Vanilla Wafers and the Future

Tuesday night I thought I might die. Like literally fall over and d-i-e. And while that may sound a little dramatic, in my realm of things slash my then state of constant panic, it sounded better than trying to survive the 24-hours that followed.

And then I saw my high school math teacher and she said It's all about the process, which gave me hope.

And then at Institute we talked about hope and I met a boy, who over coconut caramel chocolate chip brownies, told me he's not so great at math either. Then I came home and read a story about a woman named Hope who survived the internment camps and thought, It could be a lot worse.

And tonight this dude in the front row shared his Vanilla Wafers. And someone in my writing class said my story sounded like a painting. And when we were getting in the car after class we were whistled at. Twice.

And then we ate fresh peaches.
And there were pumpkins at the market today.

So while things seemed bleak, there's hope in new friends who hate functions and dudes who bust out Vanilla Wafers and pass them your direction as the lecture's about to go Snoozeville. And kind people who compliment your writing. There's hope in a box full of peaches and a crate full of pumpkins.

And tomorrow is October and October is my favorite.

Einstein's Theory of Relativity

I'm sitting on the striped sofa, laptop perched at a 90 degree angle on the ottoman. My notebook and various colored pens are on my lap. Dad is in the red chair across from me. His hair goes sideways, slantways, longways, and backways. (He's a bit under the weather and working from home.) I cue Alabama's, "You Can't Keep a Good Man Down," and tell him it's his theme song. I'm studying the velocity of ants along a graph and my father is working on something legal -- in the sense that he's not doing anything illegal, but also in the sense that he's working on a current case or two or five. How many, I don't really know. What I do know is that with hair like that, he looks a lot like Albert Einstein. Truthfully, I wish he were. Just for an hour. Only because I've got math assignments looming large (I've had my limit of limits) and velocitous ants are busily building hills at my feet. And while I don't know their velocity, (yet) I know they mean business.

Or...

I wish my dear cousin Ellie lived in our study like she did one summer. Oh, if I had a nickel for every time I'd thought that these first few weeks of school. I could build a mighty high tower of nickels, which, as long as we're on the subject of science, would defy gravity.

At Ellie's wedding dinner Dad dressed up like Albert Einstein and spoke in his famous German accent and drew equations on the board as a toast to Ellie and Jeff and their future. He promised them their increases would be exponential. Just like Einstein's Theory of Spatial Relativity, dad was right. So right, in fact, that even if I tried to lure Ellie with oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (her famous recipe) and a Meg Ryan Movie Marathon ("I don't like how you say with your nose all schrenched, 'You're French, aren'tchoo?'") she couldn't be persuaded to leave her darling (and smart) children. So, although I saw her just one month ago, I am wishing she would come again because Ellie makes math better and numbers bearable and just saves the day in general. (I have a feeling Miss Anna would be rather happy to see her, too.) Until then, I've got Dad here. If I squint, he looks like Einstein, and I know if I asked he'd speak with a German accent. Growing up he spent many a night at our round kitchen table explaining algebraic equations one step at a time. For that, for him, I am exponentially grateful.

Sunday Sunnyside Up

Yesterday at church, in a wonderful twist of fate slash a gigantic blessing from above, I got to sit next to my high school English teacher. In a congregation full of visiting family and friends, I chose to sit by Suzan. Anyone who knows her would have done exactly the same. She has this uncanny ability to see directly into you, past all the bull, and into your soul. You can't help but spill your guts when you're talking to her, and if you don't offer it up, she'll get it out of you no matter where you are -- at the grocery store, in line at the post office, in between the lines of the opening hymn. We started singing all good intentions and in tune, but ended up talking instead. About life. About the future.

She started out slow, asking what's new in my life and before I knew it the little thread she tugged at was pile of yarn on the floor beneath the pew. It may sound like the worst thing that to ever encounter (and if you haven't finished an English paper because you and your best friend were up late talking on the phone, it most definitely is). However, when you pack up your bags after a session with Suzan, you've got oodles of inspiration and a new Life Plan. You've got a mound of confidence three times the size of the pile of yarn she unraveled when you weren't looking, a reservoir of compliments, and enough oil in your lamp to climb the highest of mountains on the darkest of nights.

So yesterday when I told her my first math class in like forever and a day times infinity was looming large and I felt like I was going to fall and get stuck in the "U" of a parabola for eternity, she cupped my cheeks in her hands, told me I was wonderful beyond measure, and gave me the phone number of my high school math teacher.

This morning, the morn of the eve of my first math class in eleven years (which, if you do the math equals forever), I called my former math teacher. In total paranoia, I told Rose about my predicament. I guess I've been out of her classroom long enough that her contagious chuckle and New Yorker sarcasm came out the end of the phone and bit me on the ear. "This is going to be hard for you." Um. Yeah. Duh. I wanted to say it, but then I remembered how she used to deal with those kind of students. (Once she made a sign for boy who's sarcastic remarks were as endless as the number pi. She was so sick of telling him to shut up, she wrote it on a sign. I'm pretty sure she stuck it on a stick and laminated it, too. I wish I could say it worked. So does she.) Instead of complaining (or staying scared forever and a day) I'm going to take her advice, which is to take math one day at a time, one problem at a time, one number at a time. I promise not to moan incessantly. I told Rose she can keep her laminator high on its shelf.

Ode to Pythagoras

She said she quit math when she learned the numbers and points they were plotting didn't actually exist. She pulled her teacher aside. "Um," she whispered, "these numbers that we're learning about. They're not actual numbers." "Right," said her teacher, all matter of fact. She quit math class then and there. In the middle of the semester.

Last night I had a nightmare. About math class, which doesn't officially start for nine more days. I can't exactly quit a math class that doesn't actually exist. At least not yet.

While anxiety about equations and imaginary numbers has set in, and while discussions with fellow numerical novices make things seem grim, the comprehensible moments come, too. The moments when I remember the eventual application of all the upcoming math and physics and my overall goal. How ever far off it may seem, I know that plot point exists in reality. In these coherent moments, I recall the words of Robert Frost: The best way out is always through.

So here's to tackling math for the sake of art. And to the art in architecture. Here's to saving historic facades. Here's to the old, and to the new and to bridging the gap in between.