Current Events – Nastasya Parker

Never Said That Before

This Week’s Bit of String: Another Year 11 group flies the nest

“Miss, what are you going to do without us, when we’re on study leave?” It’s the last English lesson with bottom-set Year 11s, and a particularly loquacious boy is curious.

I assure him the Year 10s will keep me busy, and he nods sagely, “More grey hairs for you, then.”

I had worked hard with this little fellow, insisting he can absolutely pass, if he focuses. Many times per lesson, redirecting him toward tasks he’s somehow oblivious to, reminding him to face front and stop making silly faces for attention. I joked last week I’ve named a couple of my grey hairs after him, and I guess that made him proud.

*Some unique and sometimes broken pieces*

“Will you sign my shirt on leaving day? And write about the grey hairs?” he asks.

Sure, kiddo. So long, and thanks for all the grey hairs.

We have another seven hot and tiring weeks of school left after the half-term, but the Year 11 low-set English class I’ve supported for the last two years will only be in for exams, and a couple of revision sessions.

It’s been a journey. There’s still a way to go before most of them reach a destination, but progress comes in many forms. And they are who they are, each with very distinct personalities, strengths, and stresses. The exam results won’t be stellar, but hopefully they’ll take some encouragement with them and I’ll certainly take some tales with me.

At the beginning of their Year 10, I had to request of one boy: “Please don’t stick my highlighter up your nose.”

Note the personal pronoun here. He had refused to produce his own equipment, I loaned him some of mine, and he treated it like a preschooler might.

However, during our final English classes in Year 11, several students used borrowed highlighters and pens and classroom glue sticks to build towers and balance them. This was while the teachers were imparting strategies for taking exam papers, but hey. Personal growth!

This is the class with the Trio of Fortitude. One member of the Trio came into school every day but one this term, while up till now he averaged two days off per week. Again: progress.

Breaking Records

One of my dad’s most famous sayings is “I’ve never said that before.” He relishes using it to mark life’s many unexpected encounters.

To me, this is a fun way to notice stories. It can denote unusual occurrences, or different ways of looking at the everyday.

*It was a particularly stressful term in various respects. Here’s some medicinal purple I found.*

Each year group I work with spawns plenty of things I’ve never had to say before. It can be exhausting, but on the bright side it means my job continues to be interesting. It’s 11 years now since I was helping a group revise for GCSEs and had to dispel a 16-year-old’s notion by saying, “Women don’t get pregnant from dildos.”

In one of my revision groups just this past week, I worked with our semi-reformed partial attender from the Trio of Fortitude. He’s a clever but uninspired boy, all scrawny angles and tattered uniform and imperious glances. Also in the group was a mischievous, elfin, blue-haired girl who has been a selective mute for her entire school career.

They kept kicking at a chair between them until she managed to trap his legs against the table with it. He complained of having his bones crushed, so I wrote on the whiteboard: No bone-crushing allowed.

“It’s official now. You’ll have to stop.”

She let the chair go with a disappointed sigh. The boy said, “What if she amputates my leg next?”

So I added to the board: And no nonconsensual amputations. I’d never said that before. Hurrah for some more special memories.

Progress is as Progress Does

For one of the very last lessons on Friday, the teacher brought the group out to the field to play rounders. I sat in the shade with a few others, including a particularly childish fellow who didn’t want to play sport, but was clearly bored.

He complained about the dewy grass. “Miss, my bum’s wet. My bum’s wet, Miss. Miss—”

*I do believe they’ll all find their path eventually.*

“I heard you the first time. Thank you for keeping us informed.”

Maybe there should be a category of “I never wanted to hear about that” to go with “I never said that before.”

Less than ten minutes before the lesson ended, on his last day of secondary school, this same 16-year-old came out with: “I should probably learn to tie my shoes.”

There was something I might help with. I spent 2 years trying to help his class remember themes from Lord of The Flies and identify personification, and remember the Poor Law of 1834 which motivated Dickens to write A Christmas Carol… The whole time we worked on that, this boy and a few others could still barely construct sentences. Standardised exams leave no time to teach basics.

But on the damp grass while others hollered over rounders hits, I helped him with his laces and he did seem to get the hang of the first knot.

They know they’ve annoyed me sometimes, but that I always try to help, and in that way perhaps we’ve both achieved something. They learn to open up a little, and I am reminded to count small signs of progress.

What are some ways you’ve made progress lately? Have you had occasion to say something you never said before?

Rooms Like Open Books

This Week’s Bit of String: A broken magnet and psycho kitty paintings

My last post ended on somewhat of a cliffhanger when our catsitter had to cancel. As with writing and other creative endeavours, I couldn’t plan for every contingency.

Now we’re back from our travels. In the meantime, our house was inhabited by my husband’s co-worker, her husband, and their two little kids. Like a tantalising story or at least a sitcom, their emergency of home renovations taking a turn aligned with our small crisis, and my husband managed the last minute arrangements on the Sunday. I finished my cleaning and caught my flight, rising at 3:30 a.m. Monday, while he joined me on Thursday before Good Friday and the other family moved in.

*I hope the kids weren’t old enough to fathom my magnetic poetry (a weird mashup of motherhood and Shakespearean sets).*

There was little time to childproof, or to worry how Obie the cat would tolerate sharing his home with children. Obie was very happy to see me on my return, but not desperately so. I think he was fine.

In the recycling, there are boxes from children’s chocolate Easter eggs and construction toys. I washed the sheets and replaced the towels. The only sign of young guests inside was a broken magnet. I have some shaped like tiny jam jars, perfectly tactile and definitely something I’d have reached for as a kid. Only, they haven’t been moved around much lately, and so when it was grabbed, the jar broke off. I’m disappointed for the children that they didn’t have a better experience with the magnets.

I wonder what memories they’ll take with them from here. What images will stick in their minds as they grow up, long after they’ve forgotten the circumstances of why they stayed? At least they’re probably too young to notice the bedroom paint jobs we never got round to updating, or the cracked kitchen tiles we’re too scared to lift up. Goodness knows what can of worms that would open.

Detail Selection

My family did a housesit/ catsit when I was little. We stayed at the new pastor’s house, with a big black and white cat called Asia. I remember lounging about in the living room patting Asia and listening to my new favourite tape on our brown Fisher Price cassette player. It was the Animal Alphabet tape, with a song for an animal starting with each letter of the alphabet.

(Yes, even Q: quahog. And X was a roundup of Latin animal names, a very catchy ditty.)

*Hello, Officer. I’d like to report an anti-cat hate crime.*

They had a sunny living room, whereas we rented a log end of a farmhouse which was rather dark. And they had a swingset. There was also a secret passage in the house, which we later pretended was Underground Railroad-related, although it probably was more modern than that.

I’ve no idea why my family of 6 were chosen for this job, because in addition to minding the house and Asia the cat, at least some of the pastor’s 6 kids were also there. I was 5 years old, meaning my youngest sister would have been an infant. It’s a bit of a mystery what we were doing there, but sounds and images remain in my memory. I can see why I occasionally opted to hang out with the cat, though, rather than 3-9 other kids at a time.

Packed with History

While we were away visiting my family just now, we helped with some sorting and packing, and also with house hunting. My husband and I aren’t doing the moving, but my family’s search for a new house—to meet the needs of my parents as they approach their 70s, my autistic cousin, and my neurodivergent youngest sister—has been quite consuming.

The first house they looked at, about a month ago, had 21 rooms. It was massive, built in 1910 and kept in the same family until now. We went along for my parents’ third viewing, last Friday. The rooms are filled with dark antique furniture and floor-to-ceiling metal safes. The extra furniture, in turn, is filled with vintage toys and books.

We saw broken baby dolls and Little People playground sets. Plus, the above paintings of cats which were clearly painted by dog people ascribing the wickedest intent to the feline species.

We also found that the house had maybe the original wiring (called knob and tube). The windows need replacing, the external paint contained lead so probably the internal paint did too, and the bathrooms were so dirty it seemed they’d need gutting. Outside, a covered in-ground pool was buried in dead leaves. Once it had been surrounded by a large patio and lawn chairs, with lantern posts now cracked, and a listing playhouse in a far corner.

It saddened me that no one could halt the decay of what must have been a beloved family spot. How did the late antiques dealer owner feel when he collected rare pieces but the grown children never helped maintain the home?

For me, traveling to see my family and assist with whatever I can is a bit tiring, sure, but it’s imperative. I hope international chaos or health crises never stop me from making the journey. Especially since my family did find a house to buy while we were there—practically all in one day. It came on the market Easter Monday, we all viewed, and the offer was in by Monday evening.

It’s light and spacious, built in 1993. It has fewer than 21 rooms, with some open plan which will be great for our lively gatherings while reserving quiet areas, too. There’s even a swingset and slide in the yard, viewable from the wraparound deck. 5-year-old me would have liked it as much my current self is eager to lend a hand turning it into a home.

What resonates when we peek into others’ houses can raise new questions while also illuminating our own thoughts and concerns. Are there random places that stand out in your memory and may have inspired your creativity?

Stretching the Span

This Week’s Bit of String: A stand-up concert

On Thursday, we ventured to Bristol for a concert. Out on a schoolnight! Our future daughter-in-law recommended Leith Ross, a Canadian alternative, folk-tinged singer to me and I’d enjoyed her latest album, I Can See the Future.

My husband and I were older than most of the crowd. The enthusiastic audience of two or three hundred were mainly dressed in a fusion of Bohemian and grunge, probably in their early twenties. Unlike them, we weren’t used to gigs where you gather together standing on the floor. We’ve only attended concerts and shows in theatres before.

The format presented a little challenge for rather little me. I’m only 5’2. It kept me busy though, shifting so I could see. I do a lot of walking, and my job often has me running around, but standing is different. My feet felt lumpy after a while, as if I couldn’t press them flat to the earth, as if the bones had been scrambled into the wrong places.

Luckily, the great music distracted me, and the vibes in Trinity church were excellent. I kept observing my fellow music fans lit by the stage’s residual glow. All these young people stood watching, listening, reflecting, maybe holding a loved one or swaying, rarely looking at their phones.

Impressive, really. I’m not brilliant at stopping to absorb. My mind races with to-do lists, and in fact I did some mental planning for this post.

Curiosity Vs. Distraction

The concert fell on World Book Day. At school, registration groups decorated doors like book covers in spectacular displays. For the first few minutes of each lesson, teachers were supposed to read out a section of Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” building to its shocking finish during the last lesson.

A good idea, but it seemed students in my lessons, even in top sets, weren’t paying attention. Hardly any discussion sprang up. The lack of curiosity and engagement astounded me.

*I did take a pause last week to play Pooh-sticks and admire this twisty trunk on a sunny day.*

Apparently, though, the most negative feedback the Literacy Coordinator received over the short story was from a teacher who said: “The students had a lot of questions after. It would be better if the literacy task didn’t require follow-up.”

Really? For just one day of the year, couldn’t we dispense with rote, frantic study for exams and engage in some curiosity?

Some see inquisitiveness as a deficit in attention; a propensity for distraction. But it’s actually a sign of engagement. It just might be an engagement which doesn’t fully align with others’ plans.

Anyway, after my worries about our students apathy to books and stories, I felt reassured to see the young people at the concert engaging and responding.

Limits and Deficits

There’s probably more I could learn from them. This last month, in addition to writing in my novel, editing the last one, and critiquing other writers’ work, I’ve been crafting a gothic short story for a competition. It’s been particularly challenging to coalesce my ideas with enough suspense in less than 1000 words. I rewrote it three times before even finishing a single draft.

Nothing wrong with starting over and trying new perspectives. I’d get excited about each new idea—and then the effort of concocting just the first couple of paragraphs all over again would have me swooning into the arms of the Internet and whatever recent doom was within scrolling view.

I may need to build my stamina for both standing, and creating. I’m so used to a faster pace, squeezing my writing into little bits and bobs of time, I hardly know what to do when a more extended period is available.

Just as Leith Ross’s music made standing well worth while, music can help me focus when I’m writing as well. Leith Ross particularly sings, in a poetic, evocative way, about overcoming grief for the past in order to live in the present. Her love songs celebrate moments magnified by who we spend them with, and she often ponders the essence of home.

Her song “Grieving” has helped me through the past six months or so. I highly recommend a listen.

“But grief is love run backwards, so we love them better then,
And we love them with forgiveness, all because we know the end.
So I never will stop grieving everything that’s yet to die;
I think I’ll love after I’m dead, and I’ll grieve while I’m alive.”

Surely that’s one of the best reasons to linger in the present. What do you do to stretch your attention span and keep focused?

New Year, New Doom

This Week’s Bit of String: Things that growl in the night

3 a.m. The cat is finished napping. Although unlike myself, Obie is naturally blessed with an ability to see (and hunt) in the dark, he doesn’t like to go downstairs alone. So every time he wants something downstairs, he scratches the wardrobe or mews chidingly, and I walk down with him. He goes to his food dish and I turn promptly around.

But then he starts growling at the back door. He makes those feline siren calls, starting low and building to a high whine. Then come the full-throated snarls and hisses. Something out there, through the full-length double-glazed glass, terrifies him. My husband and I don’t see anything, but I am shaking violently, thoroughly spooked.

While awake for ages afterward, I didn’t know exactly what I was afraid of. What could realistically have been out there that would pose a threat to us inside? An axe murderer? Maybe the proximity of another living being’s terror was enough to drive my own without any logical reason.

Scrolling, Scrolling, Scrolling

It wouldn’t have helped that I was anxious anyway. I’d been scrolling social media before bed and even during the night while already awake. Flinching past the attempted justifications for violence against immigrants and protesters in Minneapolis, worrying about the tensions over Greenland, horrified by the cost in human lives fighting for freedom in Iran.

2026, what is WRONG with you? I came into it excited, albeit cautiously. Looking forward to visits with my family, to working hard at writing, and especially to my own kiddo’s wedding in the summer. One reason I’m obsessing about the news is because I fear being separated.

*A beautiful place: the Minneapolis skyline viewed from its famous Spoonbridge and Cherry at the Sculpture Garden on the Loring Greenway*

The US is planning to tighten entry restrictions even for tourists. To visit with me, my husband will have 5 years’ worth of his social media scrutinised. What if he liked a meme that hurts their feelings and they don’t let him in?

I promise you, I know how fortunate I am. My life ticks along, even if sometimes on about 3 hours of sleep per night. Our house doors are sturdy and the country where I’m an immigrant hasn’t completely turned against me. But awareness of privilege doesn’t ease fear.

When I’m scrolling through news and social media, I’m not seeking personal affirmation. I’m looking for a sign that truth and empathy are winning. I crave universal agreement on what we see with our own eyes: that a human being with different beliefs or skin colour is still a human being, that a woman turning her car, maybe scared because some swearing paramilitary-looking dude was trying to force open her door, did not deserve to be executed.

Looking Ahead

We’re not going to get that, though, are we? A reasonable, empathetic consensus about human rights. It weighed heavily on me last week, exacerbated by the fact that a couple of students at work are so cruel and thoughtless, they’d fit right in with the Republican cabinet.

Another little group of students had asked me about guns violence in America. Kids will often make that association, and they want to know if I witnessed any. No, but there was a shooting at my school a couple years after I left, and another shooting widowed my sister’s best friend.

“How do you go out over there when you could get shot?” one of the British kids asked.

All I could say was, “You have to still live your life.”

We’ll vote for change and share the truth and advocate for empathy. In the meantime, I’ll plant my little crops, the first wave of which sits in compostable trays all over my dining room table. I’ll work on my writing, and I’ll try to read more than scroll. Panic doesn’t serve any use, and as my cat proved, it is infectious.

I’m also making use of the somewhat hospitable British climate, where I can take walks and admire the shape of bare tree branches against the sky. My final recommendation is to take in some art. We went to the Wilson Gallery in Cheltenham. It has an exhibit on the Arts and Crafts movement, and the sight of beautifully polished wood grain soothes me like flowing water.

How are you ensuring fear doesn’t get the better of you?

Seven Wanders of 2025

Last year turned into a year somewhat on the go. Toward the end, I was traveling every 2-3 weeks. Even during term time! Paris, London, America, and then right back to supporting students on Monday morning. When it felt tiring, I pretended I was travelling for Successful Writer purposes, although it actually kind of slowed down my writing.

Where were your favourite adventures in the last year? If you weren’t able to go out and about much, what other sources of inspiration or invigoration did you find?

Bath, United Kingdom

In February, I took a day trip on the train down to Bath. I didn’t go into the ancient Roman sites this time, but walked to Victoria Park and worshiped the crocuses, walked along the busy weir, and of course visited Mr. B’s Emporium of Reading Delights, an absolute gem of an independent bookstore.

White River Junction, Vermont

During my October trip to see my family, I walked in the dark early mornings across one bridge and down another. The White River meets the Connecticut here, swirling into the border with New Hampshire, and train tracks pass, lined with colourful trees. The main streets of town have those square, flat buildings that remind me of Western movie sets, but lots of boutique shops inside, plus a Turkish cafe and a Cambodian sandwich shop. Most of all, this town is where my Grammy and Grandpa raised my dad and his older siblings, and where my siblings and I used to visit them, and I’d bring my own little Bear when they were young.

Ozleworth, Gloucestershire

We love this rural hamlet best in the cold clarity. It seems to pour icy blue sky into the saucer of the loping green fields. Smoke rises from cottage chimneys and you can see your breath inside the 12th century Church of St. Nicholas, which has a striking octagonal tower.

Paris

Although our reason for visiting Paris was bittersweet, we made the most of exploring the city. We scattered my aunt’s ashes in the Seine behind Notre Dame and wandered the alleys of the Marais. The next day, we walked down toward the Eiffel Tower, cutting through leafy squares between pretty vintage buildings with mansard windows and Invader street art mosaics.

London

Proof a city can be festive without snow. I went on a Christmas-hunting expedition at the end of November, hiking 13 miles around the capital in 8.5 hours. From Harrods to Kings Cross and St. Pancras train stations, to the Charles Dickens Museum and then the stunning shopfronts of New Bond Street, all fueled by gourmet hot chocolate to go from El & N, you could definitely say ChristMUSS was all around.

Mount Washington, New Hampshire

This feels like a bit of a cheat since much of this “wander” was driven. The old Auto Road zigs and zags slowly up to the 6,288-foot summit, the highest in Northeastern North America. The well-paved road feels narrow and is often without any railing or fence, so the views as you ascend beyond the other White Mountains are spectacular but a bit scary. There is scope for wandering at the top, scrambling over rocks and watching the Cog Railway arrive and depart.

Athens

I did get around a bit, didn’t I? Most years, I’m not visiting four different countries. This was my first visit to Greece, and it was so exciting to walk down a busy, somewhat dingy street and see the Acropolis in the distance. I loved the views from Monastiraki Square, thronged with crowds. A band played and restaurants grilled meat outside. Across the Square were the beautifully weathered pillars of Hadrian’s Library, and beyond that the ruins of the Roman market, surrounded by gorgeous houses with bougainvillea climbing the gates.

Halfway to Ninety

This Week’s Bit of String: Making it to Europe

When Operation Desert Storm began in early 1991, my aunt, a nurse, renewed her passport. If necessary, she’d be sent to military hospitals in Germany to assist wounded soldiers.

I was ten years old, and jealous. Forget the desert, the storm, the war. Germany made me think of Alps and castles and history. I wanted in on the adventure.

I remember moaning at the kitchen table, “I’ll be an old maid by the time I ever reach Europe!”

In fact, I’ve lived almost half my life on this side of the Atlantic. I first visited the continent when I was 19, and I may have felt terminally single when I arrived, prematurely an old maid, but I returned to the USA [unwittingly] pregnant. Eventually, marriage anchored me here in the UK.

Life can certainly twist. I decorated for Christmas last week, hanging the stocking my mother embroidered for me, and the one she made for my husband. My Baby’s First Christmas 1980 ornaments from when I was 11 days old are on our Argos-ordered tree, and I bet my mom didn’t imagine they would travel this far.

I turn 45 this weekend, and while it would be nice to have a few more publications to my name, I’m quite content. I’ve had the wonderful excitement of being a parent, plus occasional travel, and my job certainly isn’t dull.

I like the sound of 45. It makes me think of a speed limit that’s high for a town centre or residential street, but just about too cautious for the highway. That suits me. I’ll be celebrating with an Italian meal in a Cotswold town, and maybe carol-singing at the local pub after. If it’s not pouring rain, I’ll have a long hike to a nearby town and write there for a couple hours the day before.

Paragraphs After Paragraphs

At work the other day, the bottom set Year 10s were working on narrative and descriptive writing. It’s for the 40-mark Language GCSE question, so the teacher insisted they write at least 5 paragraphs. That sounds impossible to them.

The scruffy little rugby player banished to the back corner learned that I write stories. He asked, “Were they long, what you wrote?”

Over the whole of my life I’ve probably written at least 5000 pages of story drafts by now. Counting my daily scribbles, it might be 10,000 (admittedly not all A4 sized).

We had this conversation as I encouraged young Mr. Rugby based on what he’d already written. He’d done three short paragraphs, and I’d never seen him so focused. It was hard work for him, but something must have gelled. In Maths and Science, he’s so distracted by other students’ antics that he barely does any work at all.

I’d been urging him to view concentration as a muscle that needs building. “It’s like how you do drills with your rugby team, right? Let’s see if you can go thirty seconds without looking away from your work. Then a minute.”

I’m not sure this has caught on yet. But every now and then, it’s worth testing my own focus “muscles” as well. I spend the majority of my time trying to cross multiple items off a to-do list at once. With the weather worsening and the holidays approaching, it’s extra busy in some ways but it also feels like an ideal time to slow down.

Adjusting Speed

I always re-watch the extended version of Lord of the Rings as the nights draw in. I can’t imagine watching the more concise version; I want to be immersed in the epic worldbuilding and character development. But I also have the decorations to put up, shopping to do, treats to bake, on top of the usual commitments, so for example last year, I was hanging ornaments on the tree while Return of the King was on, and I had to pause with angels dangling from my fingers to make sure I took in the wondrous lighting of the beacons.

*A cosy corner near the couch where I mostly do my writing* *(and reading)*

This year, somehow I managed to be still for long portions of the films. I wasn’t even scribbling or answering messages on my phone or using the Mahjongg app. I’d lit candles, my own mini-beacons, and I just curled up to watch the story unfold.

It felt luxurious. I did the same, briefly, when I put Frozen on the following weekend. What a treat to train undivided attention on the opening scenes: the view through the ice, the sunrise and aurora colours. I miss the wintry terrain of home sometimes, and I marvel at how this Disney animation captured the slightly porous, ridged contour of the ice chunks.

I’m also treating myself to sink into a reread of Erin Morgenstern’s The Starless Sea, which I read just a year ago. But I craved the sumptuous layers of stories and magic, and wanted to see what I can pick up from a second read.

I still have big plans of course, for Christmas and for the next year. Hikes and excursions… In 2026 we’ll be taking a little trip to France for a Jazz Festival, and I’ll visit my family. Even when I feel a bit worn out, there’s some part of me aching to keep exploring, to keep making the most of each day. I’m just reminding that intrepid young part of me that slowing down and enjoying a moment is pretty worthwhile, too.

How might you take things a bit slowly over the holiday?

True Colours

This Week’s Bit of String: Jewelled hedgerows and painted roundabouts

The mini roundabout by Tesco has received fresh stripes. St. George’s red cross is now painted over the white, courtesy of an undoubtedly patriotic local citizen. I don’t think it makes much difference to how anyone drives or feels. Do some British citizens in this fairly homogenous town feel safer because someone spraypainted the emblem of a Roman soldier of Greek descent whose worship started in Palestine? Whatever works for them, I guess.

What surprised me was the title given to this campaign of painting and flying loads of extra English flags. “Raise the colours.” Before I remembered the military and scouting origins of the phrase, I thought it odd. The English flag isn’t spectacularly colourful.

As an immigrant (21 years living in Britain this past week!), I have my own perspective on the UK and its colours. They are sometimes dull grey skies and the stifling black or navy blue of school uniforms that I see at work. But they started for me with red double decker buses and purple cross-country trains, the pulsing bright lights of Student Union discos and the green of grass that grows through the winter.

Every late August, when I return to Gloucestershire from my summer visit to my family in New England, the colours of old England are deep purple berry-black and deceptively soft stinging nettle-green. I forage in the hedgerows and make blackberry-elderberry syrups and jam.

This year, the hedgerows are particularly festooned with colour. Dark blue sloes and so many little red hawthorn berries, you can barely see the leaves. Apparently, drought can stress trees into making extra fruit in a more desperate bid to pass on their genetic material. Hopefully they don’t feel too downhearted that some of their DNA is going into a crumble. It’s doing all kinds of good!

Full Spectrum

Ask my five and a half year old niece her favourite colour and she will tell you it’s rainbow. I didn’t know that was an option when I was a kid.

I hope no one nitpicks her and tells her rainbow isn’t one colour, it’s all of them. Of course it is, that’s why people are so enchanted by rainbows. Shining colours melded together more closely than a hedgerow, with far more beautiful range than a red cross on a white background. We all have an innate love of mixture and brightness.

*A baby bear and their great aunt Laurel, 23 years ago*

In my dining room, next to the spiderplant grown from a student’s gift and a felted leaf garland crafted by another student, a prism hangs. It is no tear-shaped slip of a thing, it’s a weighty diamond capable of pitching a whole swathe of rainbows.

My aunt Laurel gave it to me when I was struggling as an adolescent. “Sometimes you just need more rainbows in your life,” she told me, her voice catching on her compassion.

Three days ago, Laurel died suddenly of a heart attack in her Vermont home. On that side of the ocean, my family rallies to honour her and to support my cousin. On this side of the ocean, a friend gives me yellow gladioli at work and another drops an orange-papered Tony’s Chocolonely bar through my letterbox. British colours at work again.

Making Rainbows

More vibrant fruit yields can come from jeopardy, and rainbows don’t happen without storms. My aunt Laurel had her share of storms, but she absolutely sparkled for us.

She loved the lupins that grew in the median strip of Highway 91, she loved candied almonds and jewelry. She gave me my first CD of Les Miserables, and instigated the nerf gun battle that ended in my husband proposing. She invented her own evil twin to blame pranks on, and encouraged all of us to do the same. She was the source of many a thoughtful gift, and constantly opened her home to us, no matter what annoying phase we were going through.

When my baby was born (I mean, they were a baby then…) she was the one with me in the delivery room. Despite the tragedy and horror of the terrorist attacks that day, Laurel always reminded me how she couldn’t stop smiling after the birth. She strove to see the world through the most hopeful prism, and sometimes that’s awfully hard.

Even better than a prism, she’s left us with her wonderful son, my cousin, who will now be even more part of my immediate family. It’s excruciating to know she won’t be there the next time I get back to see my family. But she’s left us so much to be grateful for, especially an undying impression that no person or place is as dull as just two colours.

Wishing you rainbows this week, friends, and hopefully not too many storms.

Taking a Moment

This Week’s Bit of String: Fairies of all sorts

Last week my entire family stayed together in a lakeside house in Maine. This included my 5-year-old niece, who moved expertly from one of us to the next, with wide-eyed invitations for our attention and imaginative assignations for us.

“Want to pretend you’re my mommy and I’m a toddler?” she asked me one morning. I was hardly about to turn that down.

*Our view as Lily Pad and the Moment Fairy*

Later on, she had my brother-in-law at her command in the role of big brother, while her own big brother (actual age 6) was her little brother. She’d gone from being a toddler to being 13 and a half, and her name was Lily Pad. My kiddo’s fiancee was now her mommy, and I was briefly a co-worker. My niece’s job was testing beds, which after various hikes and kayak-paddles and swims, I was more than willing to help with.

In the evening, we all gathered in lawn chairs to watch the sun set over the lake. Then my niece invited me to sit on the dock with her, dangling our feet in “Waterworld.”

She told me, “Sometimes if I need a moment, and I tell my mom I want to go to Waterworld, then I come here and you’re the fairy who meets me. You’re the fairy for people who need to take a moment, so they can talk to you and not be lonely, and you won’t tell anyone.”

I couldn’t have been prouder than when she led me back to the rest of our family, now doggedly roasting marshmallows around a campfire despite the 30 C/ 90 F heat, and she introduced me as The Moment Fairy.

Ongoing Stories

When I was in second grade, our teacher read us the 1953 chapter book Little Witch by Anna Elizabeth Bennett, about a witch’s daughter who would prefer to be a fairy. This book had me convinced I, too, was a secret fairy, and I eagerly assigned the role of captor witch to whichever family member incurred my unspoken wrath.

*Fairy house at my hometown’s lakeside park*

It might be my mother for making me drink my orange juice even though I said it tasted sour, or my little brother for faking naps and then being allowed to stay up later than me. If you think these reasons are far-fetched, wait till you hear my solution.

I was certain that if I woke up at the right time, and went into my closet with the correct numbers on my little calculator, then the fairies would rescue me. I tried it once and it didn’t work, but I figured I needed a different moment of the night.

Nothing really dissuaded me from that story. It dissolved into new fantasies I nursed in my imagination. Similarly, in my niece’s game, she was constantly accommodating new roles for us. While most were outside making s’mores, she led my husband by the hand through the holiday house.

“He’s the Show-You-Something Fairy,” she explained when I went in for extra ingredients.

Sure enough, she was picking up various objects and explaining them to her engineer uncle as if he’d just materialised from a fantastical dimension (it probably seems as if we do, appearing once a year from the UK). The Something she was Showing him as I went back outside was a flyswatter.

Moments to Remember

I was inspired by my niece’s imaginative efforts, and moved by her confidence that at any given time, at least one of us would want to duck into her world. As she gets older, she will desperately need a variety of people she can slip away and have a moment with. She’ll have so many things to show and explain to us.

Sometimes, as I wrote a couple weeks ago, I worry about my stories getting stuck in my head and progressing no further. But while I value being a writer and long for success, my roles as mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt are more important. It’s nice to remember that I serve some purpose there, and it’s truly a privilege to do so.

For now, the fairies have flown. Back in the UK, I’m the Moment Fairy for myself. I have to keep going, finding ways to be present from afar for my family while remaining present in the life I sought elsewhere. It means choosing which of the dozens of times I think of them each day are the most valuable to pass on. That’s the challenge, when we’re not rubbing up against each other regularly and experiencing life together.

Sometimes, separation hurts too much. Maybe it’s a pleasant evening with no extra family to share it with, when I have no one to bake for but my husband and me, when it’s warm but there’s no place to swim. I miss the feel of a little hand in mine so much. It’s tempting to dig myself into chores or into writing assignments, but maybe I should surrender to those moments, too, to keep my caring fully kindled.

Which moments matter most to you? How do you make the best of them?

Strange Journeys

This Week’s Bit of String: A pink overnight bus to Russia

When I was nineteen, I had a couple weeks after summer work and before my term abroad in the UK. Somewhat to my mother’s chagrin, I opted to visit Russia during that time while traveling among friends. From visiting Taru in Helsinki, I would go to Yulia in Moscow, then Zuzana in Bratislava.

After obtaining my “entry clearance” at Finland’s intimidating Russian Embassy, which reduced me to tears and impoverished me by $300 while charging the German guy in front of me only $60, I remained determined to visit Russia. I expected further bumps in the road.

*Some building I passed in my St. Petersburg daze. Almost the same pink as the bus.*

I did not expect the rickety overnight bus carrying me across the Finnish-Russian border to be pink. I boarded with dozens of sombre Russian passengers, and secured a window seat. The old woman next to me rested her head on my shoulder and went to sleep.

Throughout the night I peered into the darkness, passing vast swathes of evergreen trees and seemingly abandoned, massive industrial or nuclear plants. We disembarked to have our passports stamped out of Finland, then disembarked again for the Russian entry stamp.

“First time in Russia?” asked the Finnish border guard. At my assent, he slammed down his stamp. “Good luck.”

In a way, I did have good luck. But not in a conventional sense.

After the sleepless night with a stranger leaning on me, I left the bus as soon as it stopped. The sun was just rising, a distant golden glow that could equally have been a smouldering chemical inferno. Only one other person left the bus with me, a guy in his twenties.

As I watched the bus drive away, glad to be rid of it, I heard him say in accented English, “You know we are still outside St. Petersburg?”

I shrugged. “That’s fine.”

“Didn’t you have more luggage?”

I had my day bag over my shoulder, but he was right. My even-more stuffed rucksack, with three months’ worth of belongings, was still in the hold under the bus.

Getting in Trouble

I suppose it’s a classic tale: I caused my own problems. I was frustrated with myself for making such a stupid mistake, in so significant a matter, so early on.

The man on the street with me rolled his eyes as if equally annoyed at my folly. “Look,” he said, “Come home with me while I get ready for work. I’ll help you find your way into the city and perhaps locate your bag.”

Now, this will sound like more stupid decision-making. I was aware I shouldn’t go to an unknown man’s house in a foreign, semi-hostile nation. But if he had truly bad intent, I reasoned, then he would pretend to be more welcoming instead of exasperated. So I followed him.

I experienced my first Russian apartment. Toilet and shower in separated tiny chambers, a mug of bitter black tea. Dmitri, who’d been visiting his fiancee in Finland over the weekend and had returned just in time for work, gave me a St. Petersburg map with Finnish location names, wrote down the bus company’s phone number and address, and saw me off on the correct metro train.

I spent a few hours wandering the city. I only remember fragments, almost 25 years later. Deciphering a couple more Russian letters by noticing a cinema poster for the recent film, The Patriot. Glimpsing the Hermitage, the Tsar’s Summer Palace, from across a busy street, my view criss-crossed by tramlines. Ascertaining directions from an ice cream seller because we could both speak intermediate French. I was miraculously reunited with my rucksack at the coach company’s office, where no one had been the least bit interested in its contents.

Travel Stories

I’ve been thinking about this somewhat misadventurous episode since I’ve just finished a truly inspiring novel with a lot of travel in it: Sarah Winman’s Still Life.

This book has me longing to visit Florence, Italy, wander and look at art and eat amazing food. It’s also been a luxurious read because while the plot has war and flood mixed in, mostly it’s about people being super nice to each other. I might not be making it sound very exciting. But the characters’ love for each other, their tolerance for, even appreciation of, each other’s quirks is a balm as the real world seems to become more bitter and stressful.

In my travels as a student (who probably comes across as naive here), I gained independence but also learned it’s not the end of the world when that independence goes wrong. I don’t often put my travels into story form, although a couple times I’ve been inspired by places I’ve visited.

However, I notice in recounting this that travel puts us in a unique position to understand and utilise story structure. We embark on a journey with certain expectations, but what we want may differ from what we need. Being outside our familiar borders forces us to reflect on who we really are, as we notice we are stuck with ourselves here, there, and everywhere. And even when we bring problems upon ourselves, it can turn out okay.

Amazingly, once I reached Moscow the next day, I had a good time. My Russian friend was passionate about showing me around, and her stories about local history and how the city ran fascinated me. There’s another little twist in the tale for you.

Have you encountered surprising kindnesses while away? How does travel fuel your self-reflection and creativity?

Voice Check

This Week’s Bit of String: Forbidden conversations

The exams (GCSEs) for our Year 11 students have begun. I’m sitting them alongside a young man with special needs, in line with his access arrangements.

The first exam we did together, we had a power-tripping invigilator who told us off for talking. The student finished dictating answers to me minutes before the end of a 105-minute exam, and I asked how he was feeling. He nodded, and grinned, and said he felt ok. Then he asked what time it was.

We’re not allowed to tell students, because it might unfairly advantage them (apparently). So I silently pointed at the analog clock set up in front, which many students can’t read.

The invigilator came over and said we mustn’t talk. According to her, I could only speak when reading directly from the paper.

“And if you want to know the time, you have to ask me,” she told the student.

“Oh, okay. What time is it?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you.”

Gah! Thankfully, our usual invigilator is less officious. We’re not rebuked (yet) for asking a frightened exam-taker how they’re feeling.

I wonder if smiling at a student and showing mild concern for their welfare does give them an extra advantage. I wouldn’t feel too bad if it did; there are so many disadvantages actively at work. Many of our students with special needs are already convinced they will fail.

My exam student keeps saying, when we’re studying: “I don’t know how I can remember all this.”

I worry about this developing from a mantra to a self-fulfilling prophecy, and I’ve been suggesting fixes. What if the video clip running in his mind said instead, “I’m good at solving problems. I can try to work out the ones I don’t know.”

It’s hard to change an internal narrative, though.

Rewriting the Internal Monologue

How we talk to ourselves inside our minds can be a game changer. My inner voice, for quite a long time, has been somewhat generous and cuts me some slack in a few respects. It cheers me on through busy days, and it might later say, Great job, you’ve done a tonne of work, have a tonne of peanut butter. You know, stuff like that.

*Sometimes we have to allow ourselves a slower pace.*

It wasn’t always that way; as a young person I completely reviled myself. Trauma and peer pressure and mixed-up interpretations of religion will cause that. Then, after a couple years as an immigrant, on some subconscious level I must have grasped that no person especially in a foreign land would ever provide all the reassuring words I’d always longed to hear. And I settled for hearing some version of that from myself.

It wasn’t a conscious effort. I realised how much kinder I’d become to myself because I listened to how my students talked about themselves, and contrasted my own, long growth.

But lately, my inner voice has been harsher. Once again, this realisation snuck up on me. I was summoned to a procedural absence hearing at work, after all those days I missed with a late winter flu, plus a couple days further back in the year thrown in.

The deputy headteacher said I’m great, highly valued and respected by all staff, and they don’t question the reason for my absences. But… do better, Or Else.

That put me in a panic. How do I avoid getting sick while I’m scribing a GCSE paper, leaning in to hear whispered dictations from a boy who’s blowing his nose rather juicily?

Panic Versus Control

The thing is, I had been really down on myself about every sick day. There’s no excuse for this, I’d think while I bundled, practically immobile, on the couch. No one else missed as much work for this bug. There’s obviously some insufficiency in me.

But when told I could lose my job if I get sick again, the terror I felt came from helplessness. I can’t truly be helpless and at fault at the same time. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming myself, and summon some fighting energy.

Fortunately, I’ve had words from others to help me turn things around. Colleagues from my actual work team have been outraged that I felt threatened. In their view, I do way too much already.

“I know it isn’t easy,” one of my TA friends said, “But you have to put this away in a mental compartment so you don’t think about it, or it will make you sick, and we aren’t going to give them that.”

The SENCo, head of our department, swore she’d accompany me should any further meetings occur. “I’ll tell them that if they let you go, I’d be under so much stress I’d be off sick, and good luck to them covering us both.”

Sometimes, people around us know just what to say. Slowly, our panic and stress ease off. But as wonderful as it is hearing kind support from others, it’s even more important what we hear within—after all, our inner voice is the one we’re stuck with. Might as well make it an amiable one.

I certainly hope to at least keep panic at bay for my students, and more importantly to help them dwell on their positive attributes. I will work on moderating the tones of my internal monologue to be less harsh when I have a slight off day.

How does your inner voice keep you going?