When I was in school, I was never popular or athletic. I was just the nerdy girl who worried about her grades. I wasn’t enough. High school was similar – I didn’t get into NJH in the first round. BUT In my senior year, I was named first chair of the string bass section and was a member of the Philadelphia All-City Orchestra.
Even in All-City, I faced imposter syndrome, which followed me into college. I never measured up to everyone else. I commuted instead of living on campus. BUT I used a distorted measuring instrument – my view of myself from within.
I didn’t think I was doing enough because I wasn’t doing what other music teachers were doing in their classrooms. BUT So many students have fond memories of our shows at SCS.
Growing older has liberated me (mostly) from not feeling “enough.” Being satisfied with doing the best I can do is “good enough” for me.
This winter has felt long, and the state of the world has made it feel even longer, but today, I feel lighter. The trees are budding, the temperature reached 65, and I didn’t need to turn on my lights until 7:00. While I still feel the effects of losing an hour over the weekend, the extra daylight at the end of the day is a welcome sight.
Spring may still be 10 days away, but I finally feel it is coming. Living in Pennsylvania, we experience “false spring” quite often. The daily fluctuation in temperature causes my sinuses to become an indicator of the changes in barometric pressure. Today, I feel it’s time to prepare for the next phase—allergy season! I’m not complaining, though. I’ll take allergy season over “can’t decide what season it is” season.
Here’s to the hope of spring – just what my soul needs.
This afternoon, I enjoyed reading and grading odes. Grading writing is my least favorite part of my job as an ELA teacher. Sometimes, it becomes tedious, and I can’t wait to get to the last paper, but today was sheer pleasure.
After reading “Dear Basketball” by Kobe Bryant and learning about the qualities of an ode, my students took on the challenge of writing an ode to an everyday thing. They are always a little hesitant to write poetry, but they outdid themselves this time.
Their subjects ranged from the expected—summer, the beach, soccer, and such—to chicken sandwiches, Chipotle, donuts, tacos, and the American Flag. Their use of figurative language and concrete images was noteworthy. I could feel the love jumping off the page. These odes are some of the best writing they have done to date. I am so proud of them and can’t wait to tell them tomorrow.
Doing nothing was not the plan, but plans are meant to be changed, aren’t they? I woke up early to do a few errands with my husband. It was more like he was doing the errands, and I was along for the ride. We were out for about an hour, came home, unloaded the car, and hubby made us a delicious omelet for breakfast. Now, it was time to tackle that “to-do” list.
My first mistake was sitting in the living room “for just a few minutes.” Then, the few minutes turned into a “few more” minutes. The second mistake was picking up that comfy blanket from the blanket alongside the recliner. The minutes turned into hours that included catching the ends of two different movies, a phone call with my daughter, and a nap that may or may not have benefited from resetting my phone timer. (SHRUG)
Now, I will tackle a couple of things from my list – the easier ones, of course, and then be ready to settle in with my book after dinner. At another time in my life, I would have felt guilty about “wasting” a Saturday, but not anymore. I am on a schedule Monday through Friday, so Saturdays get to be whatever I need them to be. They are sometimes busy, which is great, but slow Saturdays are my favorite.
My seventh graders love candy treats, and I usually get rolls of Smarties. I recently realized they also love Lifesaver Pep-o-mints and the five original flavors. Hence, two two-pound bags reside in the closet behind my desk.
Last week, I felt the urge for something sweet, and since I had no chocolate, a Lifesaver would have to do. I reached in and pulled out a light-yellow, individually wrapped candy, popping it in my mouth. I had forgotten that the yellow ones were pineapple-flavored, and immediately, I was transported back to my childhood home and the Lifesavers my dad usually had on his desk.
I don’t remember if they were the original five-flavor rolls or the tropical fruit ones. Still, I vividly remember trying to calculate when the pineapple one would be the next candy to appear at the open end of the roll. (We were not allowed to be choosy).
Dad’s been gone since 1995, but the sweet memory of those Lifesavers remains.
My oldest grandchildren turned 11 in January and February. Right now (because my birthday is not until October), I am six times older than P and E. That got me thinking about where the past 55 years have gone, what I was doing at that age, and how I got to where I am today.
At age 11, I played with Barbies with my friends on my block. We weren’t “rich” enough to have Barbie houses, but boy, did we make some great ones on our own with things we found around our homes. I was also reading the Nancy Drew books the “older” girls around the corner had gifted me.
At age 22, I was married to my high school sweetheart and pregnant with my first child. I was teaching music part-time and establishing our first home.
At age 33, I had two elementary school-aged children and was working full-time as a music teacher.
At age 44, I had a child in college and one in high school. I was still teaching music and would soon begin pursuing my master’s degree in English.
At age 55, I had recently survived the closing of the school I had taught in for 23 years and began a new teaching job at a newly formed regional school. I gave up my music teaching career and was teaching ELA only.
At age 66, I am still married to my high school sweetheart. I have survived two knee replacements, gall bladder removal, and two cataract surgeries. I am in my 39th year of teaching and signed on for at least one more.
Those multiples of eleven seem like yesterday and yet so long ago. I will never be six times P and E again, but I hope to be making memories with them for many years.
I spent the morning in the waiting room of the ambulatory surgical center, waiting for my husband to have a procedure. He is fine, home, and resting. It struck me how this space differed from my usual Wednesday, not just because it was a surgical center but because it was so quiet. School is a never-ending cacophony.
Here are some things I noticed while sitting in the waiting room.
Beeping machines have a rhythm of their own and also a peculiar melody.
Reading was a challenge at first. I kept rereading the same page over and over for several minutes before my concentration kicked in.
The office was clean, bright, and new, which made me feel calm.
At least five patients came to the surgical center for appointments with their cardiologists, and the receptionist patiently repeated that those offices were next door around the side of the building.
It was difficult not to eavesdrop because of the silence.
I could hear my own thoughts – loud and clear!
Sitting in silence is so peaceful.
My big takeaway from today is to spend more time in silence. It is suitable for the soul.
After my “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad” experience with the MRI machine yesterday, I was delighted to remember that I had planned to “Meet the Author” at my local library last night.
Listening to Ethan Joella discuss his novels and writing process was a pleasure. I bought A Little Hope last week and read it over the weekend to prepare for the evening. A Little Hope was a Read with Jenna Bonus Selection, and I chose it because I felt like I needed a little hope right now. It did not disappoint! Of course, I chose the book with the most characters and had to make a little cheat sheet.
By the end of the evening, Ethan had me wanting to go home and start writing. His down-to-earth conversational style made me laugh and feel very comfortable asking questions. He didn’t sugar-coat the writing and publishing process, but his story made me hopeful.
Check out Ethan Joella’s books if you’re looking for a story with characters that feel like they could be your neighbors around the corner. https://www.ethanjoellawriter.com/
His other two novels are A Quiet Life (set in Bethlehem, PA) and The Same Bright Stars (set in his hometown of Rehoboth Beach, DE). After listening to his descriptions of these books and the comments of those who had read them, I am adding these to my TBR list. He has a new novel arriving in 2026 set in the Pocono mountains of Pennsylvania. While my reading life takes me around the world, I love reading books set in my area of the country in places I have visited.
I tried my best, but my best wasn’t good enough this morning. Upon arrival at the hospital for my scheduled MRI, I faced some challenges. I didn’t have my work order, so I had to call the doctor and have them fax it to the hospital, which was easy enough, but then, at the actual check-in desk, they told me I wasn’t capitated to this facility by my insurance. After waiting two months for the appointment and writing sub plans for my sick day, this is not what I wanted to hear. The woman at the reception desk was very friendly and checked a few things and discovered that I could get my MRI at this facility.
After only one wrong turn, I found my way to radiology and even ran into a woman who had gone to high school with my kids. She made sure I made it to my destination. The radiology techs were pleasant while they reviewed my intake questionnaire and showed me where to change into a hospital gown.
I went into the testing area and did not look at the ominous MRI tube. I proceeded to lie on the table, have a washcloth placed over my eyes, and headphones over my ears with some deafening music. The tech was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. Everything was happening so quickly. The panic button was in my hand, and the table started moving. By the time my elbows hit the sides of the magnet, I was a goner.
My breath started quickening, and my heart was racing. I pushed the panic button and said, “I can’t do it!!” The tech had to take me out of the machine. I felt defeated and apologized profusely. Both women were kind and caring, telling me I was not the first to have this happen and suggesting which facility would work better for me. I went back into the cubicle to redress and headed for home.
I made the two-minute walk to my car, and my breath slowed a little. On the way home, my mind vacillated between working on deep breathing and beating myself up for failing. Too rattled to stop and get the chai latte I promised myself, the car carried me home on autopilot. I know it’s not the end of the world, so I am giving myself some grace.
Bright and early tomorrow morning, I am getting an MRI of my lumbar spine to see what changes have taken place since 2019, at which time the surgeon told me I had the spine of an eighty-year-old (I was only 60!). This MRI will help the pain management doctor determine what course of treatment we can use moving forward since the cortisone cocktail shots I have been getting may have contributed to the pelvic fracture I had in July (my second one – now I have matching sides).
Of course, I want to know my options, but I am a large woman and claustrophobic. I waited two months for this appointment. An appointment for an open MRI was not available until July! On the bright side, the MRI machine I will be in tomorrow is called a wide-bore machine, which is 70 centimeters in diameter. The standard one is 60 centimeters in diameter. I am grateful for whatever extra space I can get.
I plan to close my eyes as soon as they start moving me toward the machine and not open them again until I am entirely out of the machine. It is usually when my arms reach the chamber that my breathing and heartbeat start to increase. That is when I will say my Hail Mary and pray that I can make it through the 45 minutes without being too uncomfortable or pushing the panic button.
My reward for surviving will be a trip through Starbucks’ drive-thru for a Chai Latte. Wish me luck!
Rita DiCarne 