An Open Letter to Californians. To All Americans.

There occur, in times of great transition, events which necessitate the passing of a baton, from those who have endeavored to carry it with the utmost pride and courage, to others of us who may not be ready to, or want to receive it.  Now is such a time.  It is April of the year 2011, and the walls of American education have been torn down, brick by brick, plank by plank, and child by child.

With the erection of the walls of the first tiny schoolhouse in this country, raised with it were hopes and expectations for our children, our communities, our states, and this country.  Prior to this monumental moment, education had been available only to a relative handful of the most privileged.  Out of this handful came many who remain today in our consciousness, in the pages of our history books, and embedded in the fabric of our culture.  And in the time that followed, as schoolhouses sprouted up across the plains, our collective consciousness expanded exponentially, creating a culture of understanding, intelligence, and innovation.

Today, in a country built by these very souls, powered by these very minds, education is dismissed as a luxury, and teachers treated as single-minded opportunists.  Local and federal municipalities expunge education dollars from budgets without the slightest hesitation, creating irrelevant and personal justifications even as the line items vanish.  Citizens ignore initiatives created with the sole intention of providing needed funding for the continued education of our children, even as they embrace bonds to build sports stadiums, entire communities giddy with the excitement of a small child on Christmas morning.  Meanwhile, it is expected that education will continue as if nothing has occurred, as teachers are dismissed or stripped of their rights taken without deliberation or rational thought, schools are closed, programs are cut, and class sizes are increased.

We have spoken out, and raised our voices in unison.  Our screams have gone unheeded.  Maybe we did not scream loudly enough.  Maybe they chose to ignore us.  We cannot know.  Nor can we go back, start over, and try again.  We have only one choice, and that is to move forward.

And so I ask you, as human beings and as members of this national and global community, to look back over your shoulder, reach out, and take the baton.  Take it from those who have long carried it, and run with compassion and purpose.  WE are the last remaining hope for salvaging education in this country.  Whether you have a child in school today is of no consequence.  This country and the citizens contained within are our collective responsibility.  WE are OUR responsibility.

There is no miracle on the horizon.  The sweat of those who have tried dampens the brows of us all.  Our collective limbs tremble with exhaustion from the effort already expended by the courageous.  It is time for us all, in the immortal words of an educator, to stand and deliver.  Or stand and watch as the final dismantling takes place.

Do not look back, ask why, or seek to undo.  The past cannot be undone.  Look forward instead.  Ask what CAN be done.  Seek solutions.  Be courageous.  Look where no one has looked before.  Trust yourselves, your instincts, and your love for your communities.  Get involved!  Join the PTA.  Send letters to your local politicians.  Talk to your communities.  Engage your local businesses.  Offer to help your local schools -  ASK them what you can do.  EVERYONE has something to offer, from open hearts and creative minds, to strong arms and legs, to a wadded up $5 bill stuck at the bottom of a long forgotten coat pocket.

Create the future. Do it now.  For, if not us, then who?  And if not today, then when?

My Letter to the Superintendent

Dear Superintendent Carrizosa.


I am a mom, a PTA leader, a community member, a BAFA volunteer and committee member, and a Learning professional. My family has been a part of the Burbank community for 10 1/2 years, and my daughter is a sixth grader at Jordan Middle School, having begun her years of formal education at Roosevelt Elementary. I consider us very lucky indeed to have landed here - for which Disney deserves some credit - and I am proud to be a member of this community.


I am writing to you today as a human being who is passionately dedicated to education. I believe that education is powerful beyond measure, and sits at the root of all things on this planet of ours. It has the power to flourish our communities or destroy them, and we see the results of this time and time again.


On Saturday, February 2nd, my husband, my 11 year old daughter, and I attended the PTA-hosted Community Forum on Public Education. Listening to Mary Perry, Deputy Director of EdSource and amazing human being, speak about the realities of the funding of education in California was.....well, to say "eye-opening" would be a dire understatement. It was in fact earth shattering. It was terrifying. It was one hell of a wake up call. How anyone could have left that room without the will and desire to scream the truth from the rooftops completely eludes me. As horrendous as the state of education is today, at this moment, it pales in comparison to where we are headed.


This morning, I sat on a phone call with the leaders of Educate Our State as they discussed strategy to support Governor Brown's budget, specifically with regard to the temporary tax extensions. Mary had shared this information with us in the February meeting. I am embarrassed to say that, intelligent and aware as I may think I am, I fear I might have been one of those people decrying the Governor's efforts to "raise taxes" had I not been in the February 2nd meeting. It can be plain humbling to discover what you DON'T know, especially about the things that matter.


As of this morning's call, our legislature is five votes short of reaching the 2/3 approval required to put the Governor's initiative on a public ballot, and the early March deadline is rapidly approaching. I believe that we have a responsibility to get the word out, and to support the Governor's efforts. While this is a temporary measure, and perhaps serves merely to duck tape our walls together for a bit longer, without it, we are spiraling downward and the grade is steep beyond measure.


Please, Superintendent Carrizosa, visit the Educate Our State site, and look at what they're trying to do. Please consider getting this word out to as wide a net as you are able to cast. At the very least, please send your own letters to the legislature. They make it very easy, providing online templates. Your leadership has been clearly established here in Burbank, and you should know that those advocates of education in this community speak of you with only the highest regard and respect. They in fact genuinely like you, appreciate your presence in our community, and have great optimism about your contributions.


If there is anything I can personally do in our city to help YOU spread the word, please let me know. In the meantime, I am reaching out to our PTA and my local parents, Facebooking, Tweeting, blogging, and perhaps even ranting on occasion. I may even resort to flyers on doors this weekend. As "green" as that may not be, I suppose it's still one of the best ways to get information in front of people's eyes.


This is important. And difficult. Please help. I thank you, sir, for listening.


Most respectfully,
Karen Hohman Almeida
mother of Isabella Hohman Almeida
Burbank
http://www.congressweb.com/cweb2/index.cfm/siteid/educateourstate
www.educateourstate.org

Black Birds

The sky was a low slung canopy of ash and slate.  Yet off in the not too distant western sky, the sun beamed a fistful of rays toward earth, no doubt onto a cold gray ocean.

Overhead the sky filled with black birds.  Hundreds, their wings spread taut, sitting gently upon the zephyr.  They had appeared suddenly, hovering several seconds before banking off into the western sky.

Less than a half mile up the highway, just past the slow curve east, another flight of black wing birds clambered toward the ashen canopy.  It was again impossible to determine their origin.  Had they been on the ground, digging into the damp earth?  Behind the hill?  Without faltering, they too headed west. The car drew my eyes east, where lightning danced atop the distant hills.

The road through the far valley darkened with greater intensity, and the first few drops of water fell on the windshield.  They grew larger, more voluminous, and as I headed up the grade, I was engulfed in sheets of water.  I had just moments before been one of dozens climbing the hill.  Now, I could scarcely see past the hood of the car.  Hazy taillights and the faint outline of other wheeled tins hovered in front of me, as if in a dream.

I had slowed to a crawl, wondering if pulling off until the downpour had passed was remotely viable.  It was not.  The chances of moving more than a few inches in any direction other than forward suggested the certain anguish of scraping metal, in a place where getting out of the car held the promise of injury if not worse.

Passing Cars

It appears to be a normal thing, noticing with some regularity the state of oncoming traffic when travelling the freeway. This morning was no different. As I headed north on the 101 toward the hills of Thousand Oaks, I noted the rhythms of the southbound lanes; the knotted clusters of slow moving traffic, and the torrents of high speed vehicles when the knots loosed.

Today, though, I found myself marveling at them. The darting lime green bug festooned in lively advertising, the old battered pickup filled with random objects once someone’s dearest possessions, the convertibles, the wagons of numerous shapes and sizes, the ubiquitous SUVs. All of them in glorious flight toward the sunrise. I envied them. In that moment, they drew from deep within me a longing so great that tears welled softly in my eyes. They were the embodiment of a new day, of unfettered opportunities, of hope. They headed full tilt toward beginnings, as I headed in the opposite direction, toward life’s untidy middle.

How many times each day? How frequently could we catch ourselves envying others, yearning to start over, or longing to move toward the sun, eager for the newness of the unknown? How can we cease this measurement of our lives against the perceived richness of others’? Life’s middle is as alive and affirming as any beginning. It is rich with action and emotion, and rife with pleasure, its wrinkles as affirming as the moments of calm predictability and enlightenment. Yet our breathing becomes shallow, our vision narrows, and our desire moves away from our present, toward a past or future.

Tomorrow I will wake to the early morning blackness of pre-dawn, and I will choose. I will decide that my life is ample, is enough. I will decide that those driving toward the sunrise are only, in fact, driving toward the sunrise. I will accept that when they arrive, they will find themselves in the same untidy middle. At least for today.

What will you do?

Heading Home

Home beckons, and I struggle to heed its call.  Delightful days in perfect places, and it saddens me to leave them behind, even as we plan our next return.  Packing our belongings, we make three stops before heading south.

First, one final visit to the beach of treasures, where we collect rocks of many colors and sizes.

Second, there is an elephant seal vista just twelve miles north of us.  Paying no attention to it on yesterday's drive north, the elephant seals on the beach piqued our interest on the drive back.  We arrive just, the kind gentlemanly docent informs a couple standing next to us, as a thoroughly exhausted male arrives from Alaska.  We watch his trip from the water to the sandy bed.  Slow at first, after a rest, he hauls himself all the way up onto the beach, where he joins at least a dozen others, already sleeping soundly.  Soon he is sleeping deeply, engulfed in the pile, as if he's been there all along.  Just up the beach, the younger seals, who have clearly already rested, are playing loudly.  Their screams of delight vary from adolescent barks to deep, baritone throaty calls.  They wrestle in the water and swim through the breaking waves.  We drop what cash we have into the small plastic box, hoping that we make a difference in the continued protection and health of these magnificent creatures.

Third, we stop again at Cambria Coffee, for one more cup of heaven, and a pound to take home.  We promise the kind young people at the counter that we will see them on our next visit.

South we head, with visits first to Morro Bay, then to Avila Beach and Pismo, and then home.  Morro seems a brief drive, and we stop for a visit to the Garden Gallery at the beach.  This place drew me in during our last visit to the Rock.  Once within its wood walls and outside spaces, I find it difficult to leave.  "Here, look at this.  This is beautiful."  How many times do we utter these words during our brief visit?  I leave wanting to head home, dig up my back yard, and somehow replicate these spaces.

It is now noon, and we head down the coast toward Avila.  Coming through the forested road off the highway, we emerge into the sunlight-dotted town of brightly colored buildings.  We park and head to Hula Hut, where we have been anticipating a lovely, fresh lunch.  We are not disappointed.  We sit at a round table by the window.  It is quieter here than I expected, but more lively than during our April visit.  The beach is filled with families, the shore alive with children on boogie boards standing in the surf.  We sit for a while, digging in the sand, writing in our journals, and wondering at the possibilities of staying here.  One more cup of local coffee for the road, and we are off.

A final stop down the frontage road at Pismo, where Isabella loves to roll down the small soft dune beneath the pier.  From here, we can see the little Inn that served as home our last trip, the crashing waves beneath it.  A rest, a few trinkets to take home, and we haul our sandy selves into the car.  I forego the coast this homeward trip, heading instead inland and through the Santa Ynez valley toward Santa Barbara.  These hills and fields feel worlds away, which is just where I prefer to be for as long as possible.

North Along the Forest By the Sea

We sleep in.  Perhaps a little late, but who's keeping track.  Perfect cups of locally roasted coffee and hot cocoa from Cambria Coffee in hand, we head north.  A day of driving, north along the Pacific. I remember these soft rolling hills, like a gentle roller coaster.  Past San Simeon, past Las Piedras Blancas, where the beckoning lighthouse is sadly closed to us.  Soon after, the road veers right, the gently sloping hills giving way to rock and deep green forest.  And so begins the first climb.  I remember this road - the sheer cliffs to the left and the steep faces to the right, the rocks threatening to fall without warning.  Sudden breaks in the rock reveal the lush green of Los Padres.  How have I forgotten this forest at the cliffs?  It is breathtaking.  I follow it for 67 miles, occasionally behind cars in no hurry, other times at a healthy clip when landscape and traffic permit.


Somewhere along the way, we find the Peace Mobile. Our stops never coincide, and so the best I can manage are a couple of well-timed honks and flashes of the universal peace sign.  I would like to tell him thank you, hug him, encourage him to keep going.  FollowYourHeartActionNetwork.

I fully expect patches of newly surfaced road, given the inevitable erosion by weather and time.  But somewhere halfway through the climb, there appear two traffic lights, miles apart, where the cliffs have eroded to a single lane.  AND, a sudden proliferation of man and machine of giant proportions - where a bridge-building is taking place on the sheer rock adjacent to the ocean. Wow.


Soon we are in Big Sur.  I have by now been fully absorbed by the landscape.  Relaxing completely at the start of the ascent, I have climbed the rock face - one handhold, one foothold at a time.  Slowly, with purpose, but with the rock.  I round a dark curve.  There is a Henry Miller library? But how wonderful!! And for how long?  My family wishes to push on.  We pass Nepenths, sitting atop the cliffs inviting the ocean to make the climb.  "On the way back," I promise myself, continuing on.  Esalen pops up on the left - the long private drive down toward the ocean still, even today, feels mysterious.  Ventana comes and goes on the right.  It is different here.  I don't recall the presence of structures at the road fork.  We pass through a series of very small towns, and through three hours of time.  We stop to fill the car in a quaint preamble to Carmel - a teeny, old-fashioned gas station and general store.

The Carmel Valley unrolls to the east.  The loud presence of civilization is again jarring, but I am comforted knowing that the sea and shops are nestled just to the west.  And so we head to the sea.  It has been some thirty years, and the influx of people has busted the little town at its seams.  Still, it feels somehow intact.  We park in a quiet lot and venture northwest into town.  The shops are hundreds, but we are hungry.  Lunch at Nico proves to be an adventure in perfection, as with every other meal on this trip.  It is a small Italian caffe, and it feels just that far away for me.  A plate of luscious mediterranean cheeses, locally grown artichokes, and kalamata olives.  Fresh baked focaccia - airy and light - with a paste of olive oil, garlic, and fresh & sundried tomatoes.  Gorgeous.  A single glass of a local pinot noir.  Glorious.  Fresh baked thin crust pizzas - margerita and vegetarian, and cold, bottled water.  We are nourished.


We wander past the stores, delighting in the windows.  The shops give way to Inns, beckoning and quaint, which in turn give way to beautiful houses - the beach neighborhood.  We snap pictures of homes, gardens, streets.  For the first time in years of travel, my husband agrees with me.  "I could live here." he says.  Yes, so could I.  We perch ourselves atop a high narrow dune of the most perfect soft white sand.  Isabella rolls down the hill, befriending a passing dog - a most handsome black hound by the name of Eddie.  We find this uproariously funny - all three of us.

Too soon, it is time to head south - to navigate the Pacific back to Cambria.  We stop at the Mission to snap a few pictures.  It really is breathtakingly beautiful - the simple structures and the wild gardens.






The drive south is quiet, and the three hours pass too quickly.  We listen to Gilberto Gil  - somehow perfect for the scenery.  This time, I stop at Nepenthe, and we meander through the Phoenix bookstore.  Finally pulling my family back through its doors, we climb the stairs to the restaurant, stare out at the sea, and contemplate a snack perched atop the world.  Honestly, we are still full from lunch, and so we bid Nepenthe goodbye and press on, Buena Vista Social Club crooning in the background, home to Moonstone Beach.

Licorice Cows and Butterscotch Deer

A free week, unanticipated, joyous minutes of freedom, and another road trip.  This time, we unpack in Cambria.  A simple, quaint Inn on Moonstone Beach.  Here the water laps gingerly onto the stones.  There are no sharp, craggy cliffs against which an angry ocean can ply itself over and over. A lone cypress sits across the small road.  At the end of the boardwalk, just where it disappears into a small stairway down to the sea, one comes upon harbor seals, sea lions, and perhaps a sea otter, languishing upon the rock tableaus.  The sky is not simply overcast. In rich contrast to our previous visit, the air is heavy with mist. The dampness is palpable.  Is it possible to feel it at bone level - like one can the deep cold?  Small tousle-headed birds of rich graphite wander among the chairs here on the patch of grass.  The adirondacks are empty, all but the bright yellow one which holds me.

The drive north so different this time. Only momentarily did I find the sense of being absorbed by the hills.   Only an instant, a split second. To my core, and then gone. There was no experience of being alone with the earth. Still I marveled at the colors. So muted, darkened by the clouds and mist. So verdant every one. Sporadic cows, of tans, chocolate browns, and deep, rich licorice black. Dotting the hillsides in small clumps or standing alone.  Along a small road off the highway, two light butterscotch deer. From where? Perhaps a trick of the eyes, and in fact small calves grazing the edges of the meadow.  Gone from sight. The hills erupt here and there with rich green mounds, thickets of trees, rugged grey tangles. Sigh. Is the call quieter now, or am I simply not listening?

We trot up to the treasure trove of moonstones across from the San Simeon Pines, eager to immerse ourselves again in the heaven-on-earth rich mounds of polished stones along the water. The tide is out, the sand dry. The shoreline is littered with the carnage of crabs, seaweed, and small creatures now filling the bellies of sated seagulls. The gulls are still gathering just down the beach, scavenging on even more. We sit for a few moments in the sand. No magic overcomes me.  Tossing a small handful of hopeful stones in my bag, we vow to return later, or perhaps early in the morning when the tide has risen and ebbed back into itself.  Only in the dampness of the sea does one see clearly the rich treasures gleaming.

In the late afternoon, we finally venture away from the beach and into the small town of Cambria. While we wait for the dinner hour to begin, we wander into the welcoming doors of Heart's Ease, caroming from room to room, smell to smell, perfect object to perfect object. Walls of candles, next to walls of books I dare not stop to examine. In the next room, glass jars of all sizes filled with herbs, peppers, seeds, potpourri, and teas. I could spend hours on the small shelved wall, and harvest hundreds of small bags of fragrance and flavor. Isabella rounds the corner behind me. "Oh, Mom. You could stay here forever, huh?" Indeed, child. Out back we find a wild path of herbs, flowers, vines, and heaven knows what else.  Gladiolas are twelve feet tall. Grape vines with the hugest leaves I've ever seen. The signs promise faeries, exacting pledges of kindness in exchange for permission to roam. As I wander further, I am suddenly small - perhaps a faerie. For how else could these simple plants loom so high above me?

Dinner at Linn's - a perfect meal, a perfect glass of Ventana pinot noir. Sheer perfection. Panko fried chicken, grilled vegetables, smashed potatoes. Fresh focaccia with charred bits of garlic dipped in fresh olallieberry jam.  One piece of warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Sigh.

Now, sitting here in my yellow chair, it is not quite dark, and the lights are just coming on. We had a lovely walk after dinner, dancing with the incoming tide just long enough to collect a handful of shiny stones. We meandered the boardwalk, watching the sea lions. The surfers gathered down the beach where perfect sets broke onto the shore 8 times out of 10. But those two sets offered a few seconds nirvana on the wave.  It grows darker, and the lights brighter. No part of me wants to go inside, despite the cold. The sea is louder now - the tide having reached the rock. It is a slate grey. I notice that the cypress actually has a smaller partner beside it.  How did I miss that? "Cypress, Isabella. C-y-p-r-e-s-s." I explained this to her because I want her to know them when we drive the road between Carmel and Monterey tomorrow - when we stop at Nepenthe in Big Sur. I hope she will appreciate their beauty.

Sitting here, across from the sea, I can feel my wings relaxing into my body. The chattering in my head has quieted, and I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Phone calls returned, texts sent. I struggle to keep any sense of time at bay. "When will we be there?" "Isn't it taking longer this time?" Why do you ask?  I do not know.  I do not care.  I have left my world of the constraints of minutes, of the lines of day and night. In this space, boundaries blur until they are non-existent. No shoulds, no oughtn'ts. Only "shall we."  Only, "yes."