Mrs. Gayl Teller

Yesterday, I was able to interview the poet Laurette who came to our school with a group of poets from Nassau County for the school newspaper. English teachers had posted signs outside their doors that read "The Poets are Coming, the Poets are Coming," and come, indeed, they did.

"Fabled Foreign Tongues"

Cuando las luces apagaron en el parque, nos sentaron en el oscuro y hablaron sobre tiempo y espacio, y las barreras que nos enfrentamos, si? Lately, on the way home from seminary in the morning, we've been listening to the CDs Joana supplies - the Beatles, Panic at the Disco. Needless to say, the sun rising up behind the car and five Mormon kids (okay, minus Hertz and Gracias, who refuse to sing) singing at the top of their lungs on the way to high school, is empowering and wonderful. I think we could conquer the world if we wanted to. "You are at the top of my lungs, drawn to the ones who never yawn." :) Unfortunately, I can't collect my thoughts, which means I'll have to chuck them at you in random bursts. Today is General Conference, which means that we'll have to be changed and dressed in half an hour, and the pink bathroom is still covered in the bleach I'm meant to clean off. The joys of eleventh grade mean I'll have to work if I ever want to do well, and that sounds awful and hard. It's funny to think that I've been shying away from work for most of my life, and now it's going to hit me with a bang! on top of the head. As the Spanish would say, un pum! Right now, pandora is set to Hundred Hardingtonar. The music is haunting, building up in my center, and the flute (I think) threatens to sink into bone. I love the feeling of something being so beautiful that all its thoughts and sounds and feelings collect themselves in your throat until all you can do is breathe in and out. Ay, to be young again. Today, we will go to Conference, and tonight we will have a tea party of extraordinary proportions. The international tea time is, however, four o'clock. Have a good day, think and pray. Wonder at the rain and the clouds and the way the wind moves through the trees.

A Heeled Chance Encounter

Yesterday, I got stitches on the back of my ankle*. After the events of the day transpired, mainly getting cut by the door and having a wonderful buffet lunch at an Indian restaurant on "Main Street," celebrating my sister's birthday, I realized that all I felt was angry. Angry with myself for wearing flip-flops instead of sneakers, angry with my doctor who had me sit there in the waiting room and then in the examining room for a long, long time, and angry with the back of my foot for not holding out as well as I thought it should. I now know that I shouldn't blame the back of my foot. He was just doing what the back-of-your-foots are supposed to do, you know? What was he supposed to do, anyway - use his brute strength to shield me from the heavy, dark-wood door? And the doctor, who was probably checking up on the kid the next room over, the cute, little one who'd been playing with the blocks for a while. How could I possibly be angry at him? He was kind, asked about our family, poured liquid all over my foot, and then sent us quickly to the plastic surgeon to get me stitched up. The doctor, he's a good guy. And the plastic surgeon, who looked tired and worn out and was ready for the Sabbath, but still made time to see us. The stitching wasn't so bad, but the numbing needles hurt like crazy and I couldn't stop myself from crying. I think I needed a cry, and I think that's okay. And so, I've decided that in my need to be angry instead of scared, that I was just angry that it was stupid. It was stupid that I caught my foot on the back of a door and needed stitches, stupid that it happened two weeks before our half-marathon, stupid that I didn't make the card for my sister's birthday before it happened. And you know? It was a real relief to know that all these people love me and that the doctors are trying their best to make sure I heal. And it was a blessing the cut didn't reach my Achilles tendon, which is, coincidentally, the same kind of blessing I got that the cut in my hand came so close to the artery but didn't hit it. The stitches are water-proof so my morning routine doesn't have to change, and the plastic surgeon says I'm ready to run if I want. So now I get to limp around a little bit, enjoy showing my friends my battle wound, and say, "Ah, yea, it was nothing," with a look of great courage on my face. I'm feeling prettty lucky. :) *I don't know why, but these last two posts have been about medically-related unhappiness and I am sorry.