Summer is over.

On the chalkboard Mrs. Brown slowly wrote out the letters as she repeated, "Summer is… O-V-E-R."

This was her first sentence to us, her fresh crop of Language Arts students, and it was calculated to send crackles of fear through our young bones. It worked. All of our other teachers had played get-to-know-you games that first day, sowing warm and fuzzy first impressions, assuring us that the year ahead would be a fun one and that school was a cozy home away from home. But not Mrs. Brown. She meant business. Using any means necessary, she intended to shepherd our small souls, on the cusp of puberty, through crucial lessons like how to diagram a sentence and why it's necessary to wear deodorant every day.

Unlike those other teachers, she didn't seem to follow a strict lesson plan. Instead, she taught by divine inspiration and guided with theatrical, military discipline. To us, babies of baby boomers, our egos mostly fluffed and coddled from birth, she was something utterly unfamiliar, both frightening and exciting.

One day we filed into the the classroom to find Mrs. Brown not by the chalkboard, but kneeling in her tweed skirt on the large carpet beyond our desks. She sat silently until we joined her. On the floor sat a packaged bar of Irish Spring.

"Children, you know what this is?"

"Yes! Soap!" It was wise not to assume Mrs. Brown was being rhetorical. She encouraged us to express ourselves exactly.

"Do you use this every day?"

"Yes!"

"Well, that might be true. But, today I'm here to give you a warning. Your bodies are changing in all different ways. Maybe it's already changed. Maybe it will change this week or the next. The point is, it's going to happen, and when it happens, you will start to stink."

The room itself seemed to close in with a humid funk.

"Not your usual playing-around stink, but an adult stink. Before the change, if you forgot to use soap or deodorant, it might not be too obvious, at least for a day or two. But, after this change, guess what? There will be no denying it, you'll stink. So, tell me, what's going to happen if you forget and come into my class stinking?"

None of us could even mouth an answer. We were paralyzed with the fear that we already stank and didn't know it. Maybe I smelled like sweaty garbage to my classmate next to me? How could I know? Had I used soap that morning?

"Well, I'll tell you what's going to happen. The first time, I'm going to be nice and pull you aside and tell you that you stink. But, the second time? If there's a second time, you will find this bar of soap, this very bar, which I keep in my top desk drawer, sitting on your desk for all the world to see.

"And every year, at least once, this bar ends up on the desk of some poor student who doesn't listen to me."

We imagined a dirty, prematurely mustached child coming in to find that relic of shame perched neatly on his desk. The horror.

This style of teaching was wildly, dangerously different than anything we'd experienced before, and our brains and possibly reeking bodies stood at attention. The lessons Mrs. Brown taught us are seared into the folds of my frontal lobes like no other teacher's. She was fearsome and unpredictable and one of the best teachers I ever had.

Another time, she stopped herself in the middle of a lesson on etymology, heeding the call of the Gods of Decency:

"I know you all like wearing those Umbro shorts. No idea why you'd wear swimming trunks away from the pool, but if that's the style, that's the style. Even though those trunks might have built-in underpants, they're not real underpants! You have to keep on wearing your regular underpants in addition to the Umbros! If I see something hanging out of those shorts, I'm going to let you know it."

I've never forgotten Mrs. Brown's practical advice, and not just about the basics of hygiene. For example, no one should dot their i's with anything other than a simple, clean dot; hearts and smiley faces are not diacritics. But, it was her passionate love of books and language, and her determination to instill the same ardor in us, that made her my favorite teacher. Listening to her lecture about the origin of words, we felt like little scholars. She encouraged me to write, and when she read one of my poems, her brow would furrow in concentration like she was an editor going over an important piece.

Mrs. Brown never did reveal a soft gooey center, and we didn't know if she had favorites, but she did give special attention to those of us who liked to read.

Before Christmas she asked me, "How many books do you plan to read over break?"

"Um, three?"

"No, you're going to read at least a thousand pages, and I want to know exactly how many when you get back." Over break I got a thrill opening my small reading log and noting how many pages I'd read after I finished each book.

Mrs. Brown had high standards and expected us to exceed them. She stretched our abilities and expectations of ourselves like we were her fresh warm dough. For fun she would give us mysterious phrases and ask us to translate them into aphorisms. "Class. 'A winged vertebrate in the palmar extremity trumps twain in the foliage.' Quick. Go!" Somehow we made our way to "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush".

Unlike other teachers, Mrs. Brown didn't give A's just for effort. In fact, from time to time, she even gave F's. We had heard about F's on TV shows. We thought they were mere elements of fiction used to heighten the drama. But, in her top desk drawer, next to that bar of Irish Spring, Mrs. Brown kept a thick, red felt-tip marker, which she used exclusively to dole out F's, large and circled, in front of the shocked eyes of a lazy student. I'm pretty sure that nothing of the kind was actually recorded in her grade book, but it still made an impact. It was just one more weapon in her teaching arsenal.

She wanted us to leave at the end of the year with a more accurate glimpse of the world that was eventually waiting for us. Our future bosses wouldn't stroke our egos. We had to work hard, deliver results, push ourselves. We couldn't show up to the office unwashed with baggy shorts and no underwear. People were watching and judging.

At the time, we probably complained when some days her class felt like a tightrope walk of shame, but we still felt like she was giving us a peek at something beyond the daily grind of middle school, at the outside world, but also deep within us. Curled inside the core of each of us was our future self with individual talents and drives. She used all the tools she had to root around in us and get to that core and carve it out a bit more. It was a little painful, a little embarrassing, but worth it.

I don't know if Mrs. Brown still teaches. I hope so. I wonder, if she had taught our class in this day and age, would she get flurries of texts and emails from parents at the end of Soap Day or Umbros Need Underpants Day? Would she have to throw away her red marker and stick to a lesson plan? Would some of her special spark be dimmed?

That's not to say that others teachers should use her tactics. Frankly, I don't think anyone else could get away with it. She was a unique package of practicality, stern character, and passion, and it was this blend that made her techniques so effective. She saw us as multifaceted potentialities—dirty rugrats, readers, future citizens—and she addressed every one of them with her stuffed drawer of tricks, following where inspiration led.

At least once a month, when I finish a book or properly dot an i, I think of her and get a chuckle and say a little prayer of thanks to whatever power was whispering those magic secrets to Mrs. Brown.

If you lived here, in the Irish countryside, you'd wake up to moody skies…

But would walk into town anyway

You'd stop by your cheesemonger to pick up provisions for a picnic lunch. 

And maybe a savory pie or two

Bypassing the grease of the Supermac's

You'd drive out on thin roads and wouldn't be petrified, because you'd be used to driving on the left. 

You'd pass ridiculously happy cows. 

And Shrek-style castles 

You'd gape at all that rain-fed green grass.

And fight the temptation to run your fingers through it

You'd scope out picnic spots at the Cliffs of Moher.

But, think better of it

You'd finally find the perfect picnic spot.

And the perfect picnic rock

But then the rainclouds would roll in, fierce and low, and the waves would spray salt on your savory pie.

And, you'd have a nice lunch in your car. 

Changing of the Guard

It's the end of the library conference, and the attendees are loaded down with canvas bags filled with the regular loot: free books, glossy information packets, mouse pads. We're still wearing our conference badges, clipped to our lapels or hanging from lanyards around our necks. We will take these home and tack them up in our offices like small plastic trophies. 

Because it's the final day, we have no more words. We've danced and small-talked and asked questions at microphones, and since we understand one another, no one is demanding anything more from us. 

Those of us who gave presentations look like we've run a marathon. Thank goodness we grabbed the last of the free granola bars by the exit as we turned in our satisfaction survey. 

Our shuttles idle outside to take us to the airport for our flights home. Ten of us file through the cold hotel corridor and wait for the next elevator. We know each other, but we're too tired for chitchat on the ride down. One floor below, the elevator doors open to a tall blonde in leopard print and high heels.

"Hi y'all! 'Scuse me, let me just squeeze on in here. Thanks. I'm Sheila from Mary Kay! You probably noticed all the pink cars parkin' out front. We're just startin' our annual shindig! Y'all must be here for a conference too. What're y'all here for?"

We stare ahead in silence. 

One of our sneakers squeaks. 

"Well, y'all have a great day anyhow." 

We march out to our buses, past the pink cars, relaxed in our band of introverts. 

Deliberate Body 

On a hike along the California coastline one summer afternoon the guide asked me, out of the blue, what kind of sport I played.

"Volleyball? Basketball? Soccer?" 
 "Oh, nothing, I don't really like sports. I'm not very coordinated." My mind flashed back to me stumbling after a runaway kickball into the outfield in middle school, the coach hollering in a Texas drawl, "Girl, what in the heck are you doing?" 

I am drinking my second cup of coffee. It's hot and milky and delicious, and my caffeine buzz is buzzing. I check my email and notice an earlier message from me: 

"DO NOT DRINK COFFEE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!" 

Ugh, self from five weeks ago, you're such a drama queen. Maybe you couldn't handle the powerful effects of this morning staple. Maybe it kept you up at night with undulating anxiety, but I'm fine. I don't know what your problem was. Green tea? Really? Did you like that taste? Oh, I'm sure adding peppermint really helped. Haven't you read all the recent studies about how healthy coffee is. No? Well, basically the more you drink, the better. It's simple brain science. And, I'm pretty sure I read something about how antioxidants aren't the wonder-substances that everyone said they were. So, who knows if green tea is that great for you anyhow. Show me those studies, will you? Listen, I know you're prone to caffeine anxiety, but let's be honest, that's only when you really overdo it or drink Starbucks coffee. There's like 50 times as much caffeine in one of their lattes as a regular home-brewed cup. So, you should be fine as long as you stay away from Starbucks. And, if you do happen to go to Starbucks, just don't have a latte after noon. You'll be fine. Or, you can have a latte in the afternoon, but make it a decaf. 

It's still early so I'm safe to have a third cup. I'll make it half-caf. I'm so productive! Coffee is amazing! We can thank all of the advances of the western world on coffee! It's what powers our industry and science and art! I don't even need to eat breakfast, and I never skip breakfast. Maybe I'll try bullet-proof coffee. I keep reading about it on paleo blogs. You whip grass-fed butter into your coffee. No one needs to eat ever again. We'll all be bullet-proof productivity machines, fueled by fat and caffeine. Fat smoothies. I'll create a new chain of Jamba Juices, but for bullet-proof coffee concoctions. The Fat Smoothie Shack, serving Butter Bombs. I can conquer the world! I think I'm going to start that novel. No, I'm going to clean out the fridge! No, wash the balcony and buy outdoor furniture and a barbecue and plan a party! Or maybe I'll watch that meth-addict in the grocery store Youtube clip again. Ha, she's hilarious, freaking out over what cereal to buy! If she could see herself! 

Maybe I'll just go for a little run, work off this extra energy and then I'll get down to business and go crazy on my to-do list. Okay, okay, no, I'll just do some jumping jacks and then I'll be good to go. Goals, here I come!! 


GOALS
Do not drink coffee

What! Too funny. Okay, item 2:


Meditate

Right, meditate. That's a good idea. Every day, twice a day, for 20 minutes. I'll just sit quietly and concentrate on my breath. 

Sitting still. Quietly. Concentrating on my breath. 

I don't feel so well. Getting a little queasy here. Yuck. I probably should have eaten a little something this morning. And, my heart's jumping around in my chest. That's not normal, right? I mean, that feels worse than regular anxiety right? Something might be seriously wrong. Okay, be here and now, here and now, here and now. 

Great, so much for meditating. I'll go for walk instead, a walking meditation, in nature. That will calm me down. That's better. I just needed to move! That's the key. Still kind of hungry though. There's Starbucks. I'll just pop in and grab something to eat.

And, I'm kind of thirsty. A latte would hit the spot.

On Sunday morning, London wakes up knowing what she's going to eat for lunch and where she's going to eat it. 

We have to wait until noon for the pub around the corner to unlock its doors. Its shutters are already wide open to the gray day to air out the stink of Saturday night. We're the first to arrive and peek inside hoping that the bartenders will take pity and open at the expected hour, but they're indifferent to our thirst. One comes outside with an unlit cigarette hanging on his lip and a folded chalkboard under his arm. He says good morning, but then shuts the door again behind him, lights his smoke and scrawls out the Sunday menu: 
Roast chicken
Roast pork
Roast beef
Yorkshire pudding

It's really not necessary. It's the same menu that's being scratched onto a thousand other chalkboards across the city. There are a few different flourishes here and there, but the principle is the same. 

He goes back inside and a few more hungry patrons join us in the wait until a quarter past. The bartender comes back and clicks open the latch but doesn't bother opening the door. The place is shining like a freshly waxed church pew. Mismatched old stools are tucked neatly under counters and tables. Sunday Pub is worlds away from Saturday Pub, who tends to be much naughtier. Sunday Pub is a family establishment, open to couples with babies in prams and grandparents after service. Unlike Saturday Pub its noise stays at a respectable level. The neighbors don't even complain; in fact, they're all there at the next table. 

Tourists drop in clutching London guidebooks, happy to sample a half pint at an authentic pub. An older gentleman, still dripping sweat from his morning run, chooses a full pint and stands at the bar, drinking it down quickly like it's a much tastier Gatorade. 

Sunday Pub is welcoming and clean and bright and cozy, but its best feature is its roast. The menu describes it, but roasts are all the same: a thick piece of meat, cooked long and slow, drenched in dark gravy, accented by green peas and a fluffy Yorkshire pudding. Pudding is ambiguous here. It is indeed that glorious steaming popover called Yorkshire pudding, but it also means dessert in general, so a pudding can be savory or sweet. It's wise to have a pudding by your roast and a pudding to complete the meal.

There's no rush. You can come alone with a book and nurse a pint for an hour. And, you might have to do just that as you wait for your roast. Magic in a pub kitchen happens notoriously slowly. 

Later in the afternoon, the fog starts to burn off and a few shards of sun splinter into the room, lighting up the wood and brass taps. Patrons glance over the flowers in picture boxes in the windows and consider going for a walk while the sun's out, but think the better of it. Sunday Pub is being so kind, and the view can still be enjoyed from inside. 

I am a fluent French speaker, in my head. 

I'm quite eloquent, with Gallic wit and subtle turns of phrase, in my imagination. My accent is so perfect Parisians look incredulous: what, you're not French? C'est pas possible! 

Because, that's what happens when we learn a new language, isn't it? After some hard work, our brains rewire themselves and the Gods of Language bestow upon us the Bilingual Crown. One day we wake up and have to decide, should we think in English or French today? Our dreams take turns. One night in French, the next in English. It's only fair. We express ourselves clearly and comfortably in our new tongue, with all the cultural references of a native speaker, because anything less would be downright frustrating, wouldn't it? 

My reverie comes to an abrupt end when my French teacher asks the class what we did last weekend. If I had five minutes and access to Google Translate, I swear I could come up with something decent, something halfway approximating what I would say if I had been asked in English. Unfortunately, it's already my turn and instead of describing in vivid detail the spectacular David Bowie exhibition I'd seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum on Saturday, with its innovative use of sound and personal artifacts, I say, "I went to the museum. It was nice." Yep, that should cover it. Your turn! 

In reality, I am a pretty decent French listener. I could even eavesdrop if I wanted to. But, instead of giving me hope, this just makes the gulf between what I can understand and what I can express that much more obvious. My French conversational partner sees me nodding and smiling and reacting to what they're saying. They volley back to me and the ball drops at my feet with a disappointing thud. I've been asked pointblank why I refuse to speak French when I'm obviously fluent. My response is, in English, just because you can read a poem doesn't mean you can (or should) write one. 

To be honest, I have had some good conversations in French, but I'm not sure how to create the conditions for that to happen more often. It helps if the other person doesn't speak a lick of English, and it really helps if there's a bottle of wine involved. Usually though, the natural environment is the problem. Give me a game of vocabulary flash cards, and I can play all day, but that doesn't mean I can crack open a can of sparkling repartee anytime, anywhere. That would require me actually stringing those vocabulary words together, darn it. If I could speak in bullet-points, life would be much easier. 

And, my constitutional shyness doesn't help the project along at all. There are some language students who are determined to express themselves at all costs, and frankly, I'm jealous. They're uninhibited making mistakes. They take their sweet time groping for words, because with practice, those words will become ever-ripe and ready to pluck whenever they want them. But, it takes awhile to get there, and from my current state of half-French to a future state of passable French to an even more distant state of solid French, stretches long, dangerous terrain, full of potential embarrassment and frustration. It's slow going, and you have to pack away your pride, get comfortable in the saddle and try to be content with small progress. Saying your order out loud at a restaurant instead of getting flustered and just pointing at the menu? Congratulations! Having a conversation that doesn't start with an apology about how bad your French is? Bravo! I just have to remember that one day, in the distance, with perseverance, I will be able to speak French without blushing. 

And, in the meantime, I have my daydreams and my dictionary. 

I am scared of driving, flying, go-carting, jet-skiing, really anything that involves wheels or a motor or propulsion of any kind. So, to compensate, I am a rude walker. It's been my main mode of transport for a long time now, and I'm good at it. I walk fast and follow all the rules. I'm so confident in my pedestrian know-how that I'm secretly okay with jaywalkers getting tickets. I am that person on a completely empty road, waiting patiently for the walk light to flash green. 

You see, I want to earn my self-righteousness on the road. That way, I feel no guilt when a wall of teenagers on cell phones comes at me expecting the sea to part, and I bump into them. I just smirk at their bad pedestrian-hood. Happy holiday tourists smiling at window displays? I blow past them, mere inches away. Even if they can't see my dirty look, it's there. With cars, I'm just as rude. As soon as that light changes, the crosswalk better be as clear as a southern summer sky. If the driver is impatient and starts rolling past that line, I look her right in the eye with a telepathic message: I have an umbrella and I'm not afraid to use it. 

My first day in London I walk to the grocery store around the corner from my flat. Having a new city to walk in is like getting a brand new car, but better. I whistle a happy tune until I get to the crosswalk and realize that there is NO CROSSWALK. On the pavement just a message in white: "Look right". Well, what good is that going to do me if the cars coming from the right never stop? The traffic lights  are just out of sight, and the pedestrians are looking left, looking right, their eyes wide. The light finally changes and the oncoming cars stop. We stick a toe into the road and more cars careen around the corner without pausing like we're a flock of sad city pigeons who get whatever they deserve. 

I'm still optimistic. Maybe it's just that one busy intersection. I try a quiet side street near a school. Halfway across and a taxi comes hurtling from out of nowhere. I keep walking and he shakes his fist at me. Nowhere do I see a stop sign. No stick figures flashing in helpful green and red. I walk toward a bus stop and see a gigantic poster with a face taking up the whole frame. His eyes stare out, a dead blank. His earbuds dangle grotesquely: "He changed the track and didn't see the car coming." What dystopia is this! 

I'm losing hope, but then I spot a big flashing yellow bulb next to what looks like a crosswalk. Could it be? It's a busy avenue and cars are speeding through it, but then a miraculous thing happens. As I begin to approach, a car slows down. It stops. After a day of walking around I don't know if this is a dirty trick. Maybe he'll plow me down as soon as I reach the center. But no, I cross unmolested. I can't help it, I smile and give a low wave. Pathetic. 

One day in London and my pedestrian hauteur has shriveled into a sad gratitude at cars who don't run me over. 

Since that first day I've learned a few tricks. The sacred cross walks with the yellow lights are called zebra crossings, and almost without fail, drivers will stop for pedestrians who are even close to crossing. Everywhere else you're fair game. You can make eye contact, smile, have a stroller and several teetering bags of groceries, cars won't stop. There is no alpha-pedestrian in London, only us pigeons, ready to scatter. So this is the formula that I recommend. Wait patiently until the light turns red to oncoming traffic. Let the turning cars pass as slowly as they like. If there is a car that could reach you in the next minute, make eye contact, acknowledge the driver's dominance with a look of abject fear and then run for your life. And learn to drive. 

What follows is a list of 50 jump starts to your mood. For a total tune up—to wrench the spinning-in-the-dark-mud mind completely out and back onto the sunny expressway—the Mood Mender recommends a plan of (5) (26) and (45) over a period of two days with no deviation. This will guarantee success. However, we realize that this two-day comprehensive cure is not always available, in which case one or a combination of these techniques and cures will at least get the motor running.

Walking Cure
1. As soon as possible, strap on some appropriate footwear and hit the pavement, sidewalk, sand, dirt road, or ideally, the hills.
2. If it's feasible, grab some walking sticks, those will make you feel even better.
3. Take a different path than usual, that will get your neural pathways hopping
4. A 15 minute walk will distract you from your mood; a three hour one will have you mentally skipping
Workout Cure
5. Move until you're drenched in sweat.
6. Sweat for at least an hour.
7. Keep sweating in the steam room. 
8. While sweating do not wear hideous workout clothes, that means, paradoxically, no sweat pants or long-sleeve college t-shirts.
9. Gym machines are good; weights are better.
10. Doing shoulder presses and squats while listening to rock and roll is the best.
Talking Cure
11. Call your mom.
12. Talk with your mom about philosophy, art, movies, gossip, brain science, or astrology.
13. Call your friends. Texts don't count.
Writing Cure
14. Open your laptop wherever you are and start typing
15. Find a good pen—thin sharpies are especially satisfying—and start writing.
16. Fill up lots of white space. Your psychic self is calling you back.
17. Write about your dreams.
18. Write about your frustration.
19. Write about something completely foreign to you.
Cooking Cure
20. Open a cookbook and plan a meal.
21. Buy the food to make that meal.
22. Ideally, the meal should be light. Homemade soup is tonic.
23. Clean as you cook.
24. Try something new.
25. Eat your creation. 
Diet Cure
26. The diet cure is akin to the cooking cure, but works best over time, two days minimum; eat fresh, whole, raw foods.
27. Make a salad that rivals expressionist paintings in its color palette.
28. Eat huge trees of broccoli.
Grooming Cure
29. Take a bath.
30. Get a massage.
31. Get a facial.
32. Get your nails done.
33. Take a steam bath.
34. Do any of the above with a candle lit.
35. Smell and wear perfume.
36. Groom your space too. Throw out broken, unusable things. Make a place for usable things and put them there.
Reading Cure
37. Go to the bookstore and let your mental divining rod bring you to an author with a powerful voice.
38. Revisit the authors you love.
39. Read books with nice, tactile pages.
Meditation Cure
40. Wherever you are, breathe.
41. Make the breath meaningful.
42. Dreaming counts as meditation.
43. So does daydreaming.
44. But, above all, the most powerful meditation is sleep.
45. Sleep for at least 8 hours, two nights in a row.
46. Sleep on freshly-washed sheets; if they are just popped out of the dryer, then bliss will come.
47. Sleep in a familiar bed in a silent room.
List Cure
48. Make a list.
49. Do something on that list.
50. Cross it off.