Water the Flowers

Posted on by stilllearning2b

In my old life, I had a one acre yard that I was determined to turn into a woodland garden. Every year, from February to June and again in the fall, I planted small starter plants and divisions. By the third year, I had these petite and vulnerable plants spread across the entire yard. Watering them became a real chore and usually resulted in someone being ignored (and possibly even killed if it was particularly hot or dry). Something had to change.

I spent one summer laying out a complicated, serpentine labyrinth of soaker hoses, each long run connected to a water source with an individual control. I planned it out so that the water guzzlers had the higher pressure lines and the more drought tolerant had the lower pressure side. Once my project was complete, I could water the entire yard throughout a day with only five minutes of actual effort.

And it worked. The plants that were tucked in the back of the yard or in easily forgotten corners finally received a regular drink just like their more prominent brethren. They showed their appreciation by putting on size, often triple that from the year before.

Whatever we nurture, grows.

By the following season, there was a marked change in my garden. The tiny little plants, once isolated in their adult-sized spacings, began to knit together. When I gave a tour of the yard, I no longer had to speak for my plants, explaining the vision. They spoke for themselves. They were healthier. And I was happier, as my time could be used for more skilled and pleasant chores than holding a hose.

Yet all was not roses.  There were a few runs where the soaker hoses had to cross a no man’s land, filled with scrabbly grass and weeds, in order to get to next planting area. As I was watering my flowers, I was inadvertently watering my weeds as well. As a result, I had thick, lush patches of chickweed and knotweed, more prodigous than any desired plant.

Whatever we nurture, grows.

In the garden, this is an easy fix. I replaced the soaker hose with a solid one in the areas where no water was needed. As a result, the weeds failed to thrive and were losing the war against the now-stronger desired plants. By paying attention to the flowers and ignoring the weeds, the garden grew.

Whatever we nurture, grows.

This is true in our lives as well. Think about where you energy (physical or mental) goes. Are you fixated on a problem area in your life? Do you focus more on your weaknesses than your strengths? Is your emphasis on what is wrong rather than what is right?

Whatever we nurture, grows.

When we spend too much time and energy on the weeds in life, we inadvertently water them. They grow. We fail to see the blossoms through the thicket of weeds. And, if we continue to nurture the negativity, it will eventually choke out the blooms, leaving only the thistles behind.

Every life, like every yard, has weeds.

Yet every life

Every relationship

Every encounter

Every situation

also has blooms, spots of beauty and joy and exuberance.

So water the flowers.

Whatever we nurture, grows.

Related: The Garden

I Never Learned This in School

Posted on by stilllearning2b

So December 2013 is another month marked by yet another school shooting. It’s almost commonplace now yet as I looked around the excited faces of our middle schoolers at their annual basketball pep rally this afternoon, it’s unimaginable. I cannot envision one of them turning on their classmates and teachers with a deadly weapon. I cannot picture an armed intruder entering our school.

And I don’t want to.

After Brock heard about the latest incident on the news, he brought up the idea of doing some pro bono training for teachers. This is a man who has made his life’s passion about protection and defense. I have no doubt that his empty hands against a gun would at least result in a fight. He wants to share his expertise so that teachers could be better prepared. I appreciate and understand his motivation and intent.

But I don’t want to.

I don’t like assuming the role of a security officer at school. I am stretched enough as teacher and counselor and social worker and nurse and cheerleader. And playing police defeats those other roles. The roles I signed up for. I don’t know if I possess the capacity for the duplicity required. Middle schoolers don’t respond to clinical detachment; you have to form relationships. But how do you build a relationship at the same time you train how to take them out? Perhaps it is something that can be learned.

ButI don’t want to.

It makes Brock upset. And, I’m sure, scared every time he hears those reports. He knows techniques and strategies that could potentially help. It frustrates him that I don’t want to learn those operations. But I don’t know if I can and continue to work in my role as a teacher.

I never learned this in school. I was taught how to attack curriculum, not people. I was taught how to motivate kids, not take out adversaries. I learned how to break apart the processes of math, not the bones of others. I am sure I could learn these other lessons,  these techniques more suited to SWAT than pep rally.

But I don’t want to.

Maybe it’s my way of keeping my head in the sand. Keeping the possibility at a safe enough distance. Maybe it’s because being a teacher is overwhelming enough and I can’t imagine adding another layer to balance. Perhaps I’m just not made of the right stuff to be able to respond tactically in chaos. Maybe it seems futile because I can not (will not?) dedicate the time needed for real training.

I don’t know.

But I do know that these reports always shake me to the core.

The hard slap of reality delivered with a frightening regularity.

I do know it makes me want to hug my students.

And assure them they’re not alone.

I do know it changes the way I feel, walking into my job every day.

It puts the little things in perspective.

I just read an article today that discussed the first national summit on school shootings. Those involved were trying to come with a profile that would fit the classic perpetrator. And basically, what they came up with was a pretty typical teenage boy. Not necessarily a loner, no more likely to come from a single parent home. Just a kid.

The kind that move through my classroom every day by the dozens.

I don’t want to view each of those kids as a potential shooter.

I can’t.

What I can do is try my best to see each one as an individual. To build relationships. To reach out. To listen. To get help when needed. To reassure and motivate. To build community and trust.

I may not know how to wrestle a gun from someone’s hands. But maybe I can do a little bit to keep it from those hands in the first place.

And hope that is enough.

What I Like About Love

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Love is one of the first concepts a child understands yet it also is an idea that takes us a lifetime to master. As we have more experiences with love in all forms, we expand our definition to encompass its many forms. We realize that it has no limits, no file storage maximum. We discover that there is no better feeling than new love and nothing as painful as love lost. We learn that gripping onto love with jealousy or fear only dampens it and that love grows in a medium of acceptance. We find that giving love is the same as receiving, just like you cannot give a hug without also getting one. Our definition of love changes and grows with each passing season. The word that prompts a concise definition from a child now takes pages of discourse and dissection.

Love refuses to be pinned down.

To be distilled into the least common denominator.

Love is messy and grand.

We seek it yet we also hide from it, fearing its loss.

We idealize it.

And yet we often fail to recognize it.

We want it.

And yet we act in opposition to it.

When it comes to love, we are still students.

Exploring. Wondering. Seeking. Learning.

And that’s what I like about love.

Elizabeth Gilbert, of Eat Pray Love fame, wrote about how love has changed for her since her divorce and second marriage. I related. You may too.

Lullaby

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I noticed the sound first.

A sort of whoosing noise that was obvious along the empty and carpeted hallway.

Curious as to its source, I looked around, only confirming that I was alone.

And then I looked down.

The noise was coming from me.

Or, more accurately, from my left foot as it dragged along the floor.

I couldn’t feel my altered gait; I had no sensation that alerted me to the change.

Yet I couldn’t lift and replace my foot with each step.

There was no pain. At least not yet. It was just an observation. A, “Hmmm…that’s weird. I should keep an eye on that.”

I continued down the hall, my dropped foot leaving a trail in the carpet behind me like the morning slugs on my front walkway. As I settled into my seat and opened my binder to prepare for the upcoming class, I forgot all about the incident.

A week went by. My gait returned to normal and I gave my leg’s lazy morning no more thought.

And then a new visitor arrived.

I again was in that same carpeted hallway, although this time the classroom doors were still locked, so I sat on the floor with my back against the wall.

Without warning, a hot poker of pain pierced through my leg and into my gut. I released a gasp, as I curled into a ball, startling the other students in the hall. The stab stole my breath and then is disappeared, leaving only a strange tingling behind as a reminder.

That tingle, a sensation of the nerves whispering to each other, became a frequent companion. It often felt as though the leg was asleep and couldn’t quite fully wake up.

That was my introduction to shingles, at the ripe old age of 22. The blisters came a week or so later, bringing a visible indicator of the disease that, up until then, had been entirely subterranean. I finally connected the dots, understanding that each of the strange symptoms was part of a larger story.

I have never know such physical pain. The location of my outbreak meant that I didn’t have to worry about visible scarring, but it also meant that I could not sit down (or easily wear pants). I took my final exams that semester from a prone position on the floor, ice packs carefully placed around my hip and thigh.

The blisters eventually popped and healed over. The deep pain and strange skin sensations took longer. I kept a pillow in my car so that I would not have to sit on the affected side. My weird limp would still appear out of nowhere. For months, random lightening bolts would shoot through my leg, stealing my ability to talk or even think.

It’s been 13 years now and I rarely even think about those miserable months.

But the body still sends reminders.

Like ghosts of shingles past traveling along the neural pathways. Bringing pain or numbness out of the blue.

I’m healed, but the virus is still there, living at the base of the nerve bundle that travels to my leg. Most of the time it is dormant, unnoticed and inconsequential. But sometimes, it senses weakness, either from illness or injury, and it wakes up. And says hello.

It’s alert this weekend, more than it has been in years. My leg feels wooden, distant. But now I know how to rock the virus back into slumber with gentle stretches and patience. It will be okay.

As I was healing from the divorce, my mind kept thinking about my experience with shingles. There were so many parallels.

The cause that was anchored in the distant past.

The distant and underground signs that were not clear until the disease was visible to the eye.

The sharp pain that was too much to bear at the onset.

The slow improvement over time.

The fact that healing was not linear or predictable and pain could pounce at any time.

The strange distance I felt from my leg matched the separation I felt from my life.

And then there’s the fact that, like the virus along my spine, the memory of the pain from the divorce will always be there.

Dormant.

But there.

Looking for moments of weakness to wake up again.

But now I know its lullaby.

To keep it safely asleep.

 

 

How to Surf a Tsunami

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Many of us will face a personal tsunami at some point in our lives. We will be felled by a great wave bringing with it sudden change and loss. Perhaps your tsunami is in the form of the death of a loved one, maybe it is the loss of a job or a way of life or possibly you have lost the health you took for granted. My own tsunami was in the form of an unexpected divorce after being abandoned via a text message.

Regardless of the nature of your abrupt trauma, tsunamis have some common characteristics. By their nature, tsunamis are difficult to predict and even harder to prepare for. You have to face the realization that you cannot control your surroundings. The world that you knew is gone, swept away in a single move. You feel disoriented as you try to navigate this new realm.

Soon after the trauma, it feels like it will be impossible to rebuild. The odds seem insurmountable. The shock and grief permeate everything and make every move a struggle. Restoration after a sudden trauma is not easy, but it is possible. In fact, you can even learn how to surf your tsunami, moving through it with skill and grace.

The following are my healing tips for anyone who has been flattened by a tsunami.

Breathe

The blow of sudden trauma is physical. The body tenses as if anticipating another blow. The breath is the first to suffer; it becomes shallow and rapid behind a breast wrapped tight in a straightjacket of sorrow. Release it. It won’t be easy and it won’t be automatic, at least in the beginning. Set a reminder on your phone or computer to take several deep breaths at least once an hour. As long as the body is anticipating another blow, the mind will be as well. Sometimes it’s easier to train the body and allow the mind to follow.

Read the rest here.