Learning

My wonderful handyman of a husband today hung the quilted wall hanging from a nice hanger I bought yesterday at a curiosity shop in town and which we decided to place over the bed in our smaller guest room, where my abuela's antique furniture now lives and where, not so long ago but when the room looked very different, my papi abandoned this world for the next one.

I think he would be very pleased with the change in the room's decor and would sing the praises of the quilted wall hanging, even as full of imperfections as it is, so I'm glad that it hangs there, just in case his spirit stops by to visit now and then, as I hope he does.

My next step will be to start on the longer, American Beauty quilt and see how far I can get with that one before the spring semester begins a little more than two months' from now. I am also very grateful to my papi for this leave, which I was only able to get now because of his terminal illness, and which has been a blessing not just because it has allowed me to work on my research and class-planning uninterruptedly but, most of all, because I've had time to, unlike Humpty Dumpty, put myself together again in a world that seems less comprehensible now that he is not in it.

It has also been rewarding to see how, even though I have not been an active presence at my small college on the hill this semester, my 200-level class filled quickly and with 18 people on the wait list I could actually teach two full sessions of that course alone. My other two classes, including my senior seminar, also filled quickly and, in that class, I'm very much looking forward to teaching a group of mostly former students, some of which are the best I've ever had. In planning for next semester, I'm already working hard to make sure I do justice to their and my expectations.

I also recently received a very exciting offer to propose an article for a book on approaches to teaching Hawthorne, which is just perfectly timed, given that I will be teaching the seminar next semester. I've ordered some of the books in the series so I can see the kind of genre this article would fall under and so I can start outlining what I would want to write about in teaching Hawthorne. It would be quite the wonderful coup if I could get an essay into that book. It's a lot to wish for but, as my grad school adviser always said, "Shoot for the stars, and for nothing less!"

These little events more than make up for recent challenges, like having to have a very pricey emergency root canal on a tooth that already had a very pricey crown put on it to try to save it, with no assurances that this second attempt will eventually save that tooth. It may well be that after spending more on one tooth than I have spent in clothes and shoes this year (if you know me well, you can imagine the price tag on that tooth), I will still have to pay more and endure having it ultimately pulled. I find root canals and tooth pulls, two procedures that I know much more than I care to, to be some of the most physically violent and traumatic events in my life these days, in my life that has known several major surgeries and other invasive procedures. En fin, ni modo. Pa'trás ni pa' coger impulso, as my papi would say.

I've also watched myself age considerably this year, especially over the past few months, as my erstwhile raven-black hair has become increasingly peppered with unruly white (not sure why they're called "gray") hairs, which I am not inclined to dye anymore. I've also stopped having my hair flat-ironed and am wearing it natural for the first time in many, many years. While there are political and personal reasons for that, there is also the influence of watching the hair around my temples get very fine and brittle and the fear of impending bald spots has made any further hair straightening a bad idea.

Plus, even when I have been on leave and not exerting myself at all in the same crazy pace that my normal semesters take, I am tired by the day's end and often in need of lying down for a short while before I get a second wind to finish the night. I've also become more forgetful, which isn't a trait I'm used to having to deal with as much. It's odd and somewhat frustrating when those around me pooh pooh my talk of aging and seem resistant to acknowledging that I am not in my 20s, 30s, or even early 40s anymore. That my energy levels are not as they used to be and that what I want out of life significantly differs from those who are, at the very least, several decades' away from where I find myself.

My husband and I recently agreed that the turn to 50 is something else altogether, and that aging becomes noticeably more palpable every single day, in one reminder or another. At any rate, aging is inevitable, and I plan to do it as gracefully and creatively as I can. Taking up quilting at what seems like a late stage may be part of that plan. Who knows? We'll have to see what the future brings.