Counting March Blessings

Some might say it isn't fair to play God--to reach this year's goal of 31 posts in 31 days by manipulating the "Published on" setting. While some have carved writing sessions into their busy schedules with an earlier alarm clock or a later bedtime, I am more of a cheater, sliding into home plate with at least 5 posts on this final day. 

Forgive me. Or give me grace for bending the timeline of March to write more than I would have otherwise.

A look at the archives tells me it's been since 2020 that I posted 31 days. I'm not ashamed of my 30 posts in the two years that followed, but the drop to 8, then 3, has me wishing I knew more about those years. This time, I'm leaving behind a deeper footprint of my days. 

In March of 2026, I was:

1. calculating grams of protein
2. logging hours of sleep and productivity
3. sharing a bed with my dog
4. imagining life without Canvas
5. talking to dead authors about electricity
6. publishing a school newspaper
7. contemplating Seventeen Magazine and Instagram
8. engaging in metahemeralism
9. riding a time machine (and ethics)
10. playing with my look
11. celebrating years of fire
12. getting sentimental about seniors
13. dodging pies in my face
14. passing on views and followers
15. embracing change and starlight
16. napping
17. playing hooky and pointing fingers
18. eating birthday cake
19. appreciating universal truths
20. remembering whistles and running hills
21. failing at multitasking in a parking lot
22. eating off my lucky plate with friends
23. illustrating my first home
24. listing nostalgic notes with baby #1
25. reliving year two 
26. rehashing the rehab
27. drawing out goals
28. breaking for spring
29. petting donkeys
30. cleaning out closets
31. counting March blessings

Did I bend the rules? Yes. But when I consider what I didn't have with what I do now, I have no regrets.

The Popover Method

I've been in the mood to empty closets and pare down my possessions. I want to open my drawers and see every item they store inside. I'm wondering if I need so many sweatshirts. I'm ready to part with the shoes I never wear and the jeans that don't fit. Now that our youngest kid outgrows hand-me-downs, we like to hand them out. Next winter, when we need pairs of socks and gloves, we're going to find an even number.

Some items will have to stay, so sue me. I've unearthed a newborn-sized hospital wristband dated 1997, a glass jar of tiny baby teeth, and a few locks of hair from first haircuts. I won't discard my ukulele, although I rarely play it. I'm content with a wild assortment of colored pencils and an impressive array of cardstock. There's this popover tin in the basement that I've never used, but the idea of making a batch someday gives me hope for whimsical Sunday brunches in my future.

Stuff. It can weigh you down, or it can ground you. It's been a good time sorting some of that out.

Donkey Tourism

The flyer at the coffee shop boasted "Donkey Cuddling" at the country craft fair, but we didn't realize the donkeys were the star of the show. The Eastern Shore is home to a vibrant artists' community, so we were tempted by the possibilities of what this pop-up gallery might provide. 

Inside the barn, vendors offered donkey key chains and oil paintings, donkey-shaped soaps, and donkey-themed Easter baskets. The sun shone in the barn cracks, leading us to the pen out back, where our sweet hosts welcomed anyone who desired a snuggle. I reached my hand through the fence to pat the soft head of one, and her big, gentle eyes looked deeply into mine. Two more stepped in for their turn, each winning me over with their fuzzy coats and an energy so mellow, I could melt. 

Spring Breakers

The conditions were right on Saturday

for a drive out of town

across the Bay Bridge

with my mother, my sister, 

and a trunk full of suitcases,

packed for a couple of days 

of health food breakfasts and skin care,

then dinners with cocktails,

followed by late-night talks

propped up on overstuffed hotel pillows

on one king-sized bed

together

even though

we had two.

Picture Window

At the top of the stairs of our single-family colonial, I'd look out the back window and look at a flat roof. Previous owners had built a one-story brick extension, but soon enough, our little family pushed the limits of our even littler home. We had already repainted the moldy cabinets, ripped out soggy carpet, and shoveled out thick sludge from the back with a pitchfork. 

At the kitchen table, I drew up plans for an addition on plain paper with a ruler. We couldn't afford an architect, but how hard could it be? The roof would be the floor of a new bedroom. Down below, we'd bump the kitchen out, too. I wrote in the room assignments and measurements. Doodled in a few new shrubs at the perimeter. The sketch remained tucked in a notebook for a few years.

When we welcomed our second baby home, we replaced one of our dressers with a changing table. When he outgrew his crib, we installed bunk beds that fit corner-to-corner and blocked the windows. When I looked out the window, I imagined a door in its place to fit the two growing boys at my feet.

We finally made a deal with the bank to replace the pencil sketch with actual foundation and drywall. Fast forward just less than a decade, and our family of four grew to five in the same house. 

I can still imagine the flat roof outside the long-gone window. The memory makes me wonder what pictures I should draw next. 

Fixer-Upper

First, Rob hopped on his bike with our baby on the back--he was curious about the handwritten address I mentioned next to the phone. When I joined them the next day, I saw the "no occupancy" sign taped to the front door for myself. Chalky green paint fell off the wooden shutters in large flakes. Peering through a first-floor window, red shag carpet called boldly from inside the empty room. In the back yard, 2 feet of fallen leaves covered the ground, unfamiliar with a seasonal rake.

Once inside, a coat of mold covered plywood cabinets; the pattern on the linoleum floor was lost to years of wear. The only furniture that remained was a computer desk combo, weighed down by the machinery it stored inside. Divets in the walls revealed a multi-colored history of paint color. The bedrooms were tiny, the bathrooms original. The screened porch was ripped, and the shrubs were overgrown. 

It was exactly the kind of house we were ready for.

Year Two, Too Fast

Regarding our first apartment, which I pass on my way to work, I counted the number of floors on building this morning. Memories from 28 years ago are bound to blur, but I was correct in recalling that my baby boy would climb three stories when he learned to crawl. This fitness routine led his first steps along the daffodil-lined sidewalk out front.

In our living room, he’d stand on a stool to call hello to John out the window. John drove a Gator truck—a mini-utility vehicle that hauled trash out of Glenayr every day. He also paid celebrity visits when the sink clogged and the smoke detector beeped. Imagine the awe of a toddler when someone with a tool belt walks through the door. 

Another big source of entertainment was our stereo system. Our busy kid held himself up alongside the sideboard, and with a pincer grasp that would make any mother proud, he’d pull the tape from cassette tapes until they made a marvelous mountain of unplayable music. It was the same pencil we’d use to wind any lost tunes back up, we used to turn on our second-hand TV. 

In April of the second year, I answered a call in our kitchen. By then, we were settled in, and I had painted the walls cobalt-blue checkerboard without Lois's input. Aunt Jane was on the line, asking if we knew any real estate agents. Her friend, Myrna, needed to sell her Westover house, but she was still in the Philippines. A list of numbers in both our handwriting hung taped alongside the telephone receiver, so I jotted down the address. 

Nostalgia Notes

Driving past our first home nearly every day isn't the only reason I've been transported to the 90s this season. Our firstborn is getting married this summer, and we're joyfully consumed with the next step of our family journey.

For the past few months, whenever we're on a speakerphone call, we talk about flowers and showers. The lovely couple is returning to DC after the nuptials, so we look forward to more Sunday dinners and birthday celebrations. 

But approaching such a momentous stage of adulthood, I can't help but remember small moments of his first years, including:

• belly laughing at the word "couscous"
• dancing in the "Johnny Jumper"
• Bunny Cakes and Curious George
• asking about "ad infinitum"
• "Fun Fridays" after work and daycare at a bakery, the zoo, Roosevelt Island

With our eyes on the future, it's also nice to remember where we've been. 

First Year, First Home

My commute takes me past my first apartment every day. There's no reason to stop or slow down on that stretch of road, but I almost always acknowledge the windows to my first years of marriage and motherhood on my way by. 

We signed our contract with Lois, the rental manager, in her ground-level office. After she assessed our character and worth, we set up our hand-me-down furniture in December of 1996 with a baby on the way. On the first floor, we had two bedrooms with parquet floors, a kitchen with an apartment-sized stove, a dining room that fit a circular table, and a living room that overlooked the quiet street. On the opposite side, ambulances took a straightaway to the hospital. On Sundays, we carried in leftovers from my parents'. Next door, a newlywed couple watched my expanding belly with awe and a little distance. 

This is where we brought our baby boy after his birth on May 2. It's where we set up a crib with bumpers, a mobile, and a rocking chair. It's where we took turns resting our hands on his little back until he fell asleep. When Rob's work kept him after the dinner hour, I'd run the bath routine that included pjs and a bundled-up night walk under the glow of street lights, his head fluffy and golden after a shampoo. 

Months later, the same sweet baby was crawling up three sets of stairs in our building for morning, noon, and evening exercise. We kept company with a woman in the courtyard who fed peanuts to the squirrels from her cardigan pockets. He would ride in my backpack on laundry days, one level below. We'd travel by stroller and crosswalk to the playground across the busy street. A longer journey took us further into the woods, where a creek twisted alongside us. In his high chair later, he tasted peas and carrots, then noodles and rice. Morning outings made naptime easy. His head would nod, and I'd carry him back to bed for a mid-day rest.

This was the first of two years in our cozy home.

Gratitude for Old Friends

When I was very small, I had my very own plate, painted with an assortment of woodland creatures, including a squirrel, a rabbit, a fox, and a mouse. I don’t recall the meals I ate off it as much as I remember looking into the eyes of my sweet, furry friends. 

Fortunately, these friends didn’t only live there, but in tiny apartments I imagined lining a metal rain gutter that ran parallel to our back door. We’d enjoy long conversations on the steps, where I’d knock on their imaginary doors and windows before they peeked their chubby faces out.

I still have this plate today. It’s nested in a stack we pull from for things like salads and toast. When someone else gets it, I admit to feeling a some panic that it may slip from their hands, but I’ve never once withheld the joy it is meant to give anyone who uses it.

When the lottery wheel of our small plates lands on me, though, I feel so lucky.

Mind-Body Disconnection

I lost my car in a parking lot today. Says something my ability to be in two places at once. When I found a spot, my hands knowingly turned the wheel toward the empty space, and my two feet walked one step after another away from my car right after I took precautions to lock the front door. It was an interesting amount of intention from a body so separated from the mind. In one ear, I was listening to an audiobook, while the rest of my brain cycled through topics of the day, from the essays I was grading this morning to the outfit I might wear later, plus, the subtext of a conversation I had yesterday and the plans I was making for tomorrow. 

Google Maps didn’t know one garage floor from another, so I had to rely on Saint Anthony to steer me towards my black compact SUV, only one of a thousand that stared at me blankly as I paced up and down the aisles, my key fob eliciting no response. 

Of course, it was the last place I looked when my break lights finally blinked back. Pulling away towards home, I put my foot on the gas. Tires to the road; head in the clouds, all over again.

More on Change

 Let's do this again. On "Day 20" of the March challenge in 2010:

"I woke up to the sound of children playing on the sidewalk outside our open window. In addition to the warm yellow sun streaming in, I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day by the laughter in their voices as they chased each other down the street on scooters and three-wheelers. We joined the neighborhood fun just a little while later for our own sidewalk parade, and then a longer adventure out on the bike trail. My son rang his bell when faster bikers passed him, and the metro roared in the open air. Those little ones must be inside for dinner now, but I can hear the bounce of a basketball next door, the swishing of a broom, and some whistling, too, as the day winds down."

Today is a Friday, but it is Eid, a holiday we now recognize on the APS calendar:

"I woke up to the sound of my alarm. In addition to the incessant beep, notifications reminded me of the mammogram I scheduled for my day off. After placing my dense breasts in a vice and cutting back the garden for spring, I went for a run on the bike trail. I opted for the hilly route and played my favorite songs on repeat while the metro sang alongside me. The only young one around is upstairs packing his bag for an out-of-town competition. He will leave at 4 am tomorrow. Is that whistling I hear?"

Second Law of Thermodynamics

About Lauren Olamina from Parable of the Sower: Her belief system is rooted in the power of change:

"From the second law of thermodynamics to Darwinian evolution, from Buddhism's insistence that nothing is permanent all suffering results from our delusions of permanence to the third chapter of Ecclesiastes ("To everything there is a season..."), change is a part of life, of existence, of the common wisdom" (Butler 27).

With these words, and some exciting changes in our family in the year ahead, I'm inspired to look back on my first SOLC posts.

On March 19, 2010, I posted "Day 19":

"My student-teacher has been out sick almost all week, so maybe I'm paying for all that gloating I did in an earlier slice. Still, I found that while it's nice to share responsibility with another adult in the room, I found it to be quite invigorating to have my students all to myself. That's really one of the best parts of being a teacher. 

I'm not stuffed in a cubicle, listening to the drone of my co-workers' telephone calls or the clicking of their keyboards, and it's better than a corner office--I've heard it's lonely up there at the top. Me? I've got an entire room that seats 28, a couple of computers, whiteboards, loads of books, two (that's right, two) trashcans, and even windows--but not only that, I get to greet about 125 interesting people five days a week who come into my class and listen to me and my ideas. Plus, I get to listen to them and their ideas, and at eleven or twelve years old, that makes for some very entertaining listening. Whoever says teachers are in it for summers off can come talk to me. 

Now it's Friday, and unless my young apprentice has jumped ship (which is highly unlikely, since she appeared to be having a grand time until she turned green), I'll pass the baton, once again, back to her. I can share my posh space with her, and we can compare notes again about how best to reach our writers. But at least I know for sure that when she heads out into the wider world of education in May, I'll take my class back with an eager heart."

On March 19, 2026, some things have changed:

My trailer classroom lacks the glamor of my room with the capacity for 28 and multiple trash cans, but I haven't fled for a cubicle or a corner office. I still have loads of books and a few whiteboards, but the spare computer from those middle school days has been replaced with personal laptops for every single kid. The stereotypical office sounds of clicking keyboards and telephone calls are more "back in my day," thanks to Teams and Zoom. But I still host about a hundred folks in and out of my room--never lonely.

In the month I wrote my first slice, my oldest son was just upstairs in the seventh grade. Now he's 28 and preparing for a summer wedding. My middle son was in elementary school--his bus dropped him off just a block from my school exit. Now, he's a college junior in Richmond. Then, my youngest was just a second-trimester twinkle in my eye.  Now, he's in my English class. Indeed, the 11-year-old sixth graders I was delighted to learn from have been replaced with 15-year-old sophomores, one of whom is mine. 

Darwin and Buddha weren't messing around when they said change is our universal truth. Also, some things remain the same.

For the Birthday Record

When I’m 53, I’m going to look back on this account of my 52nd birthday and be reminded that I was greeted by a co-worker at the door with a Dunkin’ Donuts treat. I talked with students about their first impressions of Lauren, Winston, and Montag, before they wrote about what it would take to be a hero in their messed up worlds. 

I learned in a meeting that we’re expecting our Certificate of Occupancy a few weeks before we’ll open for students. I took a survey I because I have been promised that My Voice Matters. 

My older boys called, my soon-to-be daughter-in-law sent love, and a girlfriend brought flowers. I caught up with a friend about life and Bunny, from The Secret History. At home, friends came over for toast, then my parents joined us for a family dinner out, where we drank wine and ordered extra desserts. 

It was nearly 11 when I turned out the lights on my Wednesday birthday. Next year, it will be Thursday on March 18. Some things are constant and some things change. In a year, I’ll know more about both. 

Outside World

With only one more day of 51, I stole some time for myself. A morning meeting took me out of the classroom, so I extended my sub coverage and drove in the opposite direction from work when it was done. Funny, I thought I'd be alone.

Who has time for mid-day yoga in this town? Turns out, a studio full of folks can pause for an hour of down dogs and chaturangas. I've always wondered what the deal is with all those daytime appointments on my hairdresser's calendar. Apparently, there's no time like 2 pm for a skin and hair treatment, based on the droves of people congregating at the salon today.

People were walking their dogs and jogging with friends. A whole lot of cars were on the road, zipping this way and that. The parade into Target had some bold Saturday energy for a Tuesday. 

I almost rolled down my window to point my finger and yell, “Hey, I’m onto you. You’re not all on your way to a meeting or your kid’s teeth cleaning!”

Trains chugged along tracks to some glitzy city or another. Planes flying overhead--obviously escaping to some beautiful Caribbean island--made me wonder if anyone actually works anymore. 

Tomorrow morning, I'll head to school like I always do. But now I know the deal. Y'all are having a pretty good time out here.

It's Weather

School closed early today, and when the winds picked up at about 1 pm. I drove the carpool, winding through neighborhood roads. Half-expecting a lawn chair to fly overhead, I made a mad race to shelter before a tornado swept through town. The clouds looked irritated, their brows furrowing overhead.

Just as we stepped inside, the sky opened up to heavy rain. Midday felt like midnight for a few minutes when the sun went into hiding. I thought, "They were right--this is it." 

In fact, it wasn't. In about 5 minutes, sun rays bold enough for summer beamed through the clouds. Rainfall came to an abrupt stop. Not a leaf rustled in the wind. Thank God we were safe at home.

Cancellations all over town paused our typically busy Monday afternoon, so I did what any logical person would do: I napped.

The forecast does call for a few hours of rain tonight, so that's something. But surely, school will still be there when we return.

Age of Starlight

Lauren Olamina starts writing the verses of Earthseed: The Book of the Living on July 20, 2024. She is fifteen years old, and her walled neighborhood is a weak excuse for safety outside of Los Angeles, where water shortages, poverty, and gang violence stoke a continually raging fire. 

When she tries to be her father's daughter, she dreams she is teaching herself to fly. From inside her home, she floats, bumping against the walls and door jambs like a pinball on its journey to the next level. When she finally sees open sky, however, she is caught by inescapable flames that swallow her whole. 

Then, darkness.

From darkness, shine the stars, Lauren says of the second part of her dream.

Speaking of stars:

• At thirteen, my brother took my cousins and me down a road that led to ocean-side cliffs for the first time. After walking along the path between empty lots, we sat on a sandy ledge and took in the eastern view of the Cape Cod Bay. Then we leapt, and powdery sand braced our fall as we zigzagged down 175 feet, digging our feet into the cliff one jump at a time to the soggy beach below. Electric lights dotted the coastline, but the wide-open world glistened from the starlight above.
  
  
• At twenty-one, I had just returned from a semester abroad. Toward the end of a reunion with old friends, I sought quiet on the lawn of the off-campus farmhouse. Ninety minutes outside of any city, the night sky was dark except for the bright stars and a full moon. In the previous six months, I took flight from my childhood home, but at that moment, I lay on firm, cold ground one summer night. With burning questions about who I was and what I was meant to be, I called on the stars for advice.
  
  
• At forty-nine, I was in Northern California, studying Parable of the Sower with about 25 other people. Our world was growing all too similar to the science-fictional one Octavia Butler described. By day, we read, journaled, and talked, when we weren't stepping over rocks in the creek or spotting pollywogs. One night, I walked to the edge of campus where the outline of Sonoma Mountain showed through the moonlight. Reflecting on being a teacher for over twenty years by then, a wife and a mother for 26, I understood that intermittent flames changed me year by year. Meanwhile, the long life of the stars lit the path before me.

Humble Recognition

The Poetry Foundation is featuring "Famous" Naomi Shihab Nye today. 

"I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do."

When she published it in 1995, she was surely countering flashier versions of fame, maybe on the silver screen or the front page of the morning newspaper. My, how the world has changed since, where to be known now seems to rely on the total count of views and followers. 

Like Nye reminds us, though--the buttonholes and pulleys have already made a name for themselves, so we're good.

A Wish and a Prayer

I’m open to the idea of angels. In a moment of crisis, when it seems there's no way out of a tough situation, an angel might deliver grace. Is it an electromagnetic force that makes our wobbly feet steady? Is it grace from the universe--photons aligning to cast a beam of light along a darkened path?

A few days ago, a freshman asked me if I'd sign up for Pi Day, a fundraiser in which students pay to throw a pie in someone's face. In a moment of generosity, I said yes to a slot during third lunch.

First lunch, I scoped it out with some journalists who were in class with me at the time. Let's just say it was not good. I didn't know a lot of the kids. Volunteers in flimsy plastic ponchos were getting drenched by a shower of Kool Whip, milky rivers flowing down their necks, hair made thick with foam.

I know myself. This scene was not for me.

Back at my desk with a few reporters on the same page, we agreed that I should back out. But how?

Next, a Pi Day organizer politely knocked on my door. 

"I'm so sorry," she said. "We've run out of dairy-free whipped cream, so we've taken you off the schedule." She had the expression of someone who thought they were failing at their customer service position.

"Oh, gosh," I said, "I understand,” even though I didn’t know what dairy-free had to do with anything; I wasn't about to argue. "Would you like a lollipop?" I asked, full of gratitude, trying to keep it light.

She left with her clipboard and a sense of purpose. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank you, angels. Thank you so very much.

Not So Fast

My TA is mostly seniors, and as the Chronicle clock warns, I have only 88 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes, and 16, 15, 14 seconds left with them. I knew them all as sophomores in my English class, and since then, they've congregated in my room every morning as members of my beloved newspaper staff. 

They are a fun assortment of writers, editors, and artists, not to mention a growing number of Lucys, two of whom are married, I just learned. Some are obsessed with movies and memes, others with video games. They rank Oscar nominations, plan protests, and hide from “assassins.” Sometimes they study. More often, they break into song, random soundbites of musical theater, children’s choir picks, and 80s pop remixes.

Our quarterly print releases are tangible evidence of their collective spirit, which includes innovative cover designs, letters from the editor, construction updates, and a substantial list of school and community news articles. Truth be told, they don't have 4 am energy, high-octane, newsroom vibes. In a student-run fashion, they set deadlines and stroll right past. But listen, when our editor-in-chief unboxes the newest issue, it's a celebratory delivery day with donuts. Everyone agrees that each edition is better than the last.

This is a well-connected group, so there's a lot of coming and going for things like National Honor Society, D&D, Capstone, and the myriad special events in the Commons. This means they come back with “breaking news” or gossip from one corner of the building or another. Their chatter this year is also sprinkled with college musings, and the acceptance announcements have been rolling in for a while. I’m excited for them, but I’m beginning to realize how sad I’ll be when the clock runs out. 

In their futures, I imagine them producing music or video, engineering, analyzing forensics, illustrating, flying planes, and so many other things that have yet to take shape, scattered here and beyond. But for the next 88 days, 21 hours, 8 minutes, and 55, 54, 53 seconds, I'll enjoy them while they're all together in room 504.

All Orange Flame

"It was a pleasure to burn." 

The opening words of Fahrenheit 451 present fire as an instrument of change. Montag is a fireman, but also an "amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history" (Bradbury 1). 

This pleasure doesn't last long. His job satisfaction was already in the past tense, even before he met Clarisse, who famously asks, "Are you happy?" 

But that's not what this post is about. Reading the first few pages of this book aloud to students today, I'm nostalgic for some of my first memories of fire. 

• Alone in the living room, little Me poked a crackling log off balance in the fireplace, and embers landed on the wooden floor. I didn't have time to hide the deep, dark blemish on the fresh finish before my mom walked in and declared, "Pfffh, it just adds character to this old house, doesn't it?" 
  
  
• On a 1-acre island (actual size tbd), a group of 15-17-year-olds spread our sleeping bags around a fire after the summer sun set. We were cousins and friends who were also cousins. With a couple Dura-flame logs and a nice stack of kindling, our tan faces glowed well into the night as we told stories, asked questions, and contemplated the meaning of life together.
  
  
• When I was in college, I fell in love with a flambe chef. His first gig was at Constantino's House of Beef, where, in a tuxedo at age 17, he stood tableside, tossing bananas in a hot skillet. Thanks to his panache and the blue fuel of a Sterno flame, guests delighted in a fiery presentation of their meals. Now it's just birthdays and dinner parties, but he still sends sparks flying with a shake of cinnamon on rum in our grown-up kitchen.

Fire is a change agent, but its power is everlasting.

Who's That Girl?

You know those movies where the protagonist locks eyes with herself in a bathroom mirror before she chops inches off her hair and covers her head with an inky dye that transforms her identity into one that no one will recognize when she steps outside that lonely motel she found on her way out of town?

That's kind of what I did yesterday, except I was sitting in a salon chair, happily informing the stylist I've known for the last few years that I was ready for a change. 

I arrived home with a fresh bob and dark brown hair, which replaced my blonde highlights and shoulder-length layers. I looked in the mirror and wondered if I unknowingly stumbled into the witness protection program. 

Still, I arrived at school, where I surely detected a few double-takes, but everyone knew my name. They even had the grace to tell me they loved my new look. One kid even said it was "tuff."

On my way home, I didn't hop on I-66 West for a faraway adventure and a new life. I parked my car in front of my house. Walking in, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and said, "Hey girl, lookin' good."

Rewinding the Clock

If I had a time machine, I could carve out 32 minutes to post my slice for March 9, 2026. I would sit myself down after a long day and an on-the-way-home yoga class. Between an evening shower and a late dinner, I would find myself a spot at the end of the dining room table and manifest a mundane moment into something memorable.

How cool would it be to have a Time Machine? One that I could park in my driveway and hop in for a ride to fly back and forth along the timeline of the world. 

Since I don't have one of that sort, I'll opt for the "Published on" setting that tempts me on the right-hand toolbar of my draft. With the click of a button, I am in my kitchen again. There's music playing and a growing number of bowls and bottles on the table--yellow rice, black beans, taco meat, hot sauce, and avocado. The one doing homework is on his way down the stairs. The one doing the cooking is cueing up plates and utensils.

The minutes tick, tick, tick forward, but with the click of a button, I can shoehorn this slice into a day that didn't actually include this productive moment.

I know, there are ethical considerations to rewriting history. But barring the Butterfly Effect I am setting in motion, I accept the risks of publishing Monday's post on a Saturday. 

Metahemeralism

Bunny writes a paper linking John Donne and Isaak Walton by metahemeralism, “from the Latin,” he says, but this is not entirely true. Something about the irony of the pastoral. The premise alone knocks his tie askew and ties his hair in knots. When it is done, Henry asks if he shouldn’t discuss Donne more, to which Bunny replies, “Donne? I don’t want to drag him into this.” 

Donna Tartt gives us metahemeralism in The Secret History, in the late-night ramblings of one who is later found dead in the woods. 

• Meta-: A prefix meaning beyond, above, or transcending. 
• -hemeral-: Derived from the Greek hemera(day), relating to ephemeral or things that last only a day.

It is a made-up word for made-up characters who pretentiously and precociously aspire to live beyond the mundane by using words like this.

This is what I’m thinking about today. And I’m going to try thinking about it tomorrow and the day after that. I believe that counts.

Influential

I was a pretty impressionable kid. Seventeen Magazines did enough of a number on me—all that makeup, dating, and dieting advice—that I know I would have been a total wreck if I had grown up with Instagram and TikTok. And even though I’m proud to be full-fledged grown up in many of the right ways, I’m still a girl at heart. If social media is a predator, I am its prey.

Personal algorithms can be like a truth serum, and mine tells a confession of my most shallow self. Thankfully, I know when I’ve had enough. I routinely remove addictive apps from my phone with the most determined of tap-holds until they are out of my vulnerable sight, which is what I did this weekend.

Some observations:

1. Instead of scrolling through recommendations for anti-wrinkle cream, Botox, and eyelid surgery, I spent time with friends and remembered that gravity isn’t a personal failure, but a universal reality.

2. Instead of learning about getting ripped abs at 50 with this daily Pilates routine and GLP-1 therapy, I looked in the mirror at yoga and saw every body type and mine in one room.

3. Instead of stylists tempting me with their curated carts of the latest pick of wide leg pants and the shoes Gwyneth Paltrow wears, I opened my closet and discovered I already have pants and shoes.

4. Instead of replaying songs from viral videos in my head, the soundtrack of the last two days is inspired by playlists of my past and present.

In other words, my senses are sensitive, and I’m better off when I mind what I see and hear.

Above the Fold

It’s a big day when we release a print edition of the ACC Chronicle. Our school newspaper is online all the time, and new contributions week after week. But for students and staff, our seasonal issues are the most memorable for their original cover designs, personalized letter from the editor-in-chief, and a wide assortment of pieces featuring school news, entertainment, op-eds, comics, and satire. 

It’s so satisfying to see anyone stop what they’re doing and read words written by our very own staff. Although our analytics is one topic of conversation in the newsroom, print buzz carries a lot more weight. 

On the back of this week’s copy, we included a crossword. One contributor wrote clues requiring the puzzler to find answers within the text and art inside. So after we feasted on “delivery day” donuts and passed out hundreds around campus, I had a room full of students penciling in letters one by one, flipping the pages for confirmation. 

The whole endeavor is a labor of love, seeing a student-run committee through steps that lead to publishing. Some moments, we might even ask, What’s the point? Who’s gonna read this anyway?

 So when it’s time to call Extra! Extra! and customers grab one on their way to the train, it feels real good.

Legacy Light

Leonard Mead was a pedestrian who wore sneakers with soft soles to diffuse any sound his footsteps made on the crumbling sidewalk while he soaked in moonlight and breathed in crisp air. The rest of Los Angeles watched TV shows inside their tomb-like homes, screens casting a greyish filter across their zombie faces. 

The police found him anyway. After dismissing his claim to being a writer as “no profession,” he was hauled off to the loony bin—his house crackling like a warm fire in a black and white world. 

What I want to know, Ray, is about Leonard’s lights. Are they still on since he went away?

Must-See TV

Like many folks, I’ve been watching The Pitt, an HBO medical drama that takes viewers through every hour of one wild shift in an ER and trauma center, one episode at a time. In this second season, a newcomer who favors AI over gut instinct is the foil to Dr. Robby, a rugged hero fueled by the healing properties of the flesh and the spirit. Then, an impending cyber attack throws them all offline, and the crew reverts to carbon copies, dry-erase boards, and human interactions to get things done.

It’s not a secret that I value a well-run LMS. With three preps and a student newspaper committee, Canvas is my partner in crime, where we set calendar items, message kids, and grades. 

Sometimes, though, I feel a little self-conscious about my Canvas fandom. I mean, it’s cool and all, but like, does it really deserve all that hype? Does it even know the color of my eyes? My troubles? My hopes and dreams? I have to remind myself to be cool.

I’m not sure which episode I’m living in, but I’m on the edge of my seat, riveted by the plot twist of my crazy year. At 5:15 am, and after brewing my coffee, I logged in to type up the agendas for the day. Where I expected to find my course tiles, I saw nothing—only vacant space where many hundred hours of work once dwelled. Not one Module, Page, or Announcement remains. Months of student work, wiped clean, until further notice. One more twist is that our school appears to be the victim, not the entire district.

For one so devoted to all that Instructure offers, I’m oddly curious, not crazed. I still have books, lined paper, and a rainbow assortment of writing utensils. And as the most die-hard fan of Canvas, I ask the universe, what if we never get it back? 

 

I’d just like to see how we’d get through the season without it.

Good Chemistry

When weighing the benefits of dog adoption in 2015, I considered this study published by Scientific American as a win-win for all parties, albeit a bit uneven: “Mutual gazing had a profound effect on both the dogs and their owners. Of the duos that had spent the greatest amount of time looking into each other’s eyes, both male and female dogs experienced a 130% rise in oxytocin levels, and both male and female owners a 309% increase.”

The study I didn’t see, though, is on the effects of sharing a bed with a pack animal. Leg to leg, breath to breath, we’ve become one in our farewell to a long day. She’s a model of serenity, a shot of serotonin, and an antidote for any grumpy dogs we encountered on today’s walk. 

When I looked into her eyes today, I tried to give a little back of my 309% to be fair. Of course, she refused—selfless creature—but snuggled in for the night with a contented sigh just the same. 

Promises Kept

Somewhere around January 1, 2024, I made two resolutions that stuck:

• Plug my phone in downstairs when I go to bed
• Set my alarm clock to ring in the bathroom

Approximately 791 days later, I'm still reading pages instead of pixels before I close my eyes. I'm still silencing the bell ringing in the bathroom by placing both feet on the floor instead of both hands on the snooze button. 

The benefits include more restful sleep and a morning set with intention, the most important of which is brewing a full pot of coffee. Dark roast. Piping hot. A splash of milk, but really, I just take my coffee with caffeine.  

A digital diet plus a shot of electricity straight to my veins is how I like to start my days. That precious hour when I count the beans before the day starts to drip. The kitchen light is one of the only aglow down the street, and my hands are wrapped warmly around my mug. It is a time for messages, calendars, and grades, but it's also a time to say thanks. 

For the new cup of coffee in my cup each and every day. 

If you ask me, that's what getting a good night's sleep is all about. 

Protein: It's Paramount

Surely, you've noticed. Protein is the priority. Honestly, it's about time. 

Growing up, when my mom pushed protein, I found it a little annoying, as any teen would. I cast it off as mundane as the bar of soap by the sink, but that's because she didn't have the support of every marketing team known to man, like protein has now. 

A veritable protein-a-palooza is happening along every grocery store aisle; i.e., it's fortifying everything, from popcorn to frozen pizza. The windows of the Dunkin' Donuts boast PROTEIN in big, bold letters. With the fervor of a Duolingo notification, reminders to eat protein are impossible to ignore. In your quest to consume 100 bajillion grams of recommended protein per day, crack a soda. Feisty brand beverages boast more protein than a scrambled egg. 

Speaking of scrambled eggs--that's how Sunday started, the first of a 31-slice challenge. More curated grams accrued in the meals that followed. 

A slice of life can serve as a record of what occupies our minds and hearts on any given day. On March 1, 2026, it is protein–– among other things, of course. With that primary goal squared away, though, I'm free to focus my well-nourished energies elsewhere in the 30 days that will follow. 

P.S. Mom, thanks for your patience. You told me so.