Finding the Wellspring

As children file in to be seated for the spelling bee, energy buzzes throughout the cavernous cafeteria.  The contestants are already on stage, filling rows of folding chairs.  Across a narrow aisle next to them, empty seats await, ready to categorize their occupants as the not-winners of the bee.

Dan and I sit off to the side with the other parents, feeling as nervous as some of the contestants appear.  We exchange a few thumbs-up with Arden, in the second row on stage.  She seems in good spirits and we are relieved.  This day has loomed large at our house since she found out she’d be one of two students representing her class in the bee.

She was honored to have placed at the top of the girls in her class, but she was also very anxious about the prospect of being on stage.  Lately, she’s been trying to navigate those waters of early adolescence when the slightest frustration brings her to tears.  It’s been a rough several weeks for her, worrying about how she’ll manage to hold herself together on stage, afraid that misspelling a word will cause her to lose her tenuous grasp on her emotions.  Reassurances from adults in her life meant little since most of us erroneously assumed she was nervous about losing the bee.  But what she was worried about was losing her cool in front of so many peers and parents, a critical difference.

Dan and I talked and strategized with her at length, conferring with friends, perusing books about anxiety, and doing a lot of worrying ourselves.  We shared with her Dan’s own spelling bee experience:  that the kids prior to him were asked to spell words like table, but when he approached the mike, the word pronounced for him was hypognathous, which he obviously misspelled.  We tried to convey that she needed to let go of her fears because so much in a spelling bee is beyond the speller’s control, and that every speller but one would misspell a word.  And that all of that was okay and that she’d survive.  We tried to pull out by the roots all the what-ifs that sprouted like weeds.

We tried to establish new routines, like afternoon walks and yoga, that would help clear her head.  We played down the importance of winning and congratulated her on being a participant.  We made sure to spend time each day focusing on her needs, to be ready with extra hugs and to just listen.  I finally, truly realized that kids won’t talk unless I shut up.

That part was really hard for me.  It’s in our nature as adults to want and need to ask questions.  What’s wrong?  Is it X?  Is it Y?  What’s the matter?  Why are you crying?  Do you not feel good?  Did you have a bad day?  What can I do to help?  It’s intended, I suppose, to give a kid something to latch onto, but it backfires.  Our adult minds rarely grasp what is potentially going on in our kids’ heads, it seems.  I was often surprised at the reasons she gave me for feeling upset, anxious, and nervous.  Usually it was something new to me.  Anxiety breeds anxiety breeds anxiety, it seems.  I could not hear her until I stopped talking myself.

We’d spent so much time preparing emotionally for the spelling bee that I’d developed my own set of anxieties about it.  And so I was pleasantly surprised with how exciting it was to watch.  Each of the contestants revealed some endearing aspect of his or her personality during the bee.  The audience gasped audibly at appropriate times and cheered wildly at the end of each round.

Throughout it all, I kept thinking back to one of the rules announced at the beginning of the bee.  A contestant cannot correct himself after uttering a letter.  Just as in life, there are no do-overs.

By the end of the fifth round, all but two of the participants, including Arden, were out.  She knew before she’d finished spelling her final word that she’d made an error.  But she carried herself with grace to the other side of the aisle.

She learned that she can do hard things.  Realizing that is one of life’s greatest lessons.  All too often we allow ourselves to give up rather than soldiering through the difficulty.  There were days when we wondered if we should let her drop out, if the stress and burden of her fears were far too much for her ten-year-old self to bear.  But Dan and I came to understand that allowing her to quit would have proved a greater burden:  that she was not capable of facing her fears.  We watched from our seats as she stood tall on the stage and shook her fist at those fears, finding her own wellspring of quiet courage and let it flow forth.

The Sanity Lap

I’m not sure when the building I teach in was built, but it was probably during the 1960’s.  It’s a depressing institutional structure, with almost no natural light, especially in the interior corridors where my classroom is located.  Students report feeling the presence of Dementors in the building, and I honestly am not surprised, as I’ve sensed them myself.  It’s not a beautiful place to be, but we teachers try to make the best of it by painting our classrooms with cheery colors.  Nothing quite makes up for dim fluorescent lighting and general lack of interesting architecture, though.

This summer, when my friend and colleague, Lauren, realized that we shared a common prep period, she suggested that we walk a lap each day at the beginning of that class period.  We’ve since dubbed this short walk the Sanity Lap.  It takes place daily, unless there’s a downpour (which is generally unlikely).  We make our way outside, descend the stadium steps to the track and walk one lap, climb the steps and re-enter the building.  The entire trip takes probably no more than five minutes, from classroom door to classroom door.  We are leaving the track just as Boys PE is coming outside for their warm-up lap. 

There are some days when I wonder if those five minutes could be better used if I were grading or planning or organizing or photocopying or contacting parents or the myriad other things we teachers try to accomplish during the fifty-five minutes we’re without students.  But after a semester’s worth of laps, I can definitively say that the time spent on the lap pays greater dividends than the time it takes.  I have a daily opportunity to talk with an adult (and one who is wise and witty to boot), which can be a rare occurrence during the school day.  I spend a few moments outdoors, which restores my soul, and I inhale clean mountain air, rather than the stuffy re-circulated air in the building.  Just before we descend the steps to the track, I breathe in the distinctive view of Thumb Butte and the Bradshaw Mountains south of town.  I can discern if the sky is clear or cloudy or somewhere in between, having arrived at school before the sun is fully up during most of the year.  I connect with a friend, if only for a few moments.

Some days one teacher or another joins us, but usually it’s just the two of us, ranting, venting and laughing.  It’s often the best five minutes in the workday, leaving me refreshed and ready to tackle the challenges of the rest of the day.  The Sanity Lap has made me more productive and gives me focus.  I look forward to it each day.  It costs me only a tiny investment in time, but the pay-off is huge.  I’ve been reflecting on the year, as most of us do in December, and taking stock of habits I want to continue and change.  This one is a definite keeper.  As you reflect on the opportunities a new year brings, and the practices and rituals you want to establish, I hope that you will find something both as cost-effective and priceless as the Sanity Lap. 

Light and Darkness on the Solstice

Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.  – John Lennon

The past couple weeks I’ve been receiving mail, not the electronic kind, which is great in its own way, but real mail.  There is something so lovely about finding an envelope in my mailbox, addressed by a familiar hand, and posted with an actual stamp.  I’ve been welcoming some of these each day lately, with stories and photographs of people I love tucked inside.  I treasure each and every one of them, but  I wanted to share a couple of them with you.

There’s one letter each year that Dan and I especially anticipate.  It’s written by a woman who was in the hydrology program with Dan at U of A.  She’s smart as a whip and definitely one of the funniest holiday letter authors in North America – quite possibly the world, as I assume that the holiday form letter is a distinctively American tradition.

In these letters, she relates the same family news and events as most of us are likely to share, but the way she approaches even the most mundane of life’s events (like potty training) and household disasters (flooded basement followed by ice storm) seem like sitcom fodder.  Really, really good sitcom fodder.  What a gift it is to receive letter laughter each year from across the country.  It always makes me reframe how I might view similar events in my life with a more humorous perspective.

This year we received one Christmas letter in particular that was so courageous in its honesty.  One of my dear relatives has vascular dementia, which has caused her to lose much memory and language.  I haven’t seen her in several years, but I remember her as a vibrant, intelligent woman and a great storyteller with an infectious laugh.  Trained as a nurse, she worked for decades in orthopedic medicine. 

Like most holiday letters, this one from her spouse relayed the goings-on of the past twelve months and the accomplishments of their children and grandchildren.  It was also upfront about the challenges they now face on a daily basis.  But there wasn’t a shred of self-pity or woe.  The letter closed with beautiful words that brilliantly reflect the essence of my grandmother’s maxim:  bloom where you are planted.  In spite of unforeseen health issues (and honestly, how many health issues are foreseen?), they have changed their outlook to consider the realities of their lives, adjusting their expectations to mirror a much different retirement than originally anticipated.  

There are no guarantees in this life.  Each of our lives is marked by minor and major tragedies as unique, and yet as ordinary, as each of us.  We can choose to wallow in the injustice, and indeed, many do.  Or we can shine.  As MLK put it, “darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”  It is up to each of us how we choose to react.  In fact, our reaction is perhaps the only thing we can truly control in this life.    May the coming year fill you with light and love and laughter, and a desire to savor each day’s abundance.  Carpe diem, just like the old poets said.

Life's Rich Playlist

For my fortieth birthday, Dan made me a playlist.  He is a master of playlists, assembling songs that flow perfectly from one to the next.  The one he made for that milestone birthday, though, contains ninety-five tracks, each released between 1968 and 2008.  I’ve been listening to it again since my birthday this year.  And while I’ve been the recipient of some special gifts over the years, this playlist is one of my favorites.  There’s a memory, an era, a phase for each tune.  For example, I can’t listen to the following without some kind of flashback:

U2:  Where the Streets Have No Name.  If you were in college in the late 1980s, this song was the theme for every party, road trip, pre-game celebration, and, ahem, study session.

REM:  I Am Superman.  The first openly lesbian woman I knew, who lived across the hall from me my sophomore year in college, played this song a lot.  She was older than the rest of us in the dorm, and was very wise for her years.  It was a big deal when she moved in, practically a scandal, but I remember how most of us came to consider her a friend.  I think of her when I hear this song and I wonder where she is today and what’s she’s doing.

The Smiths:  How Soon Is Now?  The theme of my senior year of high school.

Paul Simon:  Hearts and Bones.  I fell in love with Simon’s strangely poetic lyrics because of this song.  He made me realize how playful and poignant words could be, sometimes simultaneously.

Led Zeppelin:  Stairway to Heaven.  My favorite song when I was in about seventh or eighth grade.

Dire Straits:  The Sultans of Swing.  This song was on endless repeat during my summer in Paris.  My Parisien friend Marco had this song, and nothing but this song, on the cassette he played as we drove in his little Peugeot from café to café on the weekends.  He sang at the top of his lungs with his French accent, the lyrics just about the only English he knew.

Red Hot Chili Peppers:  Breaking the Girl, Smashing Pumpkins:  Disarm, and Cowboy Junkies:  Powderfinger. These are a few of the songs that Dan and I listened to a lot early in our relationship, and while I still love these songs, I also love how our musical tastes have continued to evolve as we grow older.

I doubt that Dan is aware of some of the stories behind these songs, and really, everyone has their own memories connected to music that can’t adequately be duplicated or expressed.  But I still love my lifelist, five years down the road.  A gift someone makes for you is truly something to be cherished.  Merci, D.  xoxoxox

 

Lessons from the Mat

Over the past couple months I’ve been really busy, as is typical for end-of-summer and beginning-of-fall for me, as well as for most parents and all teachers.  And for most of the Saturday mornings in this period of time, I’ve been too busy or too lazy to make it to yoga class.  Or at least that’s what I told myself:  that it was because I had too much to do, or because I needed some extra zzz’s.  I did make it to class this weekend, and I’m so glad I did, because I realized that I hadn’t been too lazy to go; I realized that I’ve been avoiding class.  I hadn’t been avoiding it because I had too many things to do, or even because it meant I’d have to set an alarm on a Saturday morning.  I was avoiding it because of the mirror.

It’s difficult not to compare oneself to others, even (or is it especially?) in yoga class.  I know that goes against one of the tenets of yoga - that it shouldn’t matter if my downward dog looks better or worse than my neighbor’s.  It shouldn’t matter if my arms start to shake in plank after my neighbor’s do, or that my neighbor spends more time resting in child’s pose than doing anything else.  But I am secretly gloating inside when I notice that I am doing better than my neighbor on the mat, even though I know in my heart that yoga is not a competition.  And yet, still my eyes wander to others, to see how I compare, until I realize that their eyes must also wander to me, and that they are judging me and comparing themselves to me, and finding themselves superior.  Why this realization always surprises me, I can’t really explain.

Deep down, even the most confident of women (and, men, too, perhaps) have some kind of body image issue.  I’m obviously not alone in this annoying and ridiculous self-talk, especially after disfiguring cancer surgery.  I struggled with negative body image even before my surgery.  But in class this week, our instructor said, in the middle of a difficult posture, “I’ve noticed that this pose is much easier for those with long arms.  I have stubby T-Rex arms.”  Many people laughed, of course.  She paused a moment, and then added in a steady voice, without a hint of sarcasm, “But I notice that I do have arms.”  The laughter stopped and the reminder that we are lucky to be capable of taking part in a yoga class hung in the air.  I know that what she meant was to show us that it is possible to stop the cycle of negative words that even she was experiencing.  It was very timely for me, as I’d been lamenting my own losses lately and dwelling in the land of self-pity more than necessary.  But it’s not just about body image or ability.

She went on to talk about the yogic concept of santosa:  contentment with the way things are.  This is different from gratitude, which is the quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness.  She asked us, if we would pause for a moment each day this month to consider santosa, and to be mindful of it, as we contemplate thanksgiving (with a small t and also with a capital T) this month.  Instead of being grateful for what we have, what if we were content?  I think I am pretty good at being grateful, but I am still learning to practice contentment.  We are powerless to change much in this life, but we are utterly capable of changing our own perspective about anything at all. 

Sometimes I think of the phrase contrast aids perception, but in my mind I often confuse it with contrast aids perspective.  So often we forget that contentment and gratitude, as well as unhappiness and desire, originate from within.  But contrasting ourselves with others often leads to unhappiness and desire rather than contentment, unless and until we begin to look to others as teachers.  I often find myself reading true adventure-disaster tales, and I think I start reading these books because I wanted to know what happened.  Now I think I read them because I want to learn something about the nature of the human spirit:  how did this person survive this experience?  what was it that he or she found within that elicited the courage to continue?  We’ve all survived something, be it cancer, the death of a loved one, or simply Monday morning.  What is it that gave you the courage to keep going?  And how can we find and practice contentment in that?