Blind Spots

No, I don’t always think about God or world peace. There are bad days. Yesterday was one of them. In fact, it was a coupla bum days in a row.

It may be that miasma that gets into a place just before spring break lets loose—you know the reminder that you need a real break from the gerbil wheel of school, and just go somewhere else. But it wasn’t just a wish for the cessation of activities and duties and preparation and writing and helping and hoping—it was a wish for my old life.

I come from a long line of good cope-rs—we are a hardy stock who know it doesn’t pay to indulge in too much wallowing, but over the weekend I just missed that life in the United States, that life in New York and Westchester County, the proximity to family in Cincinnati and a circle of friends who has known me for longer than a few turns of the gerbil wheel.

As KA employees have gotten cars, there has been a fragmentation, a frenzy to “get outta Dodge” on weekends, and a forgetfulness of those who don’t have cars. (You may remember, I had a car for a few weeks six months ago until someone wrecked it and, well, I guess, insurance action is slow in Jordan.) And so this was a weekend with lots of empty spaces, and time to notice some cracks in the parking lot by the gym.

There wasn’t anything particularly awful, no precise snub, just a wistfulness for that old life—frenzied during the week in peaceful Westchester, and peaceful on the weekends in frenzied Manhattan—it was a good balance for 11 years.

I miss book stores. Yes, there is one in Amman called “The Good Bookstore,” but really, I think it was stocked by people with a sense of the fantastic about what a good book might be. I miss when going to brunch was not a major production involving shuttle busses or taxis, and there was plenty of bacon. I miss the Sunday routine of leaving Tarrytown on the train, sitting and grading in the coffee shop across the street from Advent Lutheran, the thoughtful sermons by Pastor Brown, the quick stop into Subway before walking across glorious Central Park, trolling through the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a spell, then heading over to NYSC (New York Sports Club) to work-out and relax in the steam room, finally walking the 40 blocks up to the train station and a return to Westchester and another spin on that Hackley gerbil wheel.

Oh, by the way, the comment about working out—I really did that too sometimes, but I came across a funny page the other day on my Page-A-Day-Calendar from my sister Elizabeth. She gave me one at Christmas from the scripts of the TV show, The Office. It was a line from Stanley, and he said, “Oh, yes, I will work out today. I will work out a way to avoid running for a stupid cause.”

Anyway, I digress.

But the template of my regular Sunday routine wasn’t what I really have been missing sorely in the last few days. It’s the friend element. As I would walk up Lexington Avenue to the train station I would often call my friend Sylvia as she came home from her Sunday gig at Price Hill Chili and we would catch up and laugh for a bit. Or I would call my dear Kess wherever she loved at the moment, or I would find Harrison in his dorm room, or I would laugh with Mare as she prepped for her upcoming classes at Charlotte Latin, or I would catch radiant Sue as she got Nate to do his homework, or marvelous Anne would call and invite me to dinner. I am missing these friends, these people who mean so much—the friends like the Enszers and the Khosrowshahis and the Celentanos and…somehow it all just seemed more poignant last weekend.

Of course I can talk on the phone here, but the time difference is annoying, and I can never call the 9-5 crowd since by the time they are home I am in bed, and I never seem to get to call Doris or Aunt Dot.

I guess it is the texture of that old life I led—the variety of foods and activities and a day that seemed to come to an end.

So this weekend I brooded a little, let a little moodiness creep in—under two weeks until I board that plane to the United States!—and remembered the gratification of bumping into old students in Manhattan, the wondrous Kate, the provocative Noah, the peripatetic Lyde, the energetic Fareeda.

It can be tiring—all the hoping and helping here, struggling to cajole and instruct and compel students to read and write effectively, to go to bed at night, to treat each other respectfully and kindly. It can be tiring always wondering if I will ever master Arabic or assimilate or just remain a respectful observer.

In any epic adventure there must be cracks. So instead of turning from them, and whirring around, I just sat and looked at the cracks. Wondered about the cracks in the experience, looking at the good and the weak. Will we live up to the ideals of the mission statement? How will we turn some lightweight academics into scholarly amazons? Can we?

So no Dead Sea massage treatments. No exciting new exploration of a Crusader castle or a Biblical cave or Umayyad mosaic or Roman catacomb—just a longing look at friends and family I miss. How great to be traveling at Easter time—that annual observation of renewal and joy.

On Saturday I looked forward to my one sure off-campus jaunt: going to church with a school driver and a couple of other people. I arrive at the admin building exactly at 5:15 for the car and driver. Well, I waited about 15 minutes, and wondered if they left early. It turns out they did leave early—probably the only time ever, and without me. A perfect spice for my little stew I had cooked for myself. I walked home, and thought, bully, a couple more hours to get work done.

Yesterday, in the full glory of my funk over the cracks in my life, I am walking to school meeting to start the day. All of a sudden, the heavens open up and a March-goes-out-like-a-lion-rainstorm tumbled down. Jordan doesn’t get many of these, and yeah, I am grateful for the water table and all, but it couldn’t get more cinematic! Here I am in my beautiful grey suit, sopping wet, the weather totally competing with my mood for which could turn the darkest the fastest.

So as I am arriving at the auditorium, a little less than dapper in the wet cold that feels like a northeastern February curse, all of a sudden I remember a few lines from a poem/anthem by Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There’s a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

I look up at the sky and scowl. Hmmmm….yeah, right. No light.

Within the hour the skies brightened and the rest of the day couldn’t have looked lighter and brighter.

At dinner last night I met with a book club—not everyone had read, so we decided not to discuss (the day continues to spiral downwards!), I see Khalil across the dining hall. Khalil is my old Arabic teacher (have I mentioned that I abandoned Arabic six months ago? It was just too hard with the gerbil wheel schedule…guess that mastery of Arabic I mentioned won’t be coming anytime soon.). I often dodge Khalil since he wants to speak in Arabic (imagine that?!) and chide me for not coming to class. Khalil is eating alone so I decide to go and join him. As we talk, this very nice man wants to talk about changes in his life he hopes to make. He wants a fresh start. He wants to move away—to New York actually, and look for work as a teacher and instructor and translator. He has come to a place in his life—we didn’t use the word impasse, but that word works—and he just misses true friendship and hopes to find it in a new place.

I turn to Khalil and say, “So you’re missing something in your life right now. You’re missing some good friendships.”

I ask Khalil if he knows the movie Casablanca, and how at the end Rick turns to Louie and says, “You know this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”