I’m preparing to work on Chapter 12 of Polishing the Bones. At this point, the novel is written. I am now plodding through the chapters, rewriting, editing, new writing, revising, and getting it ready for the next round of queries to literary agents. I have to admit, I’m not quite certain where I want this chapter to be. Past or present. I just know that I need to work on it and I am going to work on it and as I am writing this, I can feel my mind centering more on where I want that chapter to be.

Ah. This is why blogging is a good thing.

Today, because I really couldn’t think of anything I wanted to write about, I went to one of my three books of writing prompts. I flipped through one. They were all fictitious writing prompts that were interesting but didn’t hold my attention past the initial skim. The second book, though, was more personal. Or, at least the page I turned to was. 

My life, up to this point, in three chapters.

Girlhood.

Womanhood.

Motherhood.

Maybe. 

Or, how about,

Wanting to Swim with Dolphins But Too Afraid to Learn How to Swim

Swedish Fish in the Classroom

Swimming But Not in Water or With Dolphins.

Yeah. That’s it. That’s my book.

Because, as I was growing up, I was bound and determined to be a dolphin trainer. I loved dolphins and, in my experience, dolphins loved me too. I have proof. The bottlenose dolphin in Brookfield Zoo smiled at me and nodded its head at me when I showed it a postcard of a dolphin. We totally connected. 

I love being in the water. Or, at least, I love being in the pool because my brother saw the Jaws movies and narrated the movies to me to include a shark bigger than a boat eating people alive. So, as long as Jaws wasn’t in a swimming pool, I was safe. Good logical thinking there. 

But for some reason, I never really mastered the art of swimming. Because I was afraid of drowning so. Yeah. I didn’t earn my cool American Red Cross swimming patches that all the kids in my area were sewing on to their Members Only Jackets because I couldn’t pass a swim test to save my life. I learned how to swim, my way. And I was plenty buoyant and confident and could swim like a mermaid and do underwater flips and handstands and dolphin tricks. 

But my dreams of dolphin training ended in 11th grade, in chemistry class. Because I didn’t pay attention enough to the math or I just couldn’t do the math. It was NOT the teacher’s fault that I wasn’t doing well. I will accept that responsibility whole-heartedly. Mr. Nelson explained concepts and modelled the math and performed cool experiments. I just couldn’t do the math and I knew that in order to be a dolphin trainer I was going to be a marine biology major in college that would include chemistry.

No more dolphin training. End Chapter 1.

Chapter 2:

What I love (present tense) about dolphins is their natural instinct to play. And even though I am 51 years old, I have not stopped loving the art of play. My two dogs are my constant play companions. Whether I’m tossing a ball for fetch or we chase each other around the house in endless tag, I still play. 

I also love to play in the classroom. I played a round of tag in the library last Friday while the students were migrating through stations, learning about the Harlem Renaissance. I’d slink up to a student, ask a few questions, listen to their answers, and then tap their shoulder.

“Tag. You’re it. No tag-backs.”

And then I’d scurry away. 

Being in the classroom is a lot like my dreams of working with dolphins. Teach skills. Monitor how those skills are being learned and mastered. Give them treats. Like Swedish Fish. Yes. I have rewarded my students with Swedish Fish as a mirthful reminder that I always wanted to be a dolphin trainer. Come on. I never said that I was a good person. Just that I was going to choose to try to be a good person. Timshel. Remember?

Being in the classroom is a constant reminder of the joy of life. Cycling amongst students hunched over paper or their computers, working on poetry analysis or essay writing. Read over the shoulder. Skim the work. Offer suggestions. And then, show them where they are succeeding. 

Life is good. 

I still dream, at times, of going back to school. Of studying marine biology. But I also know that I will never go back to earn that degree. If anything, the MFA in creative writing is still my will-o-the-wisp beckoning me forward. 

But being in the classroom and teaching and working with students has been enough and fulfilling. I still have about four more years. Four more years of mischief and fun. And Swedish Fish. End of Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Growing up, I HATED hiking. Thought it was the worst. And when I occasionally passed a hiker lugging all of their gear on their back, I thought they were insane. Why the hell would anyone want to be burdened with all that weight while hiking. Uphill?

Insane. 

I guess I’m insane. Because I am about four, five months from hiking season and I am training. 105 squats a day. Core exercises. And miles and miles of walking. 

We won’t talk about the money I spent yesterday on dog harnesses and hiking leashes. 

I am four years from retirement. And I am dreaming about the miles I will hike and the nights I will camp and the paths that I will explore. 

My dreams about swimming with dolphins was, in the end, inspired by the need to explore. To be outside in a beautiful, wild landscape and be fully immersed. Not going to lie. I’m still afraid of sharks. 

But I am not afraid of the world and all that it has to offer. My life on the trail is an extension of my life in the classroom. And it is an extension of my life with my family. I started hiking with my parents. And fell in love with hiking with my Beloved. We have taken our children on hikes; the Youngest still not having any real interest in camping or hiking. The Eldest and I have hiked Maryland and chunks of Virginia. We have our own private language, “trail talk.” 

What is said on the trail stays on the trail.

I am thankful that the rocks on the Appalachian Trail have no memory. 

I am grateful that the the soil in the mountains is porous because my grief and my pain and my insecurities are incinerated and released, sifting into the trail to be absorbed into the earth and then become nothing.

I still return to the ocean. A month ago, I stood on the beach as waves generated by storms crashed just in front of me. I watched the osprey catch warm air swells and soar over the water to hunt for fish. In the distance, I saw the misty spume of a dolphin surfacing.

I am still learning how to swim. To walk. To hike. To write. To live.