Today, one more day of trying to teach while ensnared in a web of red tape, I’m thinking specifically about two kinds of people:

1. The kind who thinks the rules don’t apply. You can give them the Suzuki Speech before beginning lessons, but they still don’t understand that they need to be involved.  You can tell them tuition is due at the beginning of the month, but they won’t bring it until you remind them, sometimes multiple times.  You can even make them sign a contract, but they may or may not abide by it, depending on the weather.  Their lives are just SO complicated and SO busy; you couldn’t possibly understand what they are going through, but at least try to understand it’s much more important than anything you care about.

2. The kind who takes a mile. Growing up, my mother had the same job I do now, so I learned early the value of a professional relationship.  It drove us crazy the way her students would tromp through the kitchen exclaiming, “Wow!  That smells GOOD!” or “What are you reading?”  We felt invaded, even when the people were our friends — imagine your friends following you to the office and trying to make small talk while you work.  Eventually, she trained them to come in through the front door, and I’ve done the same with my students.

Except then we had this little storm, and shoveling four feet of heavy, wet snow is exhausting; it was all we could do to clear a path from the street to the front and back doors.  I (generously, I thought) offered to let my students use the back door that week.

Now the snow is melting and the walkway is clear, but they have still been coming in and out through the back door.  I feel awkward refusing, especially when they look at me with Bambi eyes and say, “It’s soooo cold, can we go out through the back?”  So I say of course, and they walk through the kitchen commenting on dinner / dishes / decor.  It throws me into the most grumpy mood imaginable.  Is it a big deal?  Of course not.  (And at least it’s reasonably clean.)  But I hate feeling like a sucker when I was just trying to be nice.

Now, I’m willing to bet that I’ve played both parts on occasion.  So I’m actually, in a sick sort of way, grateful to the people who have inspired this rant post.  Because of them, I am more than careful to honor my commitments and respect the boundaries others set.  Here’s hoping that’s contagious.

Building on prior research, the Penn researchers defined the quality as an “emotion of self-transcendence, a feeling of admiration and elevation in the face of something greater than the self.”

They used two criteria for an awe-inspiring story: Its scale is large, and it requires “mental accommodation” by forcing the reader to view the world in a different way.

. . .

But in general, people who share this kind of article seem to have loftier motives than trying to impress their friends. They’re seeking emotional communion, Dr. Berger said.

“Emotion in general leads to transmission, and awe is quite a strong emotion,” he said. “If I’ve just read this story that changes the way I understand the world and myself, I want to talk to others about what it means. I want to proselytize and share the feeling of awe. If you read the article and feel the same emotion, it will bring us closer together.”

On that note, here’s one of the most beautiful things to come out of the blizzard so far.  Be awed with me!

When something like this happens, the trappings of everyday life are dreamily suspended.  There are no deadlines, no to-do lists, no causes for anxiety.  Just simple pleasures: all weekend spent with friends and family and pets in a never-ending stretch of food and games and merciless needling.  Yesterday some friends brought their son over for a makeup  piano lesson and stayed for several hours, drinking Rob’s homemade krupnik and telling stories.  Later, we walked the half-mile to the home of our new godson and his parents: the busy roads were utterly quiet and untouched, save the crunching of snow under our boots and the prints they left behind us.  We walked glove in glove down the center of the street, enjoying the feeling of doing something daring without a bit of real risk.

Our backyard is a mass of white punctuated by a blip here or there — the compost bin, the picnic table, last year’s forlorn tomato cages.  The sky is gray, the wind strong.  The tunnels we dug several days ago, from street to car to house, are almost invisible amid the four-foot drifts.  I’ve never seen anything like it.

We are reading good books (The Joy Luck Club, A Separate Peace) and watching bad movies (The X-Files, St. Elmo’s fire) and cooking to use up all our non-Lenten delicacies.  This morning I made a cherry coffee cake with marzipan and molasses, and we drank tea out of the World’s Most Beautiful Teapot, an Uzbek creation courtesy of my globetrotting friend Mary.

The thought of returning to school fills me with dread, because I know I’m going to have to make some hard choices about our plans for the semester.  Do I push them and risk mutiny and confusion?  Do I cut material and worry they’ll need it later?  I don’t have answers yet, but I’m not worrying about it either.  As we sit at either end of the couch, covered by a fluffy down comforter and a fluffier contented cat, listening to the howl of the storm and the gentle voices of my favorite French quartet singing Russian chant, we are pretty sure everything will be fine.

In case you’ve been media-free for the last few days, we’re having some Weather here.   Here’s a shot of my parents’ front yard, including Rolling Road, which normally buzzes with activity:

Here’s their herb garden — the large lump is a bench and the small one is a birdbath:

Yes, we’re staying with Mommy and Daddy, along with some friends and their two dogs.  We’re stuck here for now, though the guys did hike to the grocery store a few hours ago and brought back an amazing haul that I couldn’t possibly make up:

• 6 loaves of bread
• 5 pounds of brisket
• 4 dozen eggs
• 3 pounds of cheese
• 2 frozen pizzas
• 1 gallon of milk

Men become cavemen at the first sign of trouble, I guess.  It would be endearing if we didn’t have to use it all up before Lent begins next week.

And proof that there is beauty everywhere, including in the storm.

If we have to be snowed in, I’m glad I’m with people I love.

I know I should be bitter.  Baltimore County closed schools today; our term ended on Friday.  Instead, though, I am so grateful:

1) Exams are over, and except for one batch of essays, I am completely caught up with grading.

2) The principal gave us each a generous gift and a box of Rhebs chocolate, along with her heartfelt thanks for all that we do.

3) I got all my baking, laundry and accounting done in two glorious days of being snowed in.

4) The cat has finally accepted that for once, she is not interested in being outside.

From what I can find out, it’s technically the mold spores that proliferate in damp weather.  I can start timing when the first drops fall; if it’s not dry and sunny again six hours later, I’ll have a sneezing fit six hours after that.  The sneezing (along with its inglorious companions, itchy eyes and tickly throat) doesn’t clear up until about a day after the weather does.  Sinus Rinse helps some, but it doesn’t hold back the dirty looks Rob throws my way as I disturb his existence with my sniffling.

Allergic to rain.  There are worse ailments, I’m sure.  But this is just embarrassing.

Snow chatter starts about 24 hours before it’s “supposed to” come.  (And another thing: what in the world did we do before Doppler?  This might be a case of a little knowledge being dangerous.)  It’s something to talk about, though, and I love to see the kids get excited.  So this afternoon, when I greeted my first student, I said, “Ready for a day off tomorrow?”  She grinned.

I said, “You know how to make sure school is canceled, right?”  She didn’t.  “Do all of your homework.  Get ready the night before.  Plan to go to school, and then we won’t have to.”  (This is completely true, by the way — even more so now that I’m a teacher.  If I’m not prepared, I will absolutely have to go anyway.)

Her mom shook her head. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said.  “I used to teach school in Buffalo, and the girls I lived with told me to lay all my clothes out the night before we were supposed to get a big snow, so we could have the day off.  Well, I did, and the storm came, and we didn’t have school for a month!  They were literally carting snow out of the city by the truckload.  We were in school until July that year!”

“Hmm,” I said.  “Can you lay out just some of your clothes?  Like, maybe just your socks?”

Teachers work hard.  Everyone knows that.  They also claim they don’t get paid enough, but my husband likes to point out that no one thinks they get paid enough.  (When was the last time you heard someone volunteer that they were happy with their salary and thought it was perfectly fair, or even a little generous?)  I’m not going to argue salaries right now, but I do want to point out that teachers have an awful lot of perks, too, and one of them is snow days.  This extends to sleet, ice, freezing rain, high winds, or a term I heard for the first time last year: “Wintry Mix.”  Which means, “We don’t know what we’re expecting, but it can’t be good.”

In the olden days when I was in school, there were several days when I remember that school was canceled the night before in anticipation of snow that never actually fell.  Whoops.  The trend in the last couple of years, by contrast, has been to wait until the last possible second before canceling anything.  So, we report to school on time; two hours later, when the snow is falling thickly, school is canceled early and all the young drivers are released out onto the road.  I can’t think of anything more foolish, and the only explanation I can imagine is that no one wants to cancel pre-emptively and risk embarassment.

But for all the complaints we offer, the truth is that we love snow days.  Who wouldn’t?  An unexpected, forced day off is an amazing gift to any hardworking professional.  I try to take full advantage of it by spending the first half of the day in a bathrobe with something hot to drink and a magazine — and the second half catching up on all the things I’ve fallen behind on.  Usually, the first “half” of the day is a little longer than the second, but I consider that an acceptable margin of error.