiles when bonuses were passed out.

Friday was payday. We were a sight. A line of 7th and 8th graders shuffling on the lobby carpet of the bank. Cash in hand we'd stroll out into the sunlight. A diner was nearby. We easily spent our money on cokes and french fries. I see us in a booth, merrily conversing, full of antics and laughter. One day I pretended I was going to spray coke from my straw onto...oh, which one was it...Leslie I think, but since she didn't know I wasn't going to really, she hit the straw toward John. He received a lovely blessing that afternoon. Or was it the opposite?? Either way, I was amazed that friendship could be so independent like this...money, time, a common bond.

We even worked voluntary overtime during weekends putting advertisements on door handles in little plastic bags. Street by street, house by house all day. Mary and Ray drove the bus. The work was hard, sometimes tiring,but I usually signed up. Purpose has that effect.

I took in that wonderful year with Earn and Learn the way a fish swims in water. It needs the water to live, but hasn't a name for the air.

Though I was well behaved and academically present, I wasn't actually present. I was also lucky enough to be growing up in Evanston Il in the 1980's where Rick Weiland lived and cared for children in the program he was passionate about, Earn and Learn.

Earn and Learn started with camp. It set the stage for what would be, hopefully, a positive turning point for students heading the way of a problem. I wouldn't call us "at risk" because I don't know what's really meant by that, but also because it's difficult to see oneself as an at risk youth. So I told myself we were the ones in the middle. Not too problematic, showing promise, heading astray, therefore steered this way, into Rick's guiding care.

First of all, I had to make a commitment. Yes, I would see the year through. Yes, I would try, I would show up. Easy to say to a piece of paper asking for my signature. Easy to enjoy at camp. Camp was the first activity. Camp where the main lesson I learned was that the individual is accountable to the group, but the group is also accountable to the individual, that we were one entity when gathered, that one could hold up progress for all. While I don't like to think that life is this way, it is. The upside is respect, the downside consists of many character building moments when patience must be called on, courtesy, honesty, where walls tumble and we are all in one room, vulnerable, waiting. This being when one person was not cooperating, therefore keeping the group from moving to the next activity. We knew it going in. No less annoying, no less frustrating.

Camp was like most others, tucked into nature, surrounded by tall trees. The dining hall was large, cabins for sleeping, cabins for activities. Worn dirt paths, grassy earth.

I learned about deliberate meditation at Earn and Learn camp. Mats on the floor, we were to lay quietly, let ourselves relax...quietly. I loved the idea, It felt cool. It wasn't easy to do as a group. The meditation cabin was dark on a bright afternoon.

Other character building at camp included some kind of points or "bucks" system (wish I could think of the exact name). There were many ways to earn points. At camps end, we would all go to the Dells, a supposed high point. There we would convert our points into money. I was so completely unimpressed by the Dells that I almost didn't enjoy being there. Just seemed like a man made bunch of nothing compared to the week I'd just spent expanding as a human being. The only way to earn these points that I remember was to swim across a small lake as many times as possible. I think I went across twice, though maybe only once. I believe a guy named Andrew surprised us all going back and forth more than anyone, many times more. I say the lake was small. Standing on the shore at 5am, cold, tired, determined, I did not think small. I tried not to think, just dive in and go. I would have thought "huge", but that would have stopped me at the start. I wonder what I said aloud?

We went on an all day bike ride, 48 miles?, with 3 or 4 stops along the way for cheese sandwiches, juice, probably some fruit. At the first stop, I glided in ahead of the front pack of boys I'd been riding with. After a bit,one of them realized this and alerted all the rest. So this pack, all boys and me, stayed ahead. At each following stop and the end, a great race set up, incredibly intense. Those boys were so upset at the idea a girl might beat them. They stayed upset because I won every time, though they gave a great effort, with lots of hollering to encourage whoever was at the very front with me. I held onto that triumph for years, proof that I could win, that being a girl made no difference even in a competition with boys.

We repelled from a small cliff too. I was so ready for this to be exciting. It was a lot of waiting at the top of a bit of rocky wall where each of us was securely wrapped in straps and buckles. In the sunshine, I see a swarm of wasps tucked in to the side of the rock. That was the excitement, listening to the concerned confusion that followed. Going down the side of a rock with what felt like a diaper was not. I enjoyed talking to Ernie too. Of all the counselors, he was my favorite.

Structure in nearly every moment. We knew they were growing us. We knew they were serious...usually...until, one evening, outside the dining hall which was near the lake, a fantastic ketchup and mustard fight was loudly, messily enjoyed.

I thrived there. I was home. I did not miss the city with it's hot cement, sunlight reflecting in slicing glares off tall buildings, the incessant roll of rubber tires, synthetic reality. Camp was simple. I grew there.

Camp set the stage for the year ahead, which is another story, the test of commitment.

If I were eating the same meal at the beach it would taste like a breath of immensity, blue as far as blue can be, a bit of earth mixed with the color yellow. I'd turn my head often, brush hair away from my face, searching out the source of each immense sound.

If I were eating such delights on my door step, home alone on a hot summer afternoon it would taste rich and almost too big, even heavy, like quiet knowing, slow speaking, nearly missing the turn to Jenny's house on a long windy road.

In this cafe they taste like gentleness, a peaceful mind, a smile, sweet echos of happiness, gratitude, walking among fragrant purple blooms, stooping to observe their gifts.

The boys are on their grand adventure through every room of the house with great enthusiasm and creativity. First one then the other guides the dialogue with a "Now you say...." And the other one does. Back and forth like this for a while until a Gameboy or modeling clay slide their attention over. Their voices are a steady music in our house. Listening to them navigate reality is one of my treasures.

The list includes making gf blueberry muffins that aren't vegan to see how main stream I can make them, writing another post for the 30 in 30, lots of liquids, getting the laundry current, staring at sleeping David while thinking appreciative thoughts, and just maybe drumming with Matthew and Devyn...later, once daddy wakes.

Normally I like the curtains pulled back. I like all the days light to stream through, attach itself to every surface, dance with the colors. But today, only a line of light rests across David's blanket by his feet. Otherwise the room is dim, almost demanding gentleness, though demanding is not it's way.

Including today's entry, I have 5 pieces left to write of the 30. Swiss Family Robinson (book on tape) is on in the kitchen (for the umpteenth retelling in a week), Matthew is playing on a Gameboy that sings a tink tink song for jumping graphics, dishes are in the sink and I don't feel particularly like writing...but I'm going to anyway...right after I get the kids to bed, the house in order and make a bit of chocolate frosting (Just because I know I can write in the fray now doesn't make it necessary every time :).

It's the next afternoon. I didn't return to writing as I'd intended. But I just reread what I wrote last night. Almost a piece of writing? Okay, not, but it may have to qualify. Maybe if I write a quick poem...

Little man little man what do you say?

Let's explore the universe today!

Little man little man what do you do?

Make up a world for me and you.

Little man little man I love your smile

your little kisses and huggable style

(Written at the table with my sweet little men while they decide if Devyn's going to read Super man aloud to Matthew while they eat their noodles and tomato sauce)

She wasn't interested in our self esteem. She was interested in expanding our knowledge of the parts of a sentence, grammar, how to "sharpen the focus" of an idea until the reader could sit with your mind, be a part of the memory, because you were so clear. I can't think of a time I ever saw her smile, but I never wondered if she cared. I knew she did. And she was focused!

I sat on the east wall, first row, windows at my back. I don't think she ever turned the overhead lights on. I wanted an A on something in her class, but don't remember if I ever managed to get one. Here's how it went. At the beginning of the year, she told us how many papers we were to write. Then she told us that she expected each one of us to rewrite each paper until it was finished. This meant working on more than one assignment at a time. After I turned in a paper, she would mark down her comments, expectations and corrections in red, then hand it back to me. Now my part was to rewrite the paper according to her notes. The challenge was that she would give us a new assignment before we were done with the previous one. I think I managed to only ever have 2 papers going at the same time, which was no small task.

I naively thought that what she meant by "sharpen the focus" was the same as describing what a camera sees when it zooms in on a single spot. One time I used many words to describe a drop of rain on a leaf. Then I described a world of fairies living in the drop. I was bound and determined to sharpen that focus, even if I had to make up a new world smaller than a dime!

But this isn't what she wanted. To this day I don't know how to describe what she meant by "sharpen the focus" but I have my own idea I follow. Follow the focus could be it's name. Follow the heat, when writing comes alive. Follow the heart, the energy. Follow it even if I'm a puddle of tears on the sofa with my little laptop lighting up my wet face. Be there again, wherever it is, hand it to the reader carefully, but remain open.Beyond this, just write. No editing , no judge, no excuses, no critic. Practice in this way for years, as many days each year as possible.

In a way, Mrs. Rogers gave me a willingness to practice writing like one practices ballet or sketching. During the two years I was her student, her assignments were my main homework, the greatest challenge from the academic side of school. For her work, for her no-nonsense attitude, for the time she must have spent reading our countless drafts, I am incredibly thankful.

I come out of the gate with an idea, ready to charge to the fruit of success, shining ideas twinkling before me. I begin with a serious energy and optimism. But...if my first attempt is less than I hope for, my shoulders drop and I am touched by a sliver of sadness. I no longer sit with this bit of pity. I look at it, agree with it, that yes, this could be seen as very annoying, then I continue toward the goal.

The way this played out tonight was through an effort at making vegan, gluten free, soy free, agave sweetened blueberry muffins. The first batch was too dense, too sweet, too much like bread pudding, not much like a beautiful blueberry muffin. My mom stayed around our house an extra while since muffins were on the way. The boys happily sat on either side of her, listening to Cricket in Times Square. She sipped decaf tea. And she really liked the first test batch, and the second. She didn't stick around for the third.

By test batch, I mean 2 muffins. Depending on how they come out I either add flour or liquid to the existing batter. This time I added a 1/2 cup of flour, then another 1/2 cup for the following test batch. Oh well then, I thought. If these are fine with Grandma, I'll add the blueberries and bake the remaining batter.

Once the bowl and measuring instruments were clean and dry I set to work again with a different angle toward the same goal. All the while that voice of doubt, of just enough discouragement to keep me quiet and serious, kept up a whisper. It wanted me to know this second batch might not work, that I may need to wait, maybe through several attempts, countless really. Yuck. I dislike this voice, but there it is.

Fortunately the second batch seems fine, fluffy, moist, much like a blueberry muffin ought to be. Hmmm....tastes good too! A little too rich for my taste, maybe a bit too sweet, but I can easily remedy this and I know from experience that many people would enjoy them just as they are, no complaints, even complimenting them. As I have no one available to taste them tonight I'll have to take my word for it, from the inner voice that is kinder, encouraging, the one that helped me wash the dishes, dry the mixing bowl and try again.

I hear the espresso maker hiss, the foam form behind a half counter where skilled staff pump out caffeinated drinks for their customers, along with beautiful sweet 3 layer cake slivers, white chocolate macadamia nut cookies and mildly sweet scones. I sometimes look up to the slightly moving legs of those in line as they shift the weight of their back pack from left to right and back, staring at a far wall or visiting with the employee they know well. The counter sees a steady flow of faces, counted out change and grateful smiles.

This cafe is a place of comfort, a cross between the dining room and kitchen with rectangular tables, wobbly chairs, amazingly soft couches with little end tables beside and little lamps. The hum of steady soft voices conversing peppered with the occasional burst of laughter add to the charm.

This is where I have come since I was fifteen years old. Not a University student or even a high school student. I was a drop out, encouraged by some, ignored by others, simply a friend to most, a friend who made an unpopular decision. Having no external agenda for my cafe time, I almost always had a book to read, a notebook to fill and a pen, money for a latte and a pack of Marlboros. Sometimes a walkman, but often not.

My first love was Steep & Brew on Church. Smokers in the back, near the bathrooms, past the dishwasher, which was still fine and nice, despite it's surrounding areas. I usually showed up by 1pm. With drink in hand, I'd find an empty table, set my books down, pour two turbinado sugar packets into the center of my latte, watching the crystals fall through the foam, making a perfect little hole. I enjoyed the foam first, slowly, focusing on the sweet milk in the middle before slowly sipping the rest. Once I finished the foam, it was time to study.

I wouldn't have called it that at the time. I was not in a school, not engaged in work society seemed to consider important. Some might even say I was squandering the hours away. But I wasn't. I was studying my perceptions of the world, of reality. I was studying my voice as a writer, a human, a friend. I was listening to the quiet of my being. I was also developing two important habits, a love of reading and that of writing practice. At fifteen, even sixteen, seventeen on up to twenty, I didn't know this consciously. Then at twenty one I found a book called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. I ate it for every meal, filled an entire notebook during spring break (by this time I was in college, though the experience was short lived), and began inviting all my friends to write with me, to follow this new mentor closely, for she gave me gold and I couldn't help but share.

After Writing Down the Bones I moved on to her second book about writing, Wild Mind, then onto her first book about becoming a writer, Long Quiet Highway. For years that third book was a comfort. Her experience, though different from mine in the external details, was incredibly familiar in the inner details. Her voice was soothing, real, honest and compassionate without being soft. I read her first novel, Banana Rose as soon as it came out and have read it many times since as well. From her I received guidance, but also permission, even encouragement to bring my notebook and a pen only to the cafe table, to tilt my neck and write for hours, which I did often. It's not that I ever considered staying home because I didn't have "important" work to accomplish, but she helped me see that the work I was engaged in was important, as well as helping me develop my art, painting with words.

Among the few other things was door to door sales from business to business. Believe it or not, I made enough money this way, but the schedule and morning office pep talks finally wore me out. I was working 60 to 80 hours a week in 5 days. And the morning pep talks seemed to me about disrespecting the customer sweetly to make a sale. Not that they asked us to go against anyone's wishes, just an attitude I sensed.

I enjoyed the job when I was out there, walking around, visiting with people. I had high sales for our office. After a month or two I could do a days work in half the day, so I spent much time visiting with customers, sharing life stories or hanging out with my mom or dad by going to their towns to sell. At the time my dad lived 3 hours in one direction and my mom lived 2 1/2 hours in a different direction. One time my mom came with to see exactly what I did. I enjoyed having her with me.

What exactly I did was carry a big black duffel bag full of items, like calculators, games, planners etc. We were able to sell them much less than the stores because we were the stores...a pretty cheap work force at 100% commission. I wasn't too proud to be seen at my work, but none too sure of it's value either. Basically I'd walk into a business, look the nearest worker in the eye, tell them I had stuff to sell at a good price in my bag, and ask if I could show the employees. A surprising number of places allowed me in. I later found out this was because I didn't have a pitch, just a "Hi there."

One of my favorite aspects of that time was all the sunsets I witnessed over the corn fields. That was always a moment I could be completely detached from my life situation, from my uncertainty about the future. Another favorite was the long drives that afforded lots of meditative consideration of all that had come before in my life and all that I hoped to do, have, be and give.

Over the final weeks there I spent most days either at my moms or dads place, letting them offer what guidance they could to their obviously floundering offspring. A small amount of each day during that time was spent "in the field", but I don't remember my sales dropping, just my will to walk into another business.

In order to work so many hours I had to wake before the sun, shower, dress and feed my kitties in the dark. I drove before the sun as well, south to the office. On the way I often stopped at a Mobil station for cigarettes and to fill my tank. Because I smoked, I cracked the window several times a day. After a while, it got off track just a bit, so I was in the habit of quickly and gently adjusting it as I rolled it up completely.

Well, one morning, when the car door was open (fortunately), I did the usual adjust as I rolled it up and BOOM! the window blew out onto the cement lot, hundreds of little safety shaped pieces of auto glass. Could moving the window 1/2 an inch cause such a freaky display?!? I had no idea. The sun was still behind a curve of earth. I was awed, dumbfounded. I don't even remember what I did between the window shattering and arriving at work with an amazing but true tale.

Someone helped me duct tape plastic bags to the frame, but it was March, cold and wet, so this was of little help against the elements. Over the following days, maybe even two weeks, I went to my dads mostly. I was truly at a loss. I would sit in his living room, limp in the soft chair, aware that tears would be appropriate, even desirable, but really just numb. He offered comfort, empathy, food and coffee. The worst was days of cold wind and rain, the plastic flapping wildly with every passing truck.

But in all this, there was a gem. In a small town between my place and dads I found an auto glass shop. I found it on my own. I spent the good portion of a day there walking around town, chatting with the staff, watching the process by which a window is installed in a car door. And then I paid for it in cash. For me then this was a HUGE triumph. I was no longer defeated but empowered. I actually felt some of my doubt about my ability to be a grown up slip away, replaced by an inner light that matched the brilliant, clean afternoon sun as I drove away from that little shop onto the highway, able to look clearly out the window on my left for the first time in seemingly ever!

Is no one else needing your attention? Does your husband have bedtime under control, smoothly transitioning the tired kiddos from pj's to clean teeth and faces, to a couple stories and all the rest?

This is the time! Seize your chance now, go brush your teeth, ease quietly into bed, keep prayers simple and sweet, meditate with the lights out, let yourself drift into sweet sweet dreams...because if you wait even 10 minutes longer you may find 3 projects that don't seem too hard, possibly folding the clean laundry on the couch, catching up on facebook, and just a bit of straightening up. Then you may get a second wind, a wave of clarity, a willingness to sweep the kitchen floor, write a letter, balance the check book, finish that movie from last night that wasn't all that good but you're curious to know how it ends.

Oh, that would be sad. Because in that time of a little of this and a little of that, you might begin to think deep thoughts about your life, about your children or realize what changes would make that chocolate cake recipe perfect. Before you know it, you've got pen and paper out and you're writing a "to do" for the next day, for the next week.

Unfortunately it's getting late now. Your mind is going full steam ahead, but your body is looking at the clock, periodically counting the number of hours you'll sleep if you go to bed by x time, then y time, then z time, which won't really allow for enough rest (even if you could get your mind to relax again), though you'll be alright.

But alas, you will probably not wake with that completely refreshed feeling that was within your reach.

I have your number for a time, your new address, a few memories of your face with the back drop of new walls, your new home in this odd and unfamiliar little town where I worry you're going to work yourself to death.

It's been a while since we talked, since one of us drove the 60 miles one way to say "Hi", to have those familiar conversations in the living room. The long evenings where I later write a poem and you write a song, bent thoughtfully, bent beautifully over your old guitar. Some day you'll know how to play like you know how to walk, I can feel it.

One day it would be 195 miles to say "Hello" because I moved too. I'm starting a new life, running really, because that's what I know how to do.

I think your name one afternoon, dial hopefully. Then that recording, that familiar voice, disconnected, no further information is available about...

I don't know your mothers number, my only hope to find you. You don't know I've left our town. I know I won't see you again.

I want to write about how different DFW Texas and Mississipi are from Central Illinois in matters of socializing, either with a friend or with a new face at the grocery store. I'll just tell what I experienced in the south. Walking through the aisles of main stream and health food grocery stores eyeballs meet, people politely smile, nod and sometimes say "Hello". Often, a brief conversation is had in front of several brands of canned tomatoes, each sharing their favorite brand and maybe a simple description of a good recipe, or we talk about the cute shirt one of our children are wearing, or whatever.

Those who know me well will say that of course this was my experience since I naturally initiate a bit of visiting with new people in Illinois too. Here's the difference. In DFW and Mississippi, this was the expected norm. Quite often I was not the initiator of the chats. I happily enjoyed each visit, but many times was quietly wandering the aisles in search of a certain ingredient for black bean soup, retracing my steps a few times, when the person nearest us would just start commenting on the weather, what they were making for dinner or how their left leg ached on Thursdays. Oh how I love this part of southern culture.

And this was not all. I have very few memories of short phone conversations that stuck strictly to the matters intended for the call. Usually we'd visit for up to an hour, discussing the kids, the state of the world, swimming on Sunday, childhood memories, or our hopes for an upcoming gathering. These conversations were full of meat too. The pieces that connect humans, that challenge us, that we rejoice in. Often we spontaneously brain stormed some situation one of us was working on. This was also right up my alley!

Then there were the long afternoons together. Families spending whole days lounging around at one house or another, kids playing, moms comfy on big couches in the living room or hanging in the kitchen where some chore was being tended to, dinner, dishes, snack preparation. These visits always had a set start time and rarely had a preset ending time unless some activity was coming up. At first I thought it was just luck, that our newest friends were fond of long slow visits, but it kept happening over and over, almost no matter where we went. In fact, when we'd be ready to leave with out a plan to go to, going just because I wanted to be home, our hosts would make absolutely sure we didn't want to stay a while longer, have dinner!

Even event planning meetings were longer too, less structured, more full of casual conversation, smiles and story telling.

Indeed I miss this. True, I have made many friends here who are of the long play date variety, the visit in the store kind, the discuss our children at the playground though we just met types and I am SO grateful for these continuing friendships that are getting stronger every day...but I still miss a whole culture that is about hospitality, forging bonds of friendship, courtesy nods and sweet little chats about town.