Michelle L. Rusk's Blog, page 24

Life as a Remote Teacher's Spous

As I write this, I hear Greg speaking fluently in Spanish around the corner. Lilly is laying under the table near him, Ash is lounging somewhere on a bed in the sun. Today is Greg’s live teaching day and later he’ll head up to the school and then the golf course to start (or re-start since the season only got one week into it when the pandemic hit) his role as an assistant coach for the fall season. Soccer, normally nearing the end of district play right now, is slated to start in February.

I hear many stories of what it’s like for kids to do remote teaching. I hear stories of what parents are going through. And I hear stories of what teachers are going through. But no one talks about what it’s like to be the spouse of a remote teacher.

Before I start in, let me say that I know that the district Greg teaches in has done as good of job as possible in this continually changing scenario. Right now, the elementary school kids are back in session and soon the middle school kids will go back. But the way it’s looking, it will be Thanksgiving when the high school kids, of which Greg teaches, will return, so we anticipate him not to return to the classroom to teach until January.

I have worked at home most of my career outside of my own days teaching back, well, we don’t need to discuss how far back that was. But at the time I was teaching, my sister Karen was working at home and I remember how between meetings she was walking her dogs and taking care of laundry. There was always something she could do when she had a few minutes away from her job. I saw the benefit of working from home through her.

My first husband worked in sales and he, too, worked at home when we were married. I quickly fell into a routine that after my run, shower, and breakfast, I would tackle work first thing. There were always phone calls to make and emails to answer. I have loved the flexibility to keep up with the house and other projects (historically for me, that was writing although about five years ago it turned to writing and sewing) and for seven years on a military grief study, I had a boss who left me alone. As long at the job was done, quite honestly, he didn’t care about the rest. That was fine by me.

Greg is a classroom and soccer field guy. He loves the energy of the kids and being in front of them, and possibly throwing their phone in the trash (yes, it has happened). As they are missing the energy of him, the rest of their teachers, and their friends, he, too, is missing their energy.

He’s not used to sitting most of the day, which he has to do for live teaching day and then for office hours and other assorted meetings. I hate zoom and the precursor I had to use to interview kids for the grief study and for meetings. I hated to sit there and stare at a screen when I could have been folding laundry at the same time. Sitting and staring at a screen all day goes against everything we have been telling people about getting up and moving around (something Greg also lets his students do in the classroom).

Because of this constant sitting and staring, and the fact that he’s had to learn how to do something new (which in itself is not a bad thing), he’s drifted away from me. I tell him things, he will say okay or act as if he heard me, but I find out later when I mention whatever it was, he claims I never told him. No no no, we’re not talking about “spouse selective hearing.” Believe me, I know the difference.

I don’t mind having him at home because we have separate spaces and I’m off in my own world (plus I have my Qatar Airlines ear plugs if I need them to drown out the Spanish). But I miss the separation we had during the day because it made me appreciate him more. I knew about what time he’d be home and I’d make every effort to be done working so that we could spend our short evenings together.

While I worry about the mental health of the students (he has some who “gather” during his office hours as they might in his classroom at lunch, but they are doing it virtually because they can’t be together otherwise), I also worry about the mental health of our teachers who love to teach, who are in the classroom not because it’s the only thing they thought they could do (as I have heard some people say about teachers), but because they truly want to help kids learn.

This has been a struggle for them so it also means it’s a challenge for those of us who care about them as we watch this play out. I hope that at least being outside on the golf course with a small group starting today will make a difference as this situation continues to drag itself out. We know how lucky we are in New Mexico that we can always escape into the sunshine that reminds us that no matter what’s happening around us, all is well.

Life as a Remote Teacher's Spouse

As I write this, I hear Greg speaking fluently in Spanish around the corner. Lilly is laying under the table near him, Ash lounging somewhere on a bed in the sun. Today is Greg’s live teaching day and later he’ll head up to the school and then the golf course to start (or re-start since the season only got one week into it when the pandemic hit) his role as as assistant coach for the fall season. Soccer, normally nearing the end of district play right now, is slated to start in February.

I hear many stories of what it’s like for kids to do remote teaching. I hear stories of what parents are going through. And I hear stories of what teachers are going through. But no one talks about what it’s like to be the spouse of a remote teacher.

Before I start in, let me say that I know that the district Greg teaches in has done as good of job as possible in this continually changing scenario. Right now, the elementary school kids are back in session and soon the middle school kids will go back. But the way it’s looking, it will be Thanksgiving when the high school kids, of which Greg teaches, will return, so we anticipate him not to return to the classroom to teach until January.

I have worked at home most of my career outside of my own days teaching back, well, we don’t need to discuss how far back that was. But at the time I was teaching, my sister Karen was working at home and I remember how between meetings she was walking her dogs and taking care of laundry. There was always something she could do when she had a few minutes away from her job. I saw the benefit of working from home through her.

My first husband worked in sales and he, too, worked at home when we were married. I quickly fell into a routine that after my run, shower, and breakfast, I would tackle work first thing. There were always phone calls to make and emails to answer. I have loved the flexibility to keep up with the house and other projects (historically for me, that was writing although about five years ago it turned to writing and sewing) and for seven years on a military grief study, I had a boss who left me alone. As long at the job was done, quite honestly, he didn’t care about the rest. That was fine by me.

Greg is a classroom and soccer field guy. He loves the energy of the kids and being in front of them, and possibly throwing their phone in the trash (yes, it has happened). As they are missing the energy of him, the rest of their teachers, and their friends, he, too is missing their energy.

He’s not used to sitting most of the day, which he has to do for live teaching day and then for office hours and other assorted meetings. I hate zoom and the precursor I had to use to interview kids for the grief study and for meetings. I hated to sit there and stare at a screen when I could have been folding laundry at the same time. Sitting and staring at a screen all day goes against everything we have been telling people about getting up and moving around (something Greg also let his students do in the classroom).

Because of this constant sitting and staring, and the fact that he’s had to learn how to do something new (which in itself is not a bad thing), he’s drifted away from me. I tell him things, he will say okay or act as if he heard me, but I find out later when I mention whatever it was, he claims I never told him. No no no, we’re not talking about “spouse selective hearing.” Believe me, I know the difference.

I don’t mind having him at home because we have separate spaces and I’m off in my own world (plus I have my Qatar ear plugs if I need them to drown out the Spanish). But I miss the separation we had during the day because it made me appreciate him more. I knew about what time he’d be home and I’d make every effort to be done working so that we could spend our short evenings together.

While I worry about the mental health of the students (he has some who “gather” during his office hours as they might in his classroom at lunch, but they are doing it virtually because they be together otherwise) I also worry about the mental health of our teachers who love to teach, who are in the classroom not because it’s the only thing they thought they could do (as I have heard some people say about teacher), but because they truly want to help kids learn.

This has been a struggle for them so it also means it’s a challenge for those of us who care about them as we watch this play out. I hope that at least being outside on the golf course with a small group starting today will make a difference as this situation continues to drag itself out. We know how lucky we are in New Mexico that we can always escape into the sunshine that reminds us that no matter what’s happening around us, all is well.

As National Suicide Prevention Week Comes to a Close

I’m not sure where September went (or the past six months!), but I tried to make the most of National Suicide Prevention Month. I also meant to blog more and post more during the month– about suicide– but I have learned that, in the end, whatever happened is what was supposed to be. I also know that, for me, I’m always hoping to do more and it’s hard not to begrudge myself that maybe I didn’t work harder.

I did get a guest column in the Rio Rancho Observer and a letter to the editor in the Albuquerque Journal. I still believe in the “old fashioned” newspaper to reach people and the people I know I reached are those working in the suicide grief/prevention field locally and I was able to connect with and find out what’s going on here.

I was disappointed not to get any media around the Names of Suicide Tree in Old Town at Old Town Herbal, but I also know that we got the tree up which was a great step forward in itself. I also was disappointed that my social media posts didn’t reach as many people as I had hoped.

Yet when I went to “visit” the tree after the first week it was up, Liz told me that people had been coming in randomly, that it seemed like they had been guided to her store having no clue what was there, and yet having lost someone to suicide. It didn’t occur to me in this entire process that this might happen. I was too caught up in getting the word out in “this world” that I didn’t think about my sister and all the others who have died by suicide leading their loved ones to the tree.

On Saturday when I popped up Chelle Summer in front of Old Town Herbal a woman from about the furthest part of New Mexico from Albuquerque came by to put her son’s name on the tree. She had been told about the tree from the local suicide grief group (that had kindly sent out the information to their mailing list) and it happened that she was going to be up here for a healing conference this weekend.

The loss of her young son to suicide less than six months ago was visibly still painful for her and took me back to my own pain years ago. I say that in the sense that it reminded me to be there with her, to help her know she would find healing in the journey and wouldn’t always feel the way she does now.

She thanked me for the tree and leaving it up for the entire month, something I had suggested to Liz since we can’t gather this year. We’ll leave it up another week and my hope is that people will continue to put their loved ones’ names on it.

It was a reminder to me that it there is only so much I can do and the rest I have to believe will happen just because I put it out there.

Where Hope Lives

I try to only post positive messages, mostly because when I post something negative, I feel worse and what’s the point of that? It’s hard enough right now to be positive without reading other people’s negative comments or even my own. And quite often those negative comments make me angry which is even worse than feeling negative.

But I’ve found over the past six months in particular that as I’ve tried to be positive and helpful, it's seemingly falling on deaf ears. Fewer people are seeing my blogs than before the pandemic. I don’t know if it’s because Facebook (one of the main places where I get my readership) has changed its algorithms or because people simply don’t want to hear positive messages.

We’ve done such a terrible job teaching people how to cope that it’s easier to sit in that bucket of negativity rather than think about how to get out of it and move over to the positive one (which, I might add, looks a whole lot better- not so brown and ugly, but filled with colorful flowers and life).

I know there are people would counter what I just wrote with, “Well, the world is so negative.”

It is, ultimately though, hope lives inside of you. You might not always find hope around which is why you should be focused on where it is inside you and how you can make that grow rather than where it is outside of you. We all have a choice of how we see the world and the events that continue to unfold. And the sooner people can see that there is opportunity in all this loss and change, the sooner we can move forward to a much brighter bucket of hope and kick that brown negative one to the curb.

All is Well

As I’m finding I’m tired and cranky from the pandemic, from the inability to truly move forward (it feels like maybe one small step forward and then two back), I’m also finding that I’m reaching into my tool chest of sorts (although some might say my sewing basket or perhaps my Chelle Summer tote bag) for the tools I’ve used to help me cope with past challenges.

Somewhere during the end of my first marriage, I picked up the idea of using a mantra and rosary beads for the reciting of that mantra. Praying the rosary in a traditional way wasn’t something that ever worked for me and, suddenly, I realized that using the beads for my mantra gave me the peace I was looking for.

The mantra I chose is, “All is well.”

When I feel anxiety ridden, irritation, whatever negative emotion it might be– or just general worry that I can’t shake– I touch a beach and repeat to myself, “All is well.” I do this for each bead until I start to feel relief. I’ve never had to go very far, just a few beads and somehow peace rolls over me like a wave.

It’s easy to get caught up in negative emotions, especially as this uncertainty we’re all enduring drags on. But, somehow, somewhere, we can find peace. And sometimes that place might be easier than we realized.

Spiritual Endurance

I met with Fr. Gene Friday at the Norbertine Monastery in the South Valley my ongoing spiritual direction and one of the things he told me was that I have “spiritual endurance.”

Things have not be easy– I realize it’s like that for all of us although our situations vary because our lives vary– but recently it has become harder. After talking to several people, I believe it’s because we all thought by now things would be much more back to routine than they are. I don’t want to say normal because while a lot of things will return to what they were, we all have in some way been changed.

Personally, I’ve suffered loss after loss from just before the pandemic started (when my job ended) and then throughout it– my dog dying, plans getting canceled, events to sell Chelle Summer getting postponed and then canceled, the Jesuits leaving my church, a few deaths of people I know– I’ve been trying to hold on tight for the roller coaster ride, but at the same time let go of what I can’t have back.

But as things seem to be dragging out, it’s like my glass is half full, yet someone keeps coming along and knocking it over. Then I have to refill it again. Some days the trek to the faucet is longer and harder than others.

Still, I do believe that somewhere all will be well, even better than it is now. As I look at the situations that surround me in our bigger, larger world, I see growing pains as not just individuals seek their own answers and change, but as groups do, too. It’s hard, but we all know that growth is never easy.

Yesterday while I did a little housecleaning, I streamed the Sunday mass from Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral in Los Angeles. The priest is newly ordained and celebrated his first mass. In his homily, he said, “Trust in God especially in the places we don’t see him.”

It’s very easy now when everything seems so dark and uncertain to not believe God is with us. I, however, have been through so much personal loss in my life that I do believe he is with us and all is well. Even on my bad days when my anger bubbles up, I find a way to let it go and my hope comes back.

As Fr. Gene and I sat outside, some distance from each other, in the shade of the mid-morning, this dove sat on the corner of the building almost the entire time we were chatting.

God was with us, listening, giving us hope. And spiritual endurance for the continued bumpy road ahead.

Emotional Pain

It’s sad and mind boggling at the same time how little we know and understand about emotional pain, not just our own, but that of those we encounter, too.

As September, the month we typically try to raise awareness (or, rather, more awareness than other months) about suicide prevention, is coming up quick, I’ll be writing the next few weeks more about suicide and the grief that surrounds it when people die by suicide.

A friend posted a cartoon about emotional pain last week. One character stood over the other– who was lying down and clearly in pain- saying, “I don’t know how to help you.”

The ridiculous thing about this is how true it is. And yet how it doesn’t make sense because we all have emotional pain in our lives. Is it because we can’t see it on others so we don’t believe it it? Is it because we’ve spent our entire lives being told to suck it up, to move forward, to ignore it, too remember that the glass is full?

Is it because the people most likely to tell us that we are idiotic for having it probably most likely are stuffing their own pain so far into their bodies that its manifesting physically and they don’t want to feel themselves so they won’t let others feel either?

While I’m not one that believes in airing every feeling we have on social media, I do believe there is a balance to it. We should in our lives have ways to cope, people with whom we can share, or ways of sharing (like keeping a journal) that give us a place to let go of our emotions.

As life continues to keep us all in a bucket of uncertainty, my hope is that people are teaching others (especially youth) how to cope with emotional pain. Life is about building blocks and now is the perfect opportunity to learn what will only help us cope in the future.

Letters to God

I started journaling after sixth grade. Well, really I started in sixth grade when we had to keep a daily journal in English class; I just kept going after school ended although I didn’t write song lyrics anymore to fill the pages when I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I would fill leftover notebooks after semesters ended, especially enjoying filling college ruled ones because more lines meant I could write more. I wrote everything right down to what mail I received and who I talked to on the phone (things I can’t imagine writing now). At some point I stopped writing or wrote more sporadically, but in the past few years I’ve started to make a better effort toward it.

Somewhere in there, I read that journals are like letters to go. As someone who really hasn’t been prayerful for much of my life, I realized that maybe that’s why I didn’t feel like "prayer” as I had been taught didn’t work for me, because I got such a sense of it– without knowing it– in my journal writing. It also made me want to journal more, to know that by writing it down, maybe it was easier for God to read (he could read it on his own timeline rather than having to drop everything to listen to my prayer. I realize he’s a busy guy.

However, not long after the pandemic went into full swing, I realized I needed to make a change in my own prayer life. I thought that maybe instead of doing my five-minute prayer as I did in the traditional sense of how we are thought to pray, that maybe I should take that time to write in my journal each morning instead.

A friend gave me the cool journal in the photo which also works well because it lays flat. As a left hander, it’s probably the first bound book I’ve been able to write in easily.

Once I started journaling the way, I found that I liked it, that it was a good way for me to draw closer to God. And to feel more like he’s listening. Prayer often feels empty, as if I’m sitting in a big room alone, but there is something more comforting about seeing my words in my handwriting on paper.

And God doesn’t seem to mind I’ve been sending him so many letters.

Giving Up Something for Something Greater

I don’t know how many years it’s been since Fr. Anthony, a priest at our church who has since moved away, and I had the discussion about when God asks us to give up something for something greater. I remember he had talked about it in one of his homilies and it was something that resonated with me.

When I saw him next, I asked him about it and explained that I had walked away from my swimming pool when I divorced. I knew that I would one day have another swimming pool, but it was hard to be without something that I used daily when I moved back to the Chicago area and didn’t have one.

Obviously, I got the pool and house back when my ex-husband decided to move on. So I said to Fr. Anthony, “I already gave it up once. I don’t want to give it up again.”

He thought for a moment and then he said– knowing how much I was enjoying surfing at the time, “What if God asks you to give up your pool for say, the ocean?”

I have been sitting with that question since he asked it. I have no answers and I have also learned in these years that I don't always have the answers. I might get some answers at some point while others I am apparently supposed to ponder.

However, Friday we learned that the Jesuits are leaving our church because there aren’t enough of them now to staff it. While part of me is not entirely surprised and I knew the day would come when our pastor, who married Greg and I, would be moved, I am still feeling a sense of loss.

It was because of someone telling me to find a Jesuit church, explaining that they are different than the run-of-the-mill Archdiocesan-run churches that I started going to Immaculate Conception in the first place. The priests are different, more open to meeting people where they are at, inviting you in no matter who you are. But what was most important for me was their focus on Ignatian Spirituality that has taught me so much about prayer and listening for God in all that’s around me.

Not just did Greg and I marry at this church by Fr. Broussard, a Jesuit, our previous pastor let me start the divorced women’s group when I moved back here and joined the church. I learned so much from that group of women and I’m so grateful for that experience. Plus, it was during that time that I met Greg and church became our Saturday night date night– some time with God to think, dinner, and usually a little touring around Albuquerque.

The pandemic had already changed our routine and I’m still not quite show how that will shake out. But after feeling sad and angry that these priests who have taught me so much are going to be leaving and that going there won’t be the same, I thought of Fr. Anthony.

“What if God asked you to give up the pool for, say, the ocean?”

Sometimes you’re asked to give up something for something greater.

The change won’t occur until January 1 and Fr. Broussard will be with us until June. Greg and I will remain attending the church until Fr. Broussard leaves. After that, as Greg said, “The interviews will begin” of where we go next.

But there is a caveat to this that I have to remember and keep at the forefront of my mind when I get upset about it– I don’t know what’s ahead for my own life. Something greater. Maybe that means we won’t be able to attend mass there on weekends. I can speculate on some good things that I would like to happen, but I try to keep those to myself as I work toward them.

No matter what, there always will be sadness. But there also always will be something greater. As I grieve this loss, I need to keep that something greater with me. And hold on for yet another ride of change ahead.

Authenticity

I’ve always tried to be me and to show my life as it on social media. I believe that has been to my detriment in some way as I haven’t gathered up the followers like many people do. But I have always believed that it’s most important that you show who you truly are because an “act” as it is is hard to keep up. And I would much rather people meet me in person and say that I am how I present myself to be rather than talk behind my back that without a trove of filters, I don’t look the same.

For a long time I have tried to hide various aspects of my backyard. Yes, I have a pool, and, yes, I have great patio furniture. But I also have a huge pole that brings (or used to bring in the case of the telephone) cable and power to the homes at the end of my block. My house was built in the 1950s and there’s not much I can do it about. Still, I don’t often photograph sunsets because, well, there’s the pole front and center. I’m trying to embrace the pole in some way and I finally gave up on trying to hide my neighbors’ satellite dish (although we have gotten better about making sure my head hides it).

The pool deck is filled with cracks and no matter how many times you fill them and paint over them, they come back. I can’t change these things nor can I change various things about my own appearance that I don’t like.

Yet I also know that by presenting myself as I am and who I am, is more meaningful in the long run. My hope is that one thing that will come out of this pandemic is that people realize anyone of us can make things appear as something they aren’t. What’s harder is to let go of those imperfections in life that make us and our world around us truly stand out.

As our world becomes increasingly visual and– in the current moment, separate, but together– connecting with others is about showing who we really are.