MATHEMATICAL THOUGHTS BY POOH

Math has never been easy for me. When I was struggling with college-level algebra or geometry, my brother Michael (in middle school at the time) would sit down with me and try to break down the problems for me into simple terms.

"It's really very easy," he'd say as if he were six years older than me rather than six years younger. "All you have to do is..." He'd then proceed to scrawl out equations and formulas across the paper, explaining as he went. Though I tried to follow along, I was usually still helplessly lost at the end of it, though I hated to admit that to my patient younger brother.

Being the kind and considerate people that they are, certain members of my family like to make jokes about my lack of math skills. For a birthday a few years ago, I received addition and subtraction flashcards. And somehow clipped comics from the newspaper show up on my door - such as the one about needing to answer a word problem to get into heaven ("If two trains leave Boston at 10:00 and one is going 50 miles per hour and one is going 75 miles per hour..."). Then there was the little sign that was taped to my bedroom door by one of my siblings - "No Math Needed." I actually thought that one was quite appropriate.

So when I was re-reading recently one of my favorite volumes of classic children's literature - The House At Pooh Corner, by A.A. Milne, I decided that this is one more thing Pooh bear and I have in common. In addition to a love of eating and a fondness for rambling walks in the woods, we both have a distinct lack of mathematical inclination. But one of the great things about Pooh is that he doesn't seem to be bothered by this in the least. He's not the kind of bear to lose any sleep over things like multiplication facts.

One sunny afternoon, Pooh is playing his newly invented game of "Pooh-sticks" - which consists of dropping sticks into the river on one side of the bridge and running over to the other side of the bridge to see which stick comes out first. Pooh had been playing against himself for quite awhile, dropping in two sticks of different lengths and guessing which would win. And he was quite pleased with himself.

"...And when he went home for tea," the book says, "he had won thirty-six and lost twenty-eight, which meant that he was - that he had - well, you take twenty-eight from thirty-six, and that's what he was. Instead of the other way round."

And that's all the math a bear like Pooh needs to know.

IN PRAISE OF LIBRARIES

The worst imaginable punishment when I was growing up was a revoked library privilege. My brothers and I all loved to read. Books were my escape, my way of exploring the world, my constant companions. And the public library was a magical place of unending possibilities. Surrounded by stacks of Tin Tin comic books and Nancy Drew mysteries, I spent many happy hours of my childhood between the shelves of the public library.

I love the slightly musty smell of paper and ink in a library. I love the hushed meditative quiet of people absorbing knowledge or engrossed in fantasy of the imagination. And with just a small plastic card, I can access all of these wonderful volumes of biographies and novels and comic books and detective stories and travel books... For FREE!

When I lived in Asia, public libraries were one thing I really missed. English reading material was very hard to find. And so the few volumes I had taken with me or acquired there were read over and over and over. C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia were among my minimal collection. I practically memorized those books over the four years in the Far East - especially "The Horse And His Boy" and "The Magician's Nephew" and "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" - my favorites.

One of the first things I did when I came back to the US in 2008 was to renew my public library card. I remember walking into our city library again for the first time in several years - the same library I spent hours in as a girl. It's been remodeled and looks different now. The old card file system is gone, replaced by computers to aid in the search for a particular volume. But it still thrills me to see the shelves and shelves of books, on everything from Mediterranean soups to The American Civil War.

Today I picked up three new titles in The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency series, a novel about Chinese immigrants to the US in the 1940s, and a historical fiction work on the disciple Luke - the physician who wrote one of the Gospels on the life of Christ. It's such an amazing thing to be able to swipe my little card and walk out with several volumes under my arm. And though it's late tonight and I should be going to sleep, I'm tempted to dive into the novel about the Chinese-American family, just as I used to do when I was a girl and would stay up late reading my latest library book with a flashlight under the covers, long after I was supposed to be asleep.

Just a few pages can't hurt. Just for a few minutes. So I snuggle down under my blankets and crack open the cover and prepare to be swept away into a glorious adventure. I read eagerly, impatiently, jumping ahead, scanning the pages, anxious to see what happens next - until finally, eyes heavy, the book slips from my hands and I reluctantly take off my glasses and turn off the lamp by my bed. My book will still be there for me tomorrow.

IT'S AN EVERYDAY KIND OF THING

My father is one of the most disciplined people I know. When I was growing up, every morning when I came down for breakfast in my pajamas, I'd see my dad sitting in his favorite brown leather easy chair, in his bathrobe and slippers, reading his Bible. It was something I could count on, as predictable as the sunrise.

Several years ago, my dad started walking 20 minutes every morning before work. Even on those cold winter mornings when it's still dark outside, he bundles up in a hat and gloves and coat and sets out for his 20 minutes of brisk walking. I tried to join him a couple of times and gave up, deciding that I'd much rather exercise at a more decent hour of the day - maybe 11:00 in the morning, or 2:00 in the afternoon. If the sun's not even up yet, I shouldn't be up if I don't have to be. And only if the weather's not too hot and not too cold will I venture out for a semi-brisk walk of maybe 10 minutes, if I'm feeling up to it.

Sadly, I don't have the level of discipline of my dad.

But I'm trying. He's inspired me to make daily Bible reading part of my routine. He's challenged me to exercise more regularly (or at least think about exercising more regularly - actually doing it is the hard part). I want to be more disciplined in my everyday life.

So this month my friend Jennifer challenged me to write a little bit each day. I keep telling myself and my writer friends that I want to write more and get over my paralyzing perfectionism that tells me I have to tweak and revise and modify forever and ever until my writing is absolutely the best ever that could possibly be written on this particular subject. And I'm trying to move past the laziness and procrastination that tells me as soon as I sit down to write that I can't possibly write anything until I've scrubbed out that bottom produce drawer of the fridge where the pizza sauce spilled last week. Or that instead of writing, now would be a perfect time to take a nap. Or read the comics. Or bury vegetable peels in the garden. Or check the oil in my car...

Yet if I just will sit down and DO IT, I'm amazed at how much easier it is than I think it will be. The simple discipline of doing something small consistently every day is very powerful. I start to get into a routine. A habit. And suddenly it's part of my daily rhythm. It feels less threatening or scary. It feels normal. I begin to enjoy it more. And now, about 2 weeks into my challenge to write a blog post every day for a month, I'm really enjoying it! And my day just doesn't feel complete if I haven't written something. So that's why today, after I was already in my pajamas in bed, about to turn the light out, I remembered that I hadn't written a blog post today yet. And as I snuggled under the covers, I contemplated skipping a day. But I felt it would throw off my rhythm and I would start to get lazy and make excuses for not writing tomorrow and the next day. So I threw the blankets off and started typing something a few minutes before midnight, so that I would be able to keep my writing streak.

Because that's what discipline is - it's an everyday, whether I feel like it or not, in all kinds of weather, in order to form good habits, because I know it's the right choice kind of thing.

PUSHED INTO A CORNER AND FORGOTTEN

The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency books have become my favorite reading these days. I love the picture they give of the intertwined relationships of a small African community in Botswana. I find myself getting so caught up in the stories as I'm listening to the books on CD in my car that I drive more slowly than necessary or take the long route home so that I don't have to stop in the middle of a chapter.

Last night after I returned from a small group at church, I sat in the dark car outside my house for several minutes with the engine running, listening to Precious Ramotswe's adventures as she tries to unravel the mysteries in people's lives with her private dectective agency. The legs of my jeans, the fabric on the passenger seat, and the curved vinyl of the dashboard were all speckled with the shadow of spattered raindrops through the windshield. I had this strange momentary feeling that I was blending in to my surroundings in my little car, like a chameleon changing his color to hide among the leaves, or a cheetah becoming very still and small in order to stalk his prey undetected in the yellows and browns of the African plain. I was almost afraid to move, hesitant to disturb the lovely patterns of spots, and hesitant to leave the world of Precious Ramotswe and her charming life in Botswana. But after a few minutes, the chapter ended, and I reluctantly turned off the engine and got out of the car to return to my very different life in suburban America.

This morning on the way to a substitute teaching job, I listened as Precious Ramotswe, the "traditionally-built" woman of the "Number One Ladies' Detective Agency" of Botswana, sat in the shade of a tree and munched on molasses sandwiches with her friend Mma Potokwane, the director of the orphan farm. As the orphan boys and girls ran and played in the afternoon sun, Mma Ramotswe marveled at how happy they were, though most had experienced such tragedy and difficulty in their young lives.

"We want to make so many good memories for the children," explained Mma Potokwane, "that the bad memories are pushed into a corner and forgotten."*

I pondered this thought as I turned off the ignition and entered the school building. I thought about it as I went over that day's math and history lesson plans for the fifth grade. What a wonderful image - to crowd out any negative memories, bad experiences, hurtful comments, abuse, neglect, rejection or abandonment with an avalanche of positive experiences.

Was I flooding the children that I was responsible for teaching that day with love, affirmation, encouragement, praise, and positive memories? Sadly, most of the day it seemed I was correcting negative behavior and giving lectures. It's so hard to focus on the positive. It always seems to be easier to point out the negative. But I want to remember the wise words of that fictional woman from Botswana in Alexander McCall Smith's book, and "make so many good memories... that the bad memories are pushed into a corner and forgotten."

*From The Good Husband of Zebra Drive, by Alexander McCall Smith)

HAZEL'S SECRET WEAPON

Before I saw her, I could hear her. A rich, full voice singing a gospel tune. That was Hazel. She always seemed to be singing.  

"I'll show you the ropes, honey," Hazel smiled at me, her warm brown eyes welcoming. It was my first day of training as a housekeeper at a local four-star hotel and I'd been assigned to work with Hazel.

Pushing our cart of towels, sheets, cleaning products and tiny bottles of shampoo down the hotel corridor, I sighed softly. This was not my ideal job. But as a college student with tuition and books to pay for, I couldn't be too picky. "It's only for the summer, " I kept telling myself. 

Together Hazel and I stripped the sheets off the bed, then ballooned out the fresh clean sheets and tucked in the edges. Moving quickly and precisely with the confidence that comes from years of experience, she demonstrated how to fold crisp "hospital corners" on the bed, and the art of getting stubborn grains of sand out of a bathtub. (Sand, she informed me, was the nemesis of the housekeeping staff, an unavoidable evil of having a hotel near the beach in the summer.)

It was clear that Hazel took great pride in her work. Every washcloth was perfectly folded, each bottle of shampoo carefully straightened. But it was her consistent cheerfulness that got under my skin. How could she possibly be so happy about scrubbing toilets or cleaning up empty pizza boxes and soda cans after messy hotel guests - day after day, year after year?

"Why have you stayed here so long? Wouldn't you like to do something else?" I hadn't meant to ask that, but I couldn't help myself. 

Laughing, the older woman put down her spray bottle and cleaning rag. It was a "you just don't understand" kind of laugh, yet not in a mocking or snooty way, but with a mixture of affection and pity. Shuffling my feet, I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I was the educated college student, and she was just a hotel janitor! Why was she looking at me as if she felt sorry for me? 

"Oh, honey, it's a privilege to work here!" Hazel said gently. "It's my ministry! Every day I get to come into these people's rooms and pray over them. As I make their beds, I pray the Lord will give them rest and peaceful dreams. As I vacuum their floors and dust the furniture, I pray for safety and covering as they're out today. And most of all, I pray that they will know the love of God as I do. I wouldn't want to do anything else."

Those words bounced around in my head all through those hot summer months. I can't say I always had Hazel's perspective, though. There were plenty of days when I grumbled to myself about the occupants of the hotel room, chewing them out in my head for the extra work they were making for me. I often surrendered to the temptation to throw myself a pity party, thinking of other friends who were soaking up rays as beach lifeguards or sipping lattes in air-conditioned offices. Many a time I relished relating the horrors of some of my toilet encounters to my friends, dramatically re-telling my day's challenges and soaking up their sympathy. 

Yet at the most inconvenient times, when I was deep in the throes of my "poor me" party, I would hear Hazel's voice interrupt my thoughts - "Oh, honey, it's a privilege to work here! It's my ministry!" I certainly didn't feel that way. And I wasn't sure I even wanted to have that kind of attitude.

But over the weeks and months as I worked alongside Hazel, I started to see that she really meant what she said. She had such a persistent joy - it was infectious! And I realized that I was only making myself miserable by insisting on being negative about my job. I decided to try to follow Hazel's example and pray as I went about my work. And it started to make a difference. 

Now whenever I see hotel housekeeping staff pushing a cart of supplies down the hall, I smile and thank them for what they do. And I remember Hazel and her ministry. What an amazing opportunity we have each day to pray blessing over those we encounter at the office, at the supermarket, at the mechanic's, at the dentist, in the coffeeshop, or in our neighborhood. Like Hazel, a person of prayer is a person of influence - no matter where life takes you! 

"For God is my witness, whom I serve with my spirit in the gospel of His Son, that without ceasing I make mention of you always in my prayers."
Romans 1:9 (NKJV)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves...

Fifth grade today we was learning about Biblical poetry in Psalms, Proverbs, Job, Ecclesiastes, etc. The lesson plans said to begin by reading a favorite poem. As a substitute teacher, I didn't have time to prepare by looking up a poem to read to the class. So I decided to recite one of my all-time favorites from my childhood, Jabberwocky.

"I learned this poem in sixth grade," I told the class, "which was a looong time ago! But I still remember it!" I could tell that a few of the students had a hard time picturing me as a sixth-grade student sitting in a classroom like they were, memorizing a poem. "One reason I like Jabberwocky," I continued, "is because of all the made-up nonsensical words Lewis Carroll uses to convey an emotion, a setting, or a mood. Listen to the words in this poem and see what it makes you think of."

"'Twas brillig," I began, "and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe..." The normally rambunctious class was perfectly still and attentive. And though I stumbled on verse four a bit, I'm proud to say I was able to recite the whole poem by memory!

Here's this wonderfully fantastical story, from Lewis Carroll's book, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, published in 1871. Go ahead - read it aloud! It sounds much better that way...

Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand,
Long time the manxome foe he sought -
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

from Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There, 1871
by Lewis Carroll

DOING DISHES WITH ABUELA

Abuela had that look after dinner. In the weeks following the surgery for her broken hip, my one-hundred-year-old grandmother has become increasingly bored and restless. Though her injury confines her to a wheelchair, Abuela still wants to be useful and help around the house. And in the three years she's lived with my family, the dishes have consistently been her "job."

Maneuvering the wheelchair into position was tricky. But with me standing at the sink and Abuela's chair angled between the sink and the dishwasher, we came up with a partnership system that worked pretty well. I rinsed the dishes and silverware, then handed each item to Abuela so that she could find a place for it on the racks of the machine. It took some time, but we eventually filled the dishwasher and started the cycle. Then I tackled some of the bigger items - pans and serving bowls, or the rubber spatulas and wooden spoons that we usually wash by hand. Abuela meticulously dried each dish, a towel on her lap to catch the drips. Then as I put away the dried dishes and wiped down the sink and countertops, Abuela carefully hung her dishtowels over the edge of the sink to dry, her practiced fingers smoothing out every bump and wrinkle.

Even though multiple strokes and dementia have eaten away at my sweet grandmother's short-term memory, there are some things she will never forget. Washing dishes must be one of those things, like riding a bicycle or tying your shoes. Gertrude Elizabeth Dudte, my grandmother, was raised on a farm in Newton, Kansas. Washing dishes was something she probably did from the time she could stand on a chair or a stool and help her mother and sisters in the kitchen. She's been washing dishes for about ninety years!

Recently our family doctor asked Abuela, "So, are you still doing the dishes and folding the laundry?" Abuela seemed surprised at the question. "Of course," she answered, as if he had been asked her if she's still eating three meals a day. "It's my job."