New Year, New Chance; Right?

Lessons Learned

Time To Begin Again

Fall. A new school year. Within the first few days of school one particular year, a young student very innocently, very sincerely posed undoubtedly the most compelling question of all when he asked, “Can I change?”  Wondering if he was seeking permission or questioning possibility, the teacher probed, “What do you mean?”  The student, who carried, along with his new backpack, a red-flag reputation in teacher-talk, proceeded to spill his heart through the story he shared about his school experience so far. Not a good listener. A little disrespectful.  Frequently yelled at. In the lowest groups. Probably a trouble-maker.  Never invited to a birthday party. School was stupid. Mom told him he needed to change, and he needed to change now, because things were not going to ever get better if he didn’t.  Can I change? Do I have the strength and courage necessary to turn this behavior boat around?  Even if I can, can others accept this new me and change their expectations and opinions of me? If their perceptions are cast in stone and unchangeable, why should I even try to be different than the bad boy they expect? This was a tremendous amount of significant contemplating for a young mind to be processing during those early days in a school  year when most were struggling to line up in the proper order  and to recall their locker numbers. The teacher, realizing that questions of this sort which come right from the deepest chambers of a student’s heart, felt overwhelmingly humbled to be entrusted with this huge amount of vulnerability.  The student’s  eyes were wide, trusting, and demanding. This answer was to be as important as the question in terms of behavioral trajectory.  With focused eye-contact , tender vocal tone, and unmistakable belief, the teacher  promised that precious little boy that each year was a new year, that each day was a new day, and each one was a new opportunity to begin again with a clean slate. We all make mistakes and bad choices for which we are not proud, but apologies, grace and forgiveness are powerfully strong.  It’s never too late to turn around. It’s never too late to make a new and better choice.  Now is the time. Start now. This is how we learn, and this is how we grow. “Yes, you can change,” said the teacher.  “This is going to be a good year,” smiled the boy. And it was.

Elusive Patience

Lessons Learned

Patience

Who’s in the waiting room at the doctor’s office? Patients.  What does it take to wait for something? Patience. How do you learn to be patient? By waiting. That being said, what is a character quality dangerously close to becoming extinct in today’s society? Patience. Why, in a world where we strive to have it all, does this patience quality remain so desperately elusive? Why are we so unapologetically and unflatteringly  impatient? Tragically, we’ve handily passed this immaturity on to our children and its obnoxious effects run rampant through classrooms, summer camps, athletic teams, and most gatherings. Impatience has become the MO when we disagree, when we feel inconvenienced, when we’ve been embarrassed, when we do not know what else to do with our frustration, when we do not get what we want when we want it; impatience has become our temper tantrum and it’s driven by insecurity and selfishness. Impatience drives up blood pressure, destroys relationships, looks foolish, and demonstrates a gross lack of self-control. Why do we so automatically choose this impatience over and over and over again? I simply do not understand this.  I am a teacher, a mother, a wife, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend, and through these valued relationships I have never found impatience to be an effective means by which to teach, learn, listen, give, care, or share.  Impatience de-values. Impatience degrades. Impatience decides that I am more important than you. Sad. That is just tremendously sad. That anyone would choose I, me, and my above you or we truly reflects the empty, lonely heart that prefers walls to bridges.  We can turn this Titanic around, however, but not without a willingness to wait, to listen, to forgo the last word, to surrender first place, to lay down my will, and to deliberately choose calmness, the greater good, the dream of someone else, a quiet voice, a gentle answer, peace. We can do this. We can teach this to our children. We can be patient. And by practicing patience, we will heal our hearts, heal our relationships, and heal our land.

Breathe.

Lessons Learned

Road Rage, the Adult Equivalent to a Temper Tantrum

When driving, have you ever had someone follow you so closely that it seemed they might climb right into your trunk?  Although, your speedometer insists that you are maintaining a suitable law-abiding pace, her face in your rearview mirror clearly and vehemently disagrees. You could almost watch the fire engine red creeping up her neck in flagrant, irrational rage except that keeping your eyes on the road is a higher, albeit less entertaining, priority.  What is that but sheer impatience turned radically ugly. What drives that crazed, possessed fury laser-focused at the stranger ahead, who has done nothing but drive in full accordance with the law? I believe that we are forgetting how to breathe, despite the simple anatomical fact that breathing is an involuntary process which is controlled by the brain. It seems we frequently revert to toddler temper tantrums when we settle in behind the wheels of our cars. While grocery shopping one day, I witnessed a full out temper tantrum by a child who wasn’t going to get a toy at the grocery store.  The answer “no” was more than he could take, so on the floor he flailed with kicks and screams and a bright red face. He held his breath but continued his flurry of chaotic movements. (Not dissimilar to our road rage neighbor.)  His mother stood quietly, patiently there, her eyes perusing the shelves for the best-priced tomato paste. She was breathing. She maintained calmness and stilled her heart by pausing to breathe. When the young chap realized that the intended outcome was not to be, the tantrum downgraded and then fizzled at which point, he began to breathe again.  “No” is the word we cannot easily accept, especially when it thwarts what we want when we want it. No, you cannot drive faster when I am driving slower. Tantrum. No, you cannot push me to drive faster when I have decided to drive the speed limit. Tantrum. No, you cannot make me change my mind about speeding by shouting at me in the rearview mirror. Tantrum.  So with fire and daggers flying from your eyes, you spew hate in my direction, simply because you cannot travel the speed you wish. You don’t even know me and I am a little bit afraid of you already. Adult temper tantrums are ridiculously unflattering and bespeak a desperate narcissistic immaturity that is horrifically disappointing. If you require immediate medical attention, please call an ambulance as they are licensed to exceed the speed limit, and we will all pull over to let you through. If, however,  you are running late for your hair appointment or the ballgame or even work, please just set your alarm for a few minutes earlier thus allowing time to breathe. Breathing will certainly make you a more respectable citizen and will incidentally help make the world a kinder, gentler place for us all. 

Own It, for Pete's sake!

Lessons Learned

What? I Didn’t Do It

The knee-jerk response to most every “shouldn’t have done it” incident is I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it! Regardless of the age of the spokesperson, two to ninety-two, this response more often than not remains consistently uttered, for it represents the finest in Teflon outfitting defending one against all sorts of true or false but always uncomfortable allegations. I can be watching a student do the very thing he or she has been instructed not to do and when called on it will almost unequivocally, bordering on the brazenly, assert, I didn’t do it. Many times a day. This phenomenon is certainly not exclusive to schools and students, however, for these students have had to be carefully taught, which they absolutely have been. The I didn’t do it mentality and societal norm seems as automatic to human nature as bowing for applause.  I didn’t do it is usually followed by a bit of anemic bantering along the lines of yes you did, no I didn’t, yes, no, etc. where it then fizzles to conversational complacency, a very safe place where it quietly rests until it is needed again. It never gathers moss nor grows dusty waiting, though. In complacency it is deemed not a worthy fight, and in complacency it is perpetuated with increasing shamelessness.  But it’s a lie. A big, fat, bold-faced lie. I am not sure why we are okay with this. Over and over and over again in every walk of life and living from classrooms to legislative halls, from snarling interactions with referees, police officers, and parents to defensive exchanges with neighbors and road rage enthusiasts, we fight to abscond from the responsibility of simply owning what we do. The reality is, despite what our insecurities may shout at us, owning our actions, fessing up to our behavior, or begging the pardon of our screw-ups does not in fact really hurt that much. Mild embarrassment perhaps.  Or maybe a pinch of shame.  But honestly, bearing responsibility for our good or bad behavior strengthens integrity and is honorable. We all make mistakes with great regularity for it is in our very nature to push back a bit against the rules, even the most compliant among us. Own it. Claim it. Confess it. Apologize for it. Then be free of it. If you refuse to own it, it will in fact own you, and you will be diminished by it. The automatic I didn’t do it response is not good enough for today’s students, or yesterday’s for that matter, because it doesn’t call students forth to be strong or to be responsible, both of which they will need to become the leaders they are capable of becoming.

An Unruly Child

Lessons Learned

Tell The Truth

An unruly child. Incorrigible in many ways. Defiant. Combative. Aggressive. Befriended by other school children through fear, in their efforts to socially navigate the “walking on egg shells” feeling of coexistence with one so different from them; this was the standard and daily classroom MO in room 237. Laughing a little too loudly and often at classroom jokes that weren’t particularly humorous in order to offer affirmation and esprit de corps to one who didn’t fit; this too seemed a daily survival strategy. But this was no way to learn. And this was no way to live. It was dysfunction. Head-in-the-sand, turn-a-blind-eye, sweep-it-under-the-rug, anything-but-address-it dysfunction. What happened to the tow-the-line, call-it-what-it-is, own-it type of honesty? Can we truly improve if we do not face the problem? Can we truly grow if we do not seek to acknowledge truth? Can we be set free from the demons of defensiveness over our painful circumstances if we are unwilling to look deeply and compassionately into those very circumstances that fuel our rage and plot a path out? Hope is not found in the place where we ignore truth, but rather hope dwells in a place where we humbly recognize truth and bravely, deliberately commit to a stronger path. Hope is for every child, every student who is led by a courageous teacher, parent, grandparent, coach, or pastor who will not settle for anything short of honesty. Honesty is never the easy way, however, because honesty requires engagement and disclosure, which in turn require time, vulnerability, and trust. One child, one student, one life at a time, we must make the time for honesty, for ultimately it is the only way each one can be set on a trajectory of hope and possibility. Less than that will cripple the future and diminish dreams.  The unruly child didn’t really want to be so. The unruly child wanted normalcy and simply had no idea how to get there. The unruly child needed the honesty and compassion and strong leadership of one who wouldn’t allow any sort of settling for less. The unruly, lonely, hurting, fragile, despairing child daily struck out in the rage of accumulated pain, with actions screaming “help me” and everyone standing by saying “you’re just fine.” When did we stop telling the truth?

The Shadow of a Yeller Pierced by the Light of a Kind Heart

Lessons Learned

The Power of Kindness. The Strength of Gentleness.

That glorious summer after first grade witnessed the heart-soothing balm of the summer sunshine and the comfort and calmness of home. But as June faded to July and July to August, there loomed an anxiety-evoking reality; the beginning of a new school year. Following a frightening first grade year with an incessantly yelling teacher, trepidation filled this young heart in anticipation of second grade.  Fear, one method of classroom management and control, manifests in students through their downcast eyes, rounded shoulders, and obvious crushed confidence.  First grade accomplished this for me. Just weeks from second grade, hopes were not too high for anything better.  Upon arrival in the new classroom, we second grade students were greeted with a breath of lovely fresh air. In a word, kindness. This kindness was to escort our class throughout second grade, refilling our learning sails with a gentle breeze of optimism allowing and encouraging us to bravely and excitedly explore new oceans of learning. Kindness.  A gentle voice. Happy eyes.  Probably not attributes asked about on a teacher job application, but clearly attributes deeply affecting classroom morale and ultimately individual and collective classroom successes. Kindness pierced through the learned fear of the previous school year and nurtured a restored eye contact, strong shoulders and a sweet growing confidence among all of us blessed to be in this happy second grade classroom. I do not recall content taught nor content learned in second grade, albeit to recognize that we all advanced to the third grade. I do recall, however, with vivid and joyful recollection, the loving-kindness of a very gentle, very special, very encouraging teacher, whose tender ways brought smiles and motivated excellence. I have never forgotten to consider the tone used in delivering words to children. Kindness matters. Kindness builds up. Kindness outlasts content. Kindness is soothing, healing balm to the wounded spirit that has been staggering under the excruciating weight of another’s bitterness. Kindness lifts and restores. Kindness is free. Kindness is priceless.

No Need For Loud, Harsh Answers

Lessons Learned

A Gentle Answer

“A gentle answer quiets anger, but a harsh one stirs it up,” Proverbs 15:1.

In grocery store aisles and school hallways, on sports field sidelines and in performance hall parking lots, we hear parents yell at their kids and then kids yell back at their parents, and back and forth and back and forth, escalating ever escalating as if volume alone seizes the final, most authoritative word. We shout to assert control yet this very shouting bespeaks the control we have already so very clearly lost. We shout because the loudest, most ferocious bark belongs to the alpha boss dog, right? Or does it really? I believe we shout because we have not effectively learned how to lead. One of the most amazing classroom volume control strategies I have ever witnessed in thirty years of teaching, was demonstrated by a young, shy, gentle, peaceful teacher who never raised her voice above a hushed tone with students in her classroom. Their first grade voices matched her quietness. No voice was ever raised, and it was a beautifully calm room, lovely for learning. They listened for her voice and in that stillness there was comfort and security. Conversely, several doors down the hallway was a screamer whose classroom was invariably on the brink of chaos. By afternoon each day in the loud room, the decibels had been ratcheted up to an ear drum piercing roar, with everyone fighting to be heard including the teacher.  Exhaustion. Headaches. Frustration. Why do we shout? Do we lack the confidence necessary to be still, to be gentle, to be one who brings peace? In a world that regularly shouts its demands and demands its own way, a gentle soul who patiently listens and quietly responds is truly one of great strength and wisdom.  Our children have tender hearts and ears and need the careful tending of one who teaches and leads with calmness and gentleness, both at school and at home. We all need this, no matter how thick and hard our protective walls have become over time. Deep down, we long for this.  A gentle answer, a humble response, a quiet calming word breathes peace into our harried hearts. Try it. Be still. Turn the volume down. Respond with calmness, even if the impulse is to roar. Hold back that lion and watch the gentle response that returns to you.

Just Love More.

Lessons Learned

2015. New Year. New Hope. New Promise. New Commitment.

In a word, love. Thirty years of teaching, twenty-nine years of marriage, twenty-seven years of parenting, and fifty-five years of life have taught me that in triumphs and trials and everything in between, a strong, good answer to every circumstance and every relationship is simply to love more, to be patient more, to be gentle more, to be sacrificial more, to listen more, to believe and hope and encourage more.  The world is hard and clearly in need of gentle helpful hands and tender serving hearts. When burdens become too great to bear, we so frequently stagger alone under the crushing weight of it all somehow erroneously believing that either others do not want to be troubled or even worse that in sharing a burden we are admitting weakness or that something about our lovely façade is less than all we are hoping it will appear to be.  We are designed to live in community. Together we are stronger.  What we share in common is far more important and valuable than the differences that divide us, and yet the differences draw fire and judgment from our bully pulpits of dogmatic and highly opinionated insecurities. The differences erect thick, impenetrable walls of fear and distrust. We need each other desperately still we struggle to move past the firing squad of suspicion.  Rather than exercising compassion, we often opt to exert power. Rather than crossing the street, we pull the blind and lock the door.  Rather than engaging, we turn a blind eye and blame our accursed, albeit self-created, busy-ness.  In our classrooms, in our homes, in our neighborhoods, each one we see is in dire need of love, acceptance, affirmation, connection and the joy that these gifts bring.  These gifts are free to give and to share and yet their value reaches infinitely beyond the bounds of the world’s greatest treasures. It’s a brand new year. The slate is clean and ready for the rewriting of a fresh inspiring chapter.  Perhaps it is time to make some changes. Perhaps it is time to try loving more, giving more, serving more, caring more. Perhaps it is time to build bridges of hope and trust, for the only tool necessary is one that has existed in our hearts from the very beginning; love.

Even As A Sub, One Is A Treasure Keeper

Lessons Learned

Treasure

Interestingly, even as a Sub, one is a treasure keeper. Even as a Sub, one needs eyes of the heart that perceive and then respond gently but deliberately to the subtle personality dynamics and uniquenesses of each new class. They(the students) come with their gifts and, depending on affirmation or not, they quickly and aptly assess the value given them. This personal, internal assessment, accurate or not, has a clear bearing on confidence and subsequently, behavior. Each child, each student is a treasure. Unique. Priceless. Beautiful. Even as a Sub, one must tenderly tend to this treasure.  Truly, each classroom is a miraculous treasure box filled with infinite, marvelous treasure, and that sparkling treasure is, of course, the students. Uniquely wired, uniquely gifted, unique in every conceivable way, these precious students enter our classrooms and our hearts unknowingly seeking the unique gifts we possess in order that they might be inspired to reach, stretch, grow, dream, and imagine. Their confidence, their compassion, their success will be their future and ours, as well. Not long ago, I asked an elementary class, “Is love a dessert or a vegetable?” After considerable discussion, the entire class responded, “Both, because desserts are delicious and fun, and vegetables are something you need.” “Okay,” I said, “Is love winter or summer?” “Both,” they replied again. “Winter because it draws you close in hugs to keep warm and summer because it makes your heart feel free and joyful.” We questioned and answered for a lovely long time. Each one fully engaged and bubbling to the brim with clever, divergent responses.  The children never ran out of ideas. They never ran out of enthusiasm for chasing and concocting creative solutions to questions. They never ever ran out of imagination; children don’t you know. Inexhaustible. Boundless.  This is fortunate, for one day these inventive minds will be required to help solve the complexities of life facing us all. So we stir the fire that lights their eyes, their imaginations, and causes them to believe in and use the great gifts planted in the rich soil of their hearts. Treasure. Here is the treasure.   For the duration of but one school year, or in the case of a Sub perhaps just one day, we teachers are charged with the privilege and immense responsibility of caring for and cultivating the treasure entrusted to our keeping, bravely leading them on captivating and daring adventures through every content area and sometimes simply gathering them all in closely together on the reading rug for a magic carpet ride through the pages of a book.

The Two Hundredth Blog Article: Deeply Inspired By Mom

Lessons Learned

The Two Hundredth Blog Article: Deeply Inspired By Mom

I remember hearing “no, it’s just not a great idea” probably only once when I was growing up, and that was in response to my request for a horse. I had even saved about $125 and had spoken with the neighbors down the road about renting a stall in their small barn.  I was going to help clean their barn in exchange for a portion of the rent and teach very expensive guitar lessons to my sister for the remaining rental fees. It was a perfect plan in my twelve year old mind and I felt a pinch stymied by the resistance I encountered when I laid out the details for my parents.  They encouraged instead riding lessons, saving the money, and playing guitar with my sister just for fun.  The direction of the plan shifted quickly and easily to acquiring suitable attire for riding lessons and for fun at the stable and then involved engaging my sister in riding adventures while putting on hold the guitar.

“Yes, you can!” was the response most familiar to my ears through the growing up years and as I result, I believed I could. Affirmation brings sunshine and nourishing water to a child’s growing confidence, and it was never in short supply in our home. Affirmation such as this leads to confidence which leads to a willingness to take a risk or to try something new or attempt something requiring more courage than perhaps you would ordinarily believe you possessed.  My parents modeled confidence because they had grown up affirmed.  We saw them regularly step out in faith and tackle very challenging tasks in life and, by watching them, we learned the power of affirmation, encouragement, and support.  We learned to pray and to trust and to step out boldly, laying bravely aside the fears that could paralyze and swallow up all daring efforts.  To try is not the absence of fear, but rather it is the presence of trust and a willingness to believe.  “Yes, you can.” Get up. Go on. Reach out. Speak up. Yes you can. Only your doubt can limit your possibilities. Stand up. Plunge in. Raise your hand. Keep at it. Yes you can.  I have lived this way. I have raised my children this way. I have instructed my students this way.

So two weeks ago, at 84 years of age, Mom stood before a large, lovely gathering of women and spoke on the topic of footprints we follow and footprints we leave. She spoke on the power of affirmation and the call on each of our lives to pour into those around us of the great gifts we have each been given. With an antique basin and pitcher which had belonged to her grandmother  as her props, she encouraged the women to pour into others as her dear grandmother had lavishly and continually poured into her life the priceless, powerful  gifts of patience, kindness, generosity, gentleness, selflessness, and love. All of these gifts affirm and bless and help us feel confident to reach beyond ourselves and jump a little higher. Yes you can. You can be a guest speaker at 84. You can be an affirmer, a pourer, and one who speaks encouraging words that mean yes you can into the hearts of those around you. You can. Yes you can.

Don't Let The Bullies Run The Class

Lessons Learned

Each One Precious

I was hired to fill a long-term substitute teaching position in a fourth grade classroom just months after my December college graduation.  Young, eager, optimistic, all appropriate and helpful attributes for a new incoming sub, nicely complimented my satchel stuffed with freshly acquired scholarly educational theories, philosophies, and cutting edge fail-safe strategies designed and promised to reach all and teach all. With squared-shoulder confidence and change-the-world spirit, I entered that classroom and encountered reality. Reality always somehow seems to smack of a bit of disappointment.  People can frequently behave so disappointingly human regardless of their ages. Human nature depicts endless layers of self and emanating from this myopic vantage point can be a fairly insidious disregard for others.  Somewhere between taking lunch count that first day and starting our new novel, the leaning-toward-the-toxic classroom cliques magically appeared with great clarity and unapologetically. This group. That group. The power group. The Loner. Just one loner.  She steered clear of the fray, kept her eyes down, and tried to fly under the radar. They “let” her do so to a certain extent, that is to say, after “they” snipped and cut enough to make sure she knew that her radar flying was by their permission. Power. The lust for power starts young, but where exactly does it originate? I sincerely want to know that.  It’s poison, of that I am certain. To the oblivious or insecure teacher, it will run rampant and dominate your classroom in extremely covert, though devastating ways. It is the root of bullying. And bullying is at the root of a pain that can be so excruciating, so consuming, so silent that it completely debilitates in its rendering of powerlessness. Who bestows this power? Who perpetuates it? Do we all? I was just a young long-term sub walking into a classroom with its established and accepted climate, but my eyes, as those of one who understood the wrath of a bully, remained fixed upon the loner.  I would help her in quiet, unassuming ways. An encouraging word in passing.  An affirming smile.  A “random” opportunity to teacher-assist on an errand to the office.  An extra superlative word written on a corrected assignment. Continual, covert building up day after day after day after day.  The bullies, the exclusive cliques, the power seekers were not given voice other than to participate according to my directions. We were one class. We would learn to care for each other and recognize that each one brings gifts and stories that are unique and worthy of being celebrated. Not one more than another, but each one. On  my last day with the fourth graders, the loner, who no longer was one, brought me a gift that she, her mother, and grandmother had made.  It was a stunningly beautiful beaded necklace strung in the Native American tradition of their family and their tribe. She simply said, “Thank you for noticing me.”  Her simple message did more to inform my teaching than all of the stuffing in my satchel.

No "If Only's" Here.

Lessons Learned

Do What You Do.

If only I could do...  If only I could just be a bit more…  If only I was a little less… If only. If only. If only. These little whimsical pinings are harmless insofar as they are fleeting.  But often, these “if only’s” become rather more consuming and frequently crowd out the gratefulness and joy that should accompany our understanding of our own unique wiring and giftedness. No two individuals are, have ever been, or will ever be exactly alike. Each individual comes to this planet with a heart full of gifts, the combination of which is absolutely unique, hence priceless. Each individual is a true treasure. A gold mine.  A pearl of great price. A gift beyond measure.  As parents, teachers, coaches, directors, neighbors, friends, siblings, co-workers, do we acknowledge this? Do we celebrate this? Do we encourage one another down the path of pursuing one’s gifts, one’s passion, one’s heart? Or do we silence the song by exalting conformity and demanding its zeal-less lockstep? We’re simply not all meant to be the same. Is there room, is there time for us in our busy days, with our busy schedules, and our busy lives to discover the treasure that’s waiting to be shared in each and every precious heart? We must make time. We must. We absolutely must.  So that we will not one day look back with the heavy heart often associated with a retrospective glance, and lament, if only.

I set stories and feelings and academic content to music to help students learn, understand, and remember. It's what I do. It is my gift. It is my passion. And I am deeply thankful for every opportunity to share. What is your gift? Your passion? What stirs your soul with deep thankfulness every time you have an opportunity to share? Find this and you will find great treasure.  

Life Lessons At School

Lessons Learned

So Much More Than Book Learning

They were the sixth graders. They were the top of the school. Top dogs. Big cheeses. Willing helpers. Proud leaders.  Many of the sixth graders had started at our school in Kindergarten and for years had watched the parade of awesome sixth graders  traverse the hallways with a tiny bit of an air of nobility swirling around them; a nobility swirl established within the delicate balance between privilege and responsibility. They had now arrived and honestly wore the mantel of “big deal” very well. They gently served the younger students, provided confident leadership at all-school gatherings, behaved respectfully, most of the time, and rightly earned the position of positive role-models. They worked hard, played hard, held one another accountable, and left no sixth grader out. Then came the test. Unexpectedly, Mike’s father died.  Loss and grief and anguish and questions flooded their broken hearts and cast a deep dark sadness over the sixth grade.  Mike stayed home for a few days. The rest of the sixth graders, his school family, prayed for Mike and his family and grappled with a suitable loving, compassionate response for Mike when he returned. “Why?” remained the tormenting though unanswered question which held their hearts in a vise-grip of hurt. How do you mend a broken heart, how do you stop every tear? Then came the phone call and the request.  Mike’s mother, in making funeral preparations, asked the sixth grade teachers if the students might be willing to sing their benediction at the funeral.  How do you say no? Notes went home. Each sixth grader was to discuss this with his or her family and decide independently of the other students whether or not to participate. Funerals are hard. Many students had had no experience with funerals, and the thought was more than a bit frightening and overwhelmingly sad. There would be no judgment or shame or guilt if anyone chose not to participate, as the choice was fully up to each family. Notes from families came back the very next day. A unanimous yes was the response.  Mike’s mother was called. Plans were made.  The sixth graders, in their best clothes, arrived at the funeral, and Mike smiled to see them.  This school family, this community of friends, wrapped the gift of their tender hearts and beautiful singing around their pain-filled friend and in the glances exchanged, said without words, in the most perfect compassionate response, “We love you.”

Will You Believe I Am Special, Or Will You Believe What Everyone Tells You About Me?

Lessons Learned

Wipe The Slate Clean

Within the first few days of school one particular year, a young student very innocently, very sincerely posed undoubtedly the most compelling question of all when he asked, “Can I change?”  Wondering if he was seeking permission or questioning possibility, the teacher probed, “What do you mean?”  The student, who carried, along with his new backpack, a red-flag reputation in teacher-talk, proceeded to spill his heart through the story he shared about his school experience so far. Not a good listener. A little disrespectful.  Frequently yelled at. In the lowest groups. Probably a trouble-maker.  Never invited to a birthday party. School was stupid. Mom told him he needed to change, and he needed to change now, because things were not going to ever get better if he didn’t.  Can I change? Do I have the strength and courage necessary to turn this behavior boat around?  Even if I can, can others accept this new me and change their expectations and opinions of me? If their perceptions are cast in stone and unchangeable, why should I even try to be different than the bad boy they expect? This was a tremendous amount of significant contemplating for a young mind to be processing during those early days in a school  year when most were struggling to line up in the proper order  and to recall their locker numbers. The teacher, realizing that questions of this sort which come right from the deepest chambers of a student’s heart, felt overwhelmingly humbled to be entrusted with this huge amount of vulnerability.  The student’s  eyes were wide, trusting, and demanding. This answer was to be as important as the question in terms of behavioral trajectory.  With focused eye-contact , tender vocal tone, and unmistakable belief, the teacher  promised that precious little boy that each year was a new year, that each day was a new day, and each one was a new opportunity to begin again with a clean slate. We all make mistakes and bad choices for which we are not proud, but apologies, grace and forgiveness are powerfully strong.  It’s never too late to turn around. It’s never too late to make a new and better choice.  Now is the time. Start now. This is how we learn, and this is how we grow. “Yes, you can change,” said the teacher.  “This is going to be a good year,” smiled the boy. And it was.

How Can We Learn To Be Responsible If We Refuse To Own Our Bad Choices As Well As Our Good Choices?

Lessons Learned

For Pete’s Sake. Own Your Behavior!

The knee-jerk response to most every “shouldn’t have done it” incident is I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it! Regardless of the age of the spokesperson, two to ninety-two, this response more often than not remains consistently uttered, for it represents the finest in Teflon outfitting defending one against all sorts of true or false but always uncomfortable allegations. I can be watching a student do the very thing he or she has been instructed not to do and when called on it will almost unequivocally, bordering on the brazenly, assert, I didn’t do it. Many times a day. This phenomenon is certainly not exclusive to schools and students, however, for these students have had to be carefully taught, which they absolutely have been. The I didn’t do it mentality and societal norm seems as automatic to human nature as bowing for applause.  I didn’t do it is usually followed by a bit of anemic bantering along the lines of yes you did, no I didn’t, yes, no, etc. where it then fizzles to conversational complacency, a very safe place where it quietly rests until it is needed again. It never gathers moss nor grows dusty waiting, though. In complacency it is deemed not a worthy fight, and in complacency it is perpetuated with increasing shamelessness.  But it’s a lie. A big, fat, bold-faced lie. I am not sure why we are okay with this. Over and over and over again in every walk of life and living from classrooms to legislative halls, from snarling interactions with referees, police officers, and parents to defensive exchanges with neighbors and road rage enthusiasts, we fight to abscond from the responsibility of simply owning what we do. The reality is, despite what our insecurities may shout at us, owning our actions, fessing up to our behavior, or begging the pardon of our screw-ups does not in fact really hurt that much. Mild embarrassment perhaps.  Or maybe a pinch of shame.  But honestly, bearing responsibility for our good or bad behavior strengthens integrity and is honorable. We all make mistakes with great regularity for it is in our very nature to push back a bit against the rules, even the most compliant among us. Own it. Claim it. Confess it. Apologize for it. Then be free of it. If you refuse to own it, it will in fact own you, and you will be diminished by it. The automatic I didn’t do it response is not good enough for today’s students, or yesterday’s for that matter, because it doesn’t call students forth to be strong or to be responsible, both of which they will need to become the leaders they are capable of becoming.

You've Got To Take The Leap

Lessons Learned

The Leap

The month was June and summer vacation in Wisconsin had just begun. All of the kids in our neighborhood exuberantly and together trekked seven blocks daily to the city pool. Summer paradise, unquestionably. Every minute at the pool was perfect from the first plunge to the banana popsicle we’d each buy for the drippy wet stroll home.   Something at the pool, however, had me thoroughly captivated.  It was the high dive. I was seven that particular summer.  Only the bravest of the brave ascended those metal steps leading to the bouncy plank which seemed to catapult divers first through the clouds then into the deep end of the pool. I was mesmerized. To want something so badly, yet at the same time to be so absolutely intimidated by it, left this curious youngster in a very perplexed, very conflicted place.  Come on, try it, urged the older siblings and neighbor friends. It’s not that hard, and we all will be right here. Right here? What exactly does “right here” do to help when you are ascending those steps alone, walking the plank alone, and mustering the courage for a leap through the clouds alone? Smiling to affirm their sincere encouragement with unbudging feet seemingly affixed to the poolside concrete, I continued to longingly watch the leaping. Even though just seven, I was a good YMCA-trained and competitive swimmer who understood the steely nerves required when poised on the starting block waiting for the starter’s gun to sound and the swim race to begin. I had a growing collection of swim ribbons and a strong shot at being a Junior Olympic participant. But the high dive was different. Day after glorious day with friends at the pool flew by on the wild wings of summer but with the issue of the high dive looming unrelenting on the edges of my young mind. I had to make the leap. The question was when. Gathering courage is no small or easy task, for it demands a daring charge of the will, a very deliberate choice to sidestep fear and reserve believing that the gain is worth the cost.  Watching others leap did not evoke increased bravery, it simply taunted. It was time. Without fanfare, pomp and circumstance, or any salubrious pronouncement, I crossed the poolside concrete to the metal steps, ascended them unflinchingly but with a few butterflies, and walked the bouncy plank to the end where I curved my toes around the fiberglass edge, took a deep breath and leaped. The older siblings and neighbor friends didn’t have time enough to amass a cheering section, but they all did pause in their playing to witness the splash. There. I did it. I took the leap, pierced the water’s surface with pencil straightness, submerged, and then re-emerged with a quiet victor’s grin. Life was never quite the same after the leap because there was a new confidence, a new boldness that from then on kept a bit of a bridle on those things that attempt to intimidate and subsequently paralyze action. I learned to leap that day, that summer when I was seven, and it has been a lesson of greatest significance throughout the next fifty years. Learning to leap benefits all learning as each new topic, new chapter, new unit, new school year, new skill, and on and on demands a willingness to set aside “I can’t” while reaching instead towards “yes.” With a month until the new school year begins, with a new job prospect on the horizon, with a dream itching to be chased, with a relationship whispering for more effort, with a need crying for your giftedness, with these and infinite others tickling at the edges of your awareness, perhaps it is time to practice and prepare for some life changing leaping. Take the leap. It is time.

Stop Shouting Already!

Lessons Learned

Gentleness

In a world that shouts, incessantly argues, and demands to be right and first and best and every other superlative seemingly worthy of claiming, I believe it might be a good time to step out of the fray, to willingly wait, to patiently listen, to calmly respond, to humbly serve, and to be secure enough to be gentle. The bombastic, super aggressive personality and approach to life and living is truly obnoxious at best and hate-stirring, blood pressure elevating and ineffective to boot. Why do we so unreservedly choose such immature and non-productive behavior? Why? Do we erroneously assume that this unflattering and out-of-control behavior is a suitable MO for communication? Can we not hear our own anger and frustration in this attack-ish tone? Can we not see the combative response this evokes in others? Why not try gentleness. It feels so much better. Gentleness quiets the heart and stills the soul. Gentleness beckons cooperation, collaboration, and a lovely esprit de corps. Gentleness invites the building of a bridge and risks the extending of a hand to lend support and hope. Gentleness heals. Gentleness is as a balm to another’s wounded spirit.  But, despite our intellectual understanding of the merits of gentleness, the world still shouts and we, in our knee jerk reaction, shout back. At every age there’s shouting. Recently I noticed just how much cartoons shout at our children; they will undoubtedly live what they learn. We shout our frustrated and hurried “good byes and have a good days” to our little ones as they collect yet another tardy slip at the door, thus beginning their days in disappointment and despair. Families shout because being right takes priority to being loving. Spectators at sporting events shout at referees because a public temper tantrum is an impressive way to support one’s team. Coaches, directors, and teachers shout because the number of decibels of vocal volume is directly proportional to the desire of the athletes, cast members, or students to obey.  Shouting is apparently power.  Power, who doesn’t want it? Kids shout at parents, siblings, teachers, etc. etc. etc. because everyone else is shouting.  They have been well taught.  We don’t shout at our home, not because we are some sort of wallflower, mousey type of family, but rather because shouting hurts feelings, and it definitely hurts ears. If a student shouts at me, which hasn’t happened much in my thirty years of teaching, I speak calmly and gently back. We need to breathe. We need to relax. We need to count to ten, take a walk, or listen for a minute to our own precious heartbeat. Life is a great gift and gentleness is a way of handling life with honor, grace and respect. Choose this day to be gentle and then reap the wonderful rewards of the peace and joy this brings.

Why Am I Afraid Of You?

Lessons Learned

Sealed With A Kiss

She was a concert pianist. Renowned. Revered. Her praises were highly heralded among all who boasted of membership in the local musical intelligentsia.  I was six and had been playing songs from the radio on the piano by ear since I was three. The look, the sound, the feel of our piano sent ripples of unexplainable joy through my soul from the moment it arrived at our home. I couldn’t get enough of it.  Music was beyond magical to me. She was the best. Seemed a match. Lessons began. Her persona and flaming red hair filled the piano lesson room and would have certainly intimidated this young student had my eyes fixed on her, but they didn’t. Her piano was spectacular, and its black lacquer elegance was something I had never seen; it completely captivated me. Saturday morning lessons continued with a growing sick-feeling in my six year old tummy because she was mean. If I played an incorrect note, she slapped my hands off the keys and shouted to begin again. If she heard one of my fingernails click on the keys, she would take me roughly by the hand to her bathroom, where she’d clip all of my nails. She impatiently and icily barked and snapped and slapped and clipped week after week, but how was I to know that wasn’t the appropriate manner in which to teach and learn piano playing? I didn’t know much at six, but I knew I longed to play the piano. Her too red, too much lipstick, which blaringly accentuated the non-encouraging words which shot out of her mouth like spit, wound up on my cheek at the culmination of each lesson as she seemed to like to seal each lesson with a big fat kiss. There, take that home as a token of my love and devotion. Yuck. Eventually I learned that if I brought my sweet grandma to my lessons, Meanie turned kind; what a performer! Grandma was thrilled to come along and I was thrilled to have her. Grandma, with her bag of tatting and gentle, happy spirit, attended granddaughter’s piano lessons with pride and enthusiasm never minding that she was hearing the same eight note songs over and over and over again; her smile never faded.  Grandma was the best, most encouraging audience, and her unassuming presence reigned in the meanie who thought she was a teacher.  Lessons with her didn’t last too long as her true colors manifested themselves at the first recital when her not-so-subtle tactics of humiliation, fear, and harshness appeared for those with eyes to see.  Not all with great skill deserve the privilege of teaching. Young minds, full of curiosity and hope, are ever so willing to trust the hand of the one who offers to help them learn. In offering that hand, one must be absolutely certain that one has fully recognized the gravity of receiving that precious trust from a child. Teaching bears responsibility as no other.

The Unfortunate Power Of "Popular"

Lessons Learned

Can Creativity And "Popular" Coexist?

What is “popular?” Is it a status? Is it an aspiration or an achievement or a goal or a scheme? Is it even real? I believe it is illusive and fleeting regardless of whatever else it is. I believe it is synonymous with power, that is, until it suddenly dissolves. Anything wrapped in power such as “popular” has high bully potential, and this certainly is the case. Popular is most often maintained through fear; fear of being in, fear of being out, fear of being nothing but invisible as deemed by the “populars.” I have even observed teachers who have so feared the wrath of the populars, that they allowed accountability inconsistencies to exist in their classrooms; accountability inconsistencies clear to all but addressed by none. The power of popular is very tricky to handle and almost always causes some degree of pain to someone.  I believe it has some very treacherous and destructive propensities, as well. I believe popular emotionally resembles a house of cards, which, upon its collapse, leaves a horrific wake of devastated, shattered self-esteems and desperately exposed and tramped upon feelings, which in some instances never in a lifetime recover. Why? For what purpose?  To be the king or the queen of the pile of what? And yet dreams of “popular” dominate an adolescent mentality until alas this hope of all hopes is ruthlessly dashed by another heartless aspirer, whereby one is overtly and publically deemed uncool and thereby thrown out of the running for popular. Who picks and chooses? Who sits in this omnipotent judgment seat of exalting one aspirer and crushing another with frivolous flippancy?  Is popular a supreme to the absolute extreme rendition of the classic tale, “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” where everyone but the emperor sees the lunacy and the tragic hilarity of the situation?  To pour one’s heart and energies into the pursuit of this particular illusion of popular, which seems to be very real and important when caught in the swirling sea of it, with thrashing and drowning part of its diabolical protocol, is to leave little heart and energy available for the pursuit of more meaningful, more lasting, more healthy, and more honest aspirations. Fear and creativity cannot coexist well. Creativity’s very nature denotes uniqueness, originality, imaginative freedom, and wonder-filled curiosity, none of which bend to the conformity expectation of aligning with popular. Popular remains the best possible copy of what the world tells it to be, and creativity simply will not be contained as such. To not align is to be discarded. To be discarded is to be relegated to nothing status, to invisible, and if a heart is strong enough to bear this, it will emerge liberated and peaceful; a wonderful place for creativity to dwell and flourish. Can we help our children with this, or are we just as tangled up in it as they?

Imperative For Our Children

Lessons Learned

The Best For Our Kids

Visiting with some parents at a Head Start event, we shared thoughts on high priority activities, behavioral habits, and experiences which would serve to benefit their little ones greatly in preparation for school.  Simple things. Inexpensive things.  Things, however, that required a faithful, never-ending investment of time.  Children represent great hope and great promise, and each parent in our conversation clearly carried that twinkling spark of hope in his or her eyes.  We long for our children to succeed and to watch their dreams come true.  Somehow, somewhere along the way, however, life seems to get in the way and our very best intentions get hopelessly tangled in the mire that is the lock step of daily living. Distractions lead to compromises of time and trade deliberate learning and growing  efforts for auto-pilot screen-babysitters. Two jobs. Three jobs. No jobs. Life is very hard. Raising children is very hard. That conversation at Head Start has continued to reverberate in my mind over many years. As a teacher, what do I see? As a mom, what do I do? With both hats on, and with a very humble heart here are five simple thoughts on high priority activities, behavioral habits, and beneficial experiences for little ones:

1.       Read to little ones. Read. Read. Read.  Any books. All books. Go to the library. Get books in their hands. Abe Lincoln had one book as a child. He read it over and over and over again. Traveling through the pages of hundreds of books together, my boys and I were able to travel in our imaginations to places we would never be able to afford to actually visit.  Free field trips. Free vacations.  Never too tired to read. Never too tired to be read to.

2.       Eat healthy food. A bag of potatoes, for instance, is less expensive than a bag of potato chips and so much better for growing children.  Simple fresh food is typically less expensive than the processed snack-types and is completely, absolutely better for you. Eat healthy.

3.       Drink plenty of water. Water supports the brain, and the body needs so much more water than we think.

4.       Play. Forget about the fancy, expensive toys, and use what you have to foster creativity and imagination development.  Children need far less entertainment where they passively observe, and far more mind-engaging, problem-solving creative play with paper, crayons, rocks, sticks, water, and imagination. Play inside, play outside, get lots of fresh air, gross motor with lots of flailing and running, and fine motor demanding concentration; just must play.

5.       Enough sleep is unbelievably critical. Do not ever underestimate the necessity of sleep for little ones. Sleep allows the brain and body time to rest and recharge.  A well-rested mind is exceedingly more able to concentrate, focus, and engage in learning.

The future belongs to our children and it will be shaped to match their dreams. For the few short years that are ours to hold their hands and lead them, let us together make those years significant and opportunity-filled. They say it takes a village or a community to raise a child, and there is great truth in that. Our precious children deserve this promise and faithful commitment from us.