It is that time of year again. I almost didn't do it. I thought, so much has changed, I'm so busy, there is NO way that I will be able to stick to it, there is just no point in trying a Lenten blog again. Besides, it sounds weird. Lenten Blog. Like some kind of marshy landmark the locals tell you to avoid. "Don't turn left, or you'll end up in the Lenten Blog, and then you're really out of luck!" To be honest, I feel embarrassed. I always start out with such good intentions and I always end up somewhere south on a paved road. But then, maybe that is the perfect place to start. Again. This is not a time of completion, this is a time of brokenness, a time of repentance and reconciliation.
So this year, here is the plan. This Lent, I will strive to give up my expectations. I am going to write when I can and try to forgive myself when I can't. I am going to work on cherishing the path directly before me instead of comparing it to all the paths I thought I would be traveling. How exactly all that will translate to the blog is anyone's guess.
Here we go!
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Forever, or the absence thereof
A friend shared this article, an essay by Emily Rapp, self-professed “dragon mother” to an 18 month old boy with Tay-Sachs disease. There isn’t anything I can say about her story that she doesn’t say more eloquently herself, but there was one paragraph that caught me full in the face.
Parenting is a profession that seems to wax and wane with the cycles of the moon. Just when you think you have it licked, some other challenge comes along to remind you that in fact, you know nothing and your previous success in raising your child is proof to the saying that even a blind squirrel sometimes finds a nut. At least that is my experience. Also, it seems that the older my child gets, the faster the race becomes between my feelings of abject incompetence and a vague sense that he might not need too much therapy as an adult.
I know that Ms. Rapp’s momento mori is a reminder to cherish every precious moment, every milestone, every loving word. But for me, tonight, it is a reminder that the hour-long struggle at bedtime, the tantrums over a twenty five cent toy in a vending machine, the pouting face and the shouted words, they are not forever either. And for someone out there, they would be a gift. How many parents or would-be parents would love to give a time-out to an absent or wished-for child? Even at my most exhausted, my most frustrated, I am blessed beyond measure. I may not remember it in the moment, but I am blessed all the same.
So how do I carry this lesson, slung over my hip or hanging from my neck, a burden I both cherish and long to lay down? How do I live in the moment of gratitude when I have used up my happy-crappy on everyone but my family? No answer except this, none of it is forever. The grass withers, the flower fades and all my failures and accomplishments will come to nothing, except maybe this one thing. I’m his mom and he’s my kid and sometimes I don’t totally screw it up. I guess for now that will have to suffice.
"And there’s this: parents who, particularly in this country, are expected to be superhuman, to raise children who outpace all their peers, don’t want to see what we see. The long truth about their children, about themselves: that none of it is forever."None of it is forever. A sharp reminder in a compact phrase.
Parenting is a profession that seems to wax and wane with the cycles of the moon. Just when you think you have it licked, some other challenge comes along to remind you that in fact, you know nothing and your previous success in raising your child is proof to the saying that even a blind squirrel sometimes finds a nut. At least that is my experience. Also, it seems that the older my child gets, the faster the race becomes between my feelings of abject incompetence and a vague sense that he might not need too much therapy as an adult.
I know that Ms. Rapp’s momento mori is a reminder to cherish every precious moment, every milestone, every loving word. But for me, tonight, it is a reminder that the hour-long struggle at bedtime, the tantrums over a twenty five cent toy in a vending machine, the pouting face and the shouted words, they are not forever either. And for someone out there, they would be a gift. How many parents or would-be parents would love to give a time-out to an absent or wished-for child? Even at my most exhausted, my most frustrated, I am blessed beyond measure. I may not remember it in the moment, but I am blessed all the same.
So how do I carry this lesson, slung over my hip or hanging from my neck, a burden I both cherish and long to lay down? How do I live in the moment of gratitude when I have used up my happy-crappy on everyone but my family? No answer except this, none of it is forever. The grass withers, the flower fades and all my failures and accomplishments will come to nothing, except maybe this one thing. I’m his mom and he’s my kid and sometimes I don’t totally screw it up. I guess for now that will have to suffice.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Jumping Off the Plane
It is now a month and a half since I wrote last. In that time, we've moved an entire household (although I'll confess there are still a lot of boxes around) and traveled to both coasts. In fact, we've driven through 27 states, stayed in 23 different cities and traveled just under 10,000 miles in two months. When we finally returned to our new home, we had just a few short days before we were plunged into that educational no man's land known as "in-service".
Things happened so fast, I barely had time to notice that finally, I am teaching in a school! It is only part-time (at least in pay) and my one daily class still has only five kids, but I am on the payroll. I have projects and email and meetings and office politics and the whole nine. I am gainfully employed and I don't think I could have found a better place to take this step.
I was sitting in our all school meeting, hearing the head of school repeat the resident, somewhat prosaic mantra. "The students come first, which means we come second." You think well yes, of course. But it was his emphasis on the second part of that statement that has made this idea curl up in my brain and take hold. Think about it, what does it mean to own this idea that you are creating a student-centered program? Putting the student first seems natural. Most people who go into teaching are the kind of people who will go that extra mile, so it seems redundant to state it.
However, to articulate that we come second is something else entirely. It implies a mindset that, coming from my protestant reformed tradition, I would almost call spiritual. My religious training taught me that I had to "die to self" in order to follow God, and I'll confess that this is a struggle in my life. In the true sense, dying to oneself is not the eradacation of personality in order to become a God-clone, but to have a willing and open heart, so that my true spiritual identity and purpose can be made manifest. It means accepting that I can make many, many plans but that they are all pretty much crackerjacks when faced with the eternal. It means control is an illusion and we only have power over the willingness we bring to bear on our circumstances and the spirit in which we respond to our challenges.
In more Oprah-esque terms, I have two options in spiritually dealing with things like displacement, unemployment and financial hardship. I can cling to my self, and mourn the loss of my plans, where and who I thought I would be and let myself be wrapped up in my fears for my family. Or, I can try to let my illusory self go (an ongoing process to be sure) so that I might find my authentic life, in the present state of my circumstances. I will never know what is truly possible unless I put my self last and my life first.
So what does this mean then in the classroom? I'm sure for many the idea of "coming second" means poor self-care, being a doormat, passive aggressive resentment or even feelings of martyrdom. Teachers are so often asked to give past the point of breaking, it almost seems abusive to keep repeating to them "you come second".
Except it isn't. If you had been in any of my meetings this week and seen the looks on the listening faces, you might have thought you were at a tent revival and not an in-service meeting. I'm sure there are dissenting voices and I will come to know them in time. Still, the majority of the folks hearing looked ready to finish each repetition with a rousing AMEN! And I wondered, what is different here?
I think the answer lies in two things, purpose and ownership.
It is one thing to take advantage of a teacher's natural inclination to sacrifice themselves for their students. It is quite another to charge that teacher with a purpose. It is powerful to be told we are here for one common purpose, no one of us is greater than that purpose, and that includes everyone. We must die to our preconceptions so that we are free to do the work that needs doing, not the work we thought we wanted or that feels most comfortable. It's a worthy mission and it puts into positive terms the given circumstances of the profession.
Ownership is something else, it is not just responsibility, but also knowing you are not alone. It's the difference between being thrown out of an airplane and having someone jump with you. While the first instance might be empowering on some level and you may yet land successfully, the jump was not your choice. In my experiences this week I've felt on several occasions like I'm standing at the door of the plane and instead of feeling a push, there is a linking of arms. We may all go down with a thud or our chutes may get blown miles off course or we might make a nearly perfect landing. But the decision to jump is mine, and there is a whole group of lunatics waiting to jump with me.
So maybe teaching is a religion. Maybe we shall all worship at the holy shrine of student-centered process-driven hyphen-happy learning. More importantly for me, however, I'm starting to feel safe for the first time in years, and it is in the midst of total uncertainty and risk.
I'm ready to come second. I'm ready to die to self. Bring it on, I want to see what happens next.
Things happened so fast, I barely had time to notice that finally, I am teaching in a school! It is only part-time (at least in pay) and my one daily class still has only five kids, but I am on the payroll. I have projects and email and meetings and office politics and the whole nine. I am gainfully employed and I don't think I could have found a better place to take this step.
I was sitting in our all school meeting, hearing the head of school repeat the resident, somewhat prosaic mantra. "The students come first, which means we come second." You think well yes, of course. But it was his emphasis on the second part of that statement that has made this idea curl up in my brain and take hold. Think about it, what does it mean to own this idea that you are creating a student-centered program? Putting the student first seems natural. Most people who go into teaching are the kind of people who will go that extra mile, so it seems redundant to state it.
However, to articulate that we come second is something else entirely. It implies a mindset that, coming from my protestant reformed tradition, I would almost call spiritual. My religious training taught me that I had to "die to self" in order to follow God, and I'll confess that this is a struggle in my life. In the true sense, dying to oneself is not the eradacation of personality in order to become a God-clone, but to have a willing and open heart, so that my true spiritual identity and purpose can be made manifest. It means accepting that I can make many, many plans but that they are all pretty much crackerjacks when faced with the eternal. It means control is an illusion and we only have power over the willingness we bring to bear on our circumstances and the spirit in which we respond to our challenges.
In more Oprah-esque terms, I have two options in spiritually dealing with things like displacement, unemployment and financial hardship. I can cling to my self, and mourn the loss of my plans, where and who I thought I would be and let myself be wrapped up in my fears for my family. Or, I can try to let my illusory self go (an ongoing process to be sure) so that I might find my authentic life, in the present state of my circumstances. I will never know what is truly possible unless I put my self last and my life first.
So what does this mean then in the classroom? I'm sure for many the idea of "coming second" means poor self-care, being a doormat, passive aggressive resentment or even feelings of martyrdom. Teachers are so often asked to give past the point of breaking, it almost seems abusive to keep repeating to them "you come second".
Except it isn't. If you had been in any of my meetings this week and seen the looks on the listening faces, you might have thought you were at a tent revival and not an in-service meeting. I'm sure there are dissenting voices and I will come to know them in time. Still, the majority of the folks hearing looked ready to finish each repetition with a rousing AMEN! And I wondered, what is different here?
I think the answer lies in two things, purpose and ownership.
It is one thing to take advantage of a teacher's natural inclination to sacrifice themselves for their students. It is quite another to charge that teacher with a purpose. It is powerful to be told we are here for one common purpose, no one of us is greater than that purpose, and that includes everyone. We must die to our preconceptions so that we are free to do the work that needs doing, not the work we thought we wanted or that feels most comfortable. It's a worthy mission and it puts into positive terms the given circumstances of the profession.
Ownership is something else, it is not just responsibility, but also knowing you are not alone. It's the difference between being thrown out of an airplane and having someone jump with you. While the first instance might be empowering on some level and you may yet land successfully, the jump was not your choice. In my experiences this week I've felt on several occasions like I'm standing at the door of the plane and instead of feeling a push, there is a linking of arms. We may all go down with a thud or our chutes may get blown miles off course or we might make a nearly perfect landing. But the decision to jump is mine, and there is a whole group of lunatics waiting to jump with me.
So maybe teaching is a religion. Maybe we shall all worship at the holy shrine of student-centered process-driven hyphen-happy learning. More importantly for me, however, I'm starting to feel safe for the first time in years, and it is in the midst of total uncertainty and risk.
I'm ready to come second. I'm ready to die to self. Bring it on, I want to see what happens next.
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