During my first year of teaching, I was hired to be a girls track coach in Colorado. While I was an experienced track runner, it was my first time coaching that sport. I was a little thrilled and little terrified at the level of responsibility I found myself shouldering at the age of 26. I learned so many things that first year, but one lesson in particular is branded in my memory.
Our track team was competing in an invitational in Alamosa, a long hour and 45 minute drive south over Poncha Pass. I remember that it was a beautiful day with outstanding weather. Alamosa was a little lower in elevation than Buena Vista, which always resulted in faster times and personal bests. In addition, we were running on the Adams State Track, which had a premium surface, much nicer than the cinder track we had at home. In all, it was a brilliant experience and I was really soaking it all in. We waited for results with the buses full of tired and happy athletes reliving their favorite moments from the day, and I was warmly content, feeling like life really couldn't get any better than that.
Our bus was one of the last to pull out of the parking lot, and that's when I noticed a young man clad in the purple and yellow of our rivals to the north: the Lake County Panthers. He was sitting on a curb next to a duffel bag. His knees were drawn up to his chin, and he was sitting very still, alone. I asked the bus driver to stop. I got out and went to talk to him. Somehow, the poor young man missed his bus. He had no cell phone and he didn't know the phone number for anyone on his team, including the coaches. Fortunately, he did know his own phone number, so I told him to get on the bus while I called his mom and let her know we had him and would find a way to get him home.
I wish I could say he had an awesome time on our bus, making all kinds of new friends, but in truth he slid into an open seat, pressed himself tight up against the window, and watched the trees roll by, sniffling to himself quietly. I offered him some snacks and some water that we had along, but he didn't even acknowledge me. As we drove home, I found myself getting increasingly angry. We watched diligently, assuming at some point the Lake County bus would be returning to the track to look for their lost soul, and we prepared ourselves to flag them down.
The Lake County bus never even turned around.
Imagine what it must have felt like, being left alone, hours from home, and nobody - nobody - noticed you were missing. I studied this young man as we drove; he didn't look the part of a seasoned trackster. He looked pretty green; you can always tell who is new to the sport.
Track meets mostly run themselves...nobody tells you when your event is, when to report, or where to report. Everyone pretty much assumes you'll figure it out. The newbies are easy to spot. They wander aimlessly...a little too excited, a little bit anxious. Sometimes they even miss their events because they got caught up in the atmosphere or they just plain weren't paying attention - it's part of the learning process. The team typically holds each other accountable, seeking out their relay team members and encouraging each other to warm up and get ready.
But what happens if you're brand new, you don't have any friends, and you don't exactly possess the athletic physique or prowess to command the world's attention yet? Who do you suppose looks out for those kids?
Do you think if Lake County's star quarter-miler had been missing someone would have noticed?
That day I learned the most important lesson of my entire career. Up until that point, I had assumed my leadership qualities would be measured by my knowledge of the sport. By my ability to scaffold endurance training with interval workouts. By my knowledge of how to measure out long jump steps, or by my ability to teach my discus throwers how to spin. I thought wins and losses were a big deal, getting times down and helping kids qualify in their events so they could advance at Regions.
I was absolutely wrong.
It would not have mattered to me if Lake County's coach was the most decorated track coach in the State of Colorado - he left an athlete behind. Left him behind and never noticed - not once - that he was missing. I watched that kid wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve and stare at the scenery for an hour and a half, absolutely broken, and knew in my heart of hearts that the ONLY responsibility I had for the rest of my life was to make every single kid who ever showed up for me feel like he mattered.
Is there anything more important than that?
I find myself thinking about that kid a lot lately, because being in charge of something is hard work. This applies to everything - every kind of leader experiences this kind of pressure. It's not easy to be in charge; you have a lot to think about. Not only is it your job to make sure everything runs smoothly, but good old American competitiveness will tell you that you also have to be good at it. Not just good, you have to be above average, approaching excellence. There are expectations for leaders. It's extremely stressful! Ask any teacher. Ask any coach.
Ask the bank manager. Ask the restaurant owner.
Ask the Governor.
I watch the social media feeds exploding with negativity, more and more every day. Criticisms roll in from every angle pointed in the direction of any person in a position of responsibility. The farther up the chain the complaints are directed, the louder and angrier it gets.
If I had a wish for those angry folks, it would be this: I wish that you had been sitting next to me that day on the bus. Until you get up close and personal with the person on the very bottom rung of the Importance Ladder, you have no idea the impact your decisions can make. For a leader to be truly great, he or she has have the utmost care for every member of the organization. The person on the bottom has to be just as important as the person on the top. Otherwise, you're not much of a leader.
I try to imagine what it must feel like to be Governor Walz. That day in Colorado, I had about sixty kids with me on that bus. I worried myself sick over the one pressed up against the window. What must it feel like to have to worry about every last human in the State of Minnesota? There are 5.6 million of us. I cannot imagine what he must be feeling, every minute of every night during this Pandemic.
He can't make everyone happy. He's probably going to get it wrong sometimes, because we're all human. But if the worst thing the man does is take too long to open up the State, or be too cautious in the interests of the health of his people, well, I can't fault him for that. He is doing the best that he knows how to do; he is enlisting the help of the experts and thinking about our weakest members.
Am I disappointed that we didn't get a Spring sport season? Yes, I sure am. Am I upset that there is no Prom, no regular Graduation, and nobody to color my hair until July 1st? Well, yeah. That's a bummer, for sure. I do get it, though, I do. I get that the experts have said that it's still too dangerous to open up fully. (I happen to be a solid believer in Scientists - they've done an awful lot for society, and the idea that there is a giant conspiracy that is so widespread that the entire world is willingly participating in it is ludicrous. Sorry, it is.)
I also know that I want to be led by the leader that's looking out for every member of his team, no matter what.
I want to be on HIS bus.
May 14, 2020
April 14, 2020
Isolation
I took a hiatus from writing the blog last year when my graduate program got really busy. It's a writing program, and my assignments each week took up so much of my writing energy, I really didn't have any more minutes to devote to these pages. But I'm in the home stretch now - only ten weeks left. And, interestingly, the world is in the middle of a pandemic, making it possible for me to find a few more minutes each week to write for myself, so here I am.
At the beginning of our isolation, I wanted to write about our bewilderment - the sheer impossibility of going home, staying home, and watching everything we know come to a grinding halt. We're the busiest house I know, and that's the truth. Between our jobs, our kids, their sports, my coaching, Aaron's projects...we are almost never home. Don't get me wrong - I love our life! We have chosen all the things. We love all the things. We are devoted to all the things. The slow down...then the stopping...was thoroughly bewildering.
I thought about writing more about that. About the listless wandering from room to room. About the edgy restlessness that happens when you think you're probably supposed to be somewhere doing something, and you're...not. About the ping of the calendar reminding you of the meeting you're not at, the rehearsal you're not having, the game you're not watching, or the practice you're not picking someone up from.
Then, as we became more comfortable within our four walls, I thought maybe I would write about the mourning. We are missing so much. Emma's softball season. Carys's first track season. My Spring Play. Emma's first Prom...the list goes on. Everyone is grieving, in their own ways, and so often I thought about writing down the emotional ups and downs.
But tonight, something else is on my mind, and I think this is maybe what I really want to talk about. We're a lot of days in, now. I've been home for 28 days, existing faintly, teaching remotely, parenting vaguely. In between the restlessness and the grieving, there's something else happening.
In the slow stillness of this life, we watch movies. We bake, we cook, we eat together. We play board games, paint canvases, do projects, write letters, organize our rooms, and we talk to each other a LOT. All five of us go on a run/bike/walk every day together at 4pm. We argue and get annoyed and irritated with each other. Then because all we have is each other, we make up and get over it.
I recognize my blessings, and for the first time in a long time, I ACTUALLY give thanks for them every single day. I am practicing gratefulness; something I used to reserve for Sundays and holidays. I still have a job, and I know that's not true for everyone right now. (Teaching under isolation is the hardest, most exhausting thing I have ever done in my entire life, but that's a different post.) Aaron is still essential, but his job requires very little contact with other people, so we don't have to worry about contagion. We have a comfortable existence, and I absolutely KNOW what a lucky lucky human I am to have those things.
Ultimately, this is my truth. (It might have taken a long time to get here - if you're still reading this, congratulations on your reading stamina.) I don't know when isolation or physical distancing is going to end. Whenever that is...well... I'm not sure that we are going to return to who we were before it all started.
The world out there is clamoring loudly for an end to the shut-down. There is a lot of worry about its economic impact on our country, and I get it. I really do - I watch the news and read the articles and get a statement on my investment accounts regularly. Still, the loudest talkers, demanding immediate return to normalcy - well, I'm not sure those people have someone high-risk in their lives. I'm pretty worried about my Dad - he's high risk. And he's pretty much my everything, so to me, it's not worth it for that reason alone. I don't want to return to "normal" until I can feel assured that someone asymptomatic isn't going to pass it to him in Wal-Mart or the grocery store. If my investment accounts go down but I get to keep my Dad for ten more years, that's a no-brainer for me.
Beyond all that, I'm giving serious consideration to what exactly I'm going to do when this is, indeed, all over. I love my stuff, my kids love their stuff, and the world has pretty much revolved around the stuff...but I also really really love the time we are spending together. What do I need to sacrifice to keep this? To hold it just a little longer?
I will absolutely rejoice when I can pull up my lawn chair next to the dugout and watch Emma take the field. I will feel genuine joy when Carys puts on her spikes for a race. I will be thrilled to my toes when Cooper walks out on the tennis court for a match. But I'm not in a hurry for it to happen. There is a gift, buried inside the fear and the tragedy. That's what I want to remember about this time - not the fear, the loneliness, or the loss. I want them to remember the aggravation of too much togetherness and the closeness that emerged from it. I want them to remember the boredom of nowhere to go and the creativity that materialized from it. I want them to remember this as a time of great love, and I want to take all of that with us whenever the world is ready for us to return to it.
And when it's time to go back - when it's safe for everyone, not just me - I'm going to think long and hard about the hours in my days. Where I spend them, and what they're worth.
At the beginning of our isolation, I wanted to write about our bewilderment - the sheer impossibility of going home, staying home, and watching everything we know come to a grinding halt. We're the busiest house I know, and that's the truth. Between our jobs, our kids, their sports, my coaching, Aaron's projects...we are almost never home. Don't get me wrong - I love our life! We have chosen all the things. We love all the things. We are devoted to all the things. The slow down...then the stopping...was thoroughly bewildering.
I thought about writing more about that. About the listless wandering from room to room. About the edgy restlessness that happens when you think you're probably supposed to be somewhere doing something, and you're...not. About the ping of the calendar reminding you of the meeting you're not at, the rehearsal you're not having, the game you're not watching, or the practice you're not picking someone up from.
Then, as we became more comfortable within our four walls, I thought maybe I would write about the mourning. We are missing so much. Emma's softball season. Carys's first track season. My Spring Play. Emma's first Prom...the list goes on. Everyone is grieving, in their own ways, and so often I thought about writing down the emotional ups and downs.
But tonight, something else is on my mind, and I think this is maybe what I really want to talk about. We're a lot of days in, now. I've been home for 28 days, existing faintly, teaching remotely, parenting vaguely. In between the restlessness and the grieving, there's something else happening.
In the slow stillness of this life, we watch movies. We bake, we cook, we eat together. We play board games, paint canvases, do projects, write letters, organize our rooms, and we talk to each other a LOT. All five of us go on a run/bike/walk every day together at 4pm. We argue and get annoyed and irritated with each other. Then because all we have is each other, we make up and get over it.
I recognize my blessings, and for the first time in a long time, I ACTUALLY give thanks for them every single day. I am practicing gratefulness; something I used to reserve for Sundays and holidays. I still have a job, and I know that's not true for everyone right now. (Teaching under isolation is the hardest, most exhausting thing I have ever done in my entire life, but that's a different post.) Aaron is still essential, but his job requires very little contact with other people, so we don't have to worry about contagion. We have a comfortable existence, and I absolutely KNOW what a lucky lucky human I am to have those things.
Ultimately, this is my truth. (It might have taken a long time to get here - if you're still reading this, congratulations on your reading stamina.) I don't know when isolation or physical distancing is going to end. Whenever that is...well... I'm not sure that we are going to return to who we were before it all started.
The world out there is clamoring loudly for an end to the shut-down. There is a lot of worry about its economic impact on our country, and I get it. I really do - I watch the news and read the articles and get a statement on my investment accounts regularly. Still, the loudest talkers, demanding immediate return to normalcy - well, I'm not sure those people have someone high-risk in their lives. I'm pretty worried about my Dad - he's high risk. And he's pretty much my everything, so to me, it's not worth it for that reason alone. I don't want to return to "normal" until I can feel assured that someone asymptomatic isn't going to pass it to him in Wal-Mart or the grocery store. If my investment accounts go down but I get to keep my Dad for ten more years, that's a no-brainer for me.
Beyond all that, I'm giving serious consideration to what exactly I'm going to do when this is, indeed, all over. I love my stuff, my kids love their stuff, and the world has pretty much revolved around the stuff...but I also really really love the time we are spending together. What do I need to sacrifice to keep this? To hold it just a little longer?
I will absolutely rejoice when I can pull up my lawn chair next to the dugout and watch Emma take the field. I will feel genuine joy when Carys puts on her spikes for a race. I will be thrilled to my toes when Cooper walks out on the tennis court for a match. But I'm not in a hurry for it to happen. There is a gift, buried inside the fear and the tragedy. That's what I want to remember about this time - not the fear, the loneliness, or the loss. I want them to remember the aggravation of too much togetherness and the closeness that emerged from it. I want them to remember the boredom of nowhere to go and the creativity that materialized from it. I want them to remember this as a time of great love, and I want to take all of that with us whenever the world is ready for us to return to it.
And when it's time to go back - when it's safe for everyone, not just me - I'm going to think long and hard about the hours in my days. Where I spend them, and what they're worth.
May 23, 2019
Limping Toward the Finish Line
This morning I pulled up to Fairmont Elementary to drop the Littles off for school. There were three coach buses lined up at the door - it was 7:15. I looked over at Cooper and said, "Cooper. What day is your field trip?"
"Ummm...I don't know."
"You don't know? Is it possible that it's today?"
"Ummm...I don't know."
As he starts to get out of my car, unconcerned, I feel a panic setting in. "Cooper! What if it is today? Try to remember. Is it today? You have to have a sack lunch and money when you go on this one!"
"Mom, I said I don't know. I'll be fine."
As my mind raced to contemplate whether I could secure a lunch and some extra cash in the next 8 minutes or so, Emma chimed in helpfully from the back of the car: "Mom, his class is going to McGowan's - that's in Mankato. They probably wouldn't take a coach bus to that, it would probably be school buses." That's some great critical thinking, there, Emma, but that doesn't really calm me down.
Cooper is half out the door, still unconcerned, when I notice that he is wearing a tee shirt and jeans and nothing else. It's 47 degrees. He left the house like that and I didn't even notice...my May Parenting has really kicked in, I decided. "Cooper! You don't even have a JACKET?!" My voice might have squeaked a little on that last word.
He paused for a minute, and then calmly said to me, "Mom. I will grab a sweatshirt from the lost and found. I don't need any money, and my friends never eat all their lunch, so I'll just help them with leftovers. I will be FINE. Have a good day!" And with a cheerful wave, he walked into the building.
As he jogged inside, I dialed his teacher - ON HER CELL PHONE - at 7:20 in the morning. I'm sure she wishes she hadn't given her number out to me...I am the reason they make the block feature, I'm pretty sure. When she answered, cheerfully, without even a trace of annoyance, she assured me that the field trip is next week, and not to worry because we're all trying to survive the month of May. She could not have been kinder, though I am sure that she does not normally field phone calls from panicked parents at her HOUSE in the early morning hours. I'm not even sure how I'm going to make up for that one.
But as I related this story to some colleagues this morning, lamenting my poor May Parenting Skills and longing for the lazy days of summer, one of them remarked that Cooper sure has some great problem solving skills. And you know what? He sure does. He was faced with a last minute problem: no warm clothes, no money, no food - and the kid formulated a plan of attack in about 5 seconds.
I'm not sure what THAT says about my General Parenting Skills...but I'll try to think about that another day.
"Ummm...I don't know."
"You don't know? Is it possible that it's today?"
"Ummm...I don't know."
As he starts to get out of my car, unconcerned, I feel a panic setting in. "Cooper! What if it is today? Try to remember. Is it today? You have to have a sack lunch and money when you go on this one!"
"Mom, I said I don't know. I'll be fine."
As my mind raced to contemplate whether I could secure a lunch and some extra cash in the next 8 minutes or so, Emma chimed in helpfully from the back of the car: "Mom, his class is going to McGowan's - that's in Mankato. They probably wouldn't take a coach bus to that, it would probably be school buses." That's some great critical thinking, there, Emma, but that doesn't really calm me down.
Cooper is half out the door, still unconcerned, when I notice that he is wearing a tee shirt and jeans and nothing else. It's 47 degrees. He left the house like that and I didn't even notice...my May Parenting has really kicked in, I decided. "Cooper! You don't even have a JACKET?!" My voice might have squeaked a little on that last word.
He paused for a minute, and then calmly said to me, "Mom. I will grab a sweatshirt from the lost and found. I don't need any money, and my friends never eat all their lunch, so I'll just help them with leftovers. I will be FINE. Have a good day!" And with a cheerful wave, he walked into the building.
As he jogged inside, I dialed his teacher - ON HER CELL PHONE - at 7:20 in the morning. I'm sure she wishes she hadn't given her number out to me...I am the reason they make the block feature, I'm pretty sure. When she answered, cheerfully, without even a trace of annoyance, she assured me that the field trip is next week, and not to worry because we're all trying to survive the month of May. She could not have been kinder, though I am sure that she does not normally field phone calls from panicked parents at her HOUSE in the early morning hours. I'm not even sure how I'm going to make up for that one.
But as I related this story to some colleagues this morning, lamenting my poor May Parenting Skills and longing for the lazy days of summer, one of them remarked that Cooper sure has some great problem solving skills. And you know what? He sure does. He was faced with a last minute problem: no warm clothes, no money, no food - and the kid formulated a plan of attack in about 5 seconds.
I'm not sure what THAT says about my General Parenting Skills...but I'll try to think about that another day.
April 9, 2019
Let Them Be Bored
This past weekend I went through a spontaneous surge of spring cleaning, and began emptying closets and bins looking for items I could purge. I was going through Rubbermaid containers from the attic when I popped open one I'd brought home from my Dad's house when we were cleaning it out. It had a wide selection of my favorite childhood books inside, and at the bottom was a set of Childcraft Encyclopedias. Is anyone out there old enough to remember those? My parents bought the set for me somewhere between 1974 and 1978, because I had them already when my brother was born. On top of them was a haphazard collection of Little Golden Books, the Little Women series, The Girls of Canby Hall (which was my personal favorite alternative to the Sweet Valley High books) and a half a dozen anthologies filled with poems and short stories. I ran my hands through them looking at familiar favorites and started to put the lid back on. For some reason, I stopped. I shuffled through the books again, looking one more time at those encyclopedias. Despite being surrounded on all sides by a huge mess that needed to be badly organized, I felt compelled to pause.
I slid a book out from the stack; it stuck a little, sweaty from a few decades of storage. I ran my thumb over the numbered spine. The trim was still shiny, the words still embossed beautifully in gold, stamped on a bright pink stripe. I slid to the floor, cross-legged in a pile of old clothes and discarded winter gear, and I opened up the pages of my childhood.
There's no way for me to adequately explain how an hour of my afternoon just disappeared. As I turned the pages, it was like blowing the dust off volumes of memories from 40 years ago. Every page was familiar, from the pencil and ink drawings of nursery rhyme staples to the longer fables and myths...the pages were pristinely intact, though there were occasional blue crayon marks on some of them. The illustrations are magnificent; while I could not have pulled a one of them out of my memory a week ago, as my fingers paged past them, they became more than just pictures. It was an odd sensation, one I'm really struggling to describe. I could remember poring over them as a child, creating imaginary worlds beyond the words on the page. Some of them thrilled me, some of them scared me a little, and all of them are so deeply rooted in my long term memory that I found myself murmuring the words without looking and finishing verses that I didn't even realize I have memorized.
For a few minutes I felt like the layers of my hardened adulthood had been peeled back, and a sort of reaffirmation of my most authentic, earliest self became visible. I felt like I was glowing from the inside out, like the thread of innocence at the center of all of us was suddenly tangible and within reach. When we're five years old, we only know what we know. Once we reach 44, we are so far removed from that purity of self, it's impossible to remember what we felt, what we knew, or who we were before it got colored and influenced by who we became. But for an hour on Saturday afternoon I saw it again and this time I have four decades of wisdom to look back on it nostalgically.
Do you have any idea how many hours I spent reading these encyclopedias? Me either, but lots. Book after book, from Animal Kingdom to How Things Work, to World & Space and Make & Do, I had a tutorial for life that gave me a head start, not just on school, but on all the skills I was going to need eventually. I developed a pretty good vocabulary and became a fantastic speller, not to mention learning how to be still, thoughtful, and imaginative long before a teacher asked me to do so. I was probably a pretty weird kid; I remember my Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hart asking us to tell about a place we would like to visit. While my classmates said things like Mt. Rushmore and Disneyland, I said "The Okefenokee Swamp! Did you know they have plants there that eat the flesh of bugs?" There was dead silence after that and a flustered Mrs. Hart said, "Oh my." I ate lunch by myself for the rest of the year, but I wished I could show them all the pages of the National Geographic book with full color photographs of Pitcher plants devouring insects in their luminous sticky green throats.
As I sat there, reminiscing about forgotten pages and pictures, it occurred to me - for me to know these pages as well as I still do, I must have spent hours upon hours reading them. I don't remember my parents making that mandatory; there was not a designated twenty minute reading time on my homework to check off. I had wide open afternoons and weekends, I had freedom to do whatever I wanted as long as I didn't leave the yard. But do you know what I didn't have? Constant entertainment. I didn't have a steady flow of friends in and out of my house, I didn't have video games or television really, except Saturday morning cartoons. I played outside, I harassed my brother at every opportunity, and I read books.
Somewhere into book four on Saturday, my teacher brain kicked back in. I love to read. I LOVE it. And how did I get this way? Because my parents made books available to me from the youngest possible age. They read to me sometimes, but mostly they just made them available and then they got out of the way. When I got bored, I read a book. They didn't sign me up for an activity, I didn't comb the neighborhood looking for someone to play with...it seemed like the easiest thing in the world was just to open a book and disappear for a little while. What a simple, simple time.
Don't get me wrong - since becoming a parent I have made time for play dates for my kids and the list of activities I sign them up to try borders on ridiculous. I love every single thing about every single one of them, so I'm not criticizing the decisions we make as parents to expose them to activity. I'm just reflecting a little on a precious commodity that I don't give myself enough credit for having. When we lived at the farm we had a very isolated, simple life, and it really served us well. We couldn't keep everything when we came to town, but I will say that we still don't have internet at our house for a reason. When we are home, my kids wander around looking for something to do, since a screen isn't readily available. One of mine reads voraciously, asking for book series after book series until I almost literally can't afford his reading habit. One is into sewing at the moment, as well as the fine art of nails and make-up. One especially prefers to paint - on canvas, on rocks - even on an old cello she scavenged from the discard pile at school and I couldn't be happier. I think they become their most creative selves when they have nothing at all to do.
I teach 10th graders now, and by the time they get to me, reading habits are pretty much locked. They read, or they don't. The best I can hope for is to expose them to great stories while I have them, and hope it catches on. But for all my friends who are just starting out on the parenting journey...if I had one thing I would make sure I did all over again, it would be to always have an endless supply of books on hand, and to have hours and hours of absolutely nothing to do.
I slid a book out from the stack; it stuck a little, sweaty from a few decades of storage. I ran my thumb over the numbered spine. The trim was still shiny, the words still embossed beautifully in gold, stamped on a bright pink stripe. I slid to the floor, cross-legged in a pile of old clothes and discarded winter gear, and I opened up the pages of my childhood.
There's no way for me to adequately explain how an hour of my afternoon just disappeared. As I turned the pages, it was like blowing the dust off volumes of memories from 40 years ago. Every page was familiar, from the pencil and ink drawings of nursery rhyme staples to the longer fables and myths...the pages were pristinely intact, though there were occasional blue crayon marks on some of them. The illustrations are magnificent; while I could not have pulled a one of them out of my memory a week ago, as my fingers paged past them, they became more than just pictures. It was an odd sensation, one I'm really struggling to describe. I could remember poring over them as a child, creating imaginary worlds beyond the words on the page. Some of them thrilled me, some of them scared me a little, and all of them are so deeply rooted in my long term memory that I found myself murmuring the words without looking and finishing verses that I didn't even realize I have memorized.
For a few minutes I felt like the layers of my hardened adulthood had been peeled back, and a sort of reaffirmation of my most authentic, earliest self became visible. I felt like I was glowing from the inside out, like the thread of innocence at the center of all of us was suddenly tangible and within reach. When we're five years old, we only know what we know. Once we reach 44, we are so far removed from that purity of self, it's impossible to remember what we felt, what we knew, or who we were before it got colored and influenced by who we became. But for an hour on Saturday afternoon I saw it again and this time I have four decades of wisdom to look back on it nostalgically.
Do you have any idea how many hours I spent reading these encyclopedias? Me either, but lots. Book after book, from Animal Kingdom to How Things Work, to World & Space and Make & Do, I had a tutorial for life that gave me a head start, not just on school, but on all the skills I was going to need eventually. I developed a pretty good vocabulary and became a fantastic speller, not to mention learning how to be still, thoughtful, and imaginative long before a teacher asked me to do so. I was probably a pretty weird kid; I remember my Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hart asking us to tell about a place we would like to visit. While my classmates said things like Mt. Rushmore and Disneyland, I said "The Okefenokee Swamp! Did you know they have plants there that eat the flesh of bugs?" There was dead silence after that and a flustered Mrs. Hart said, "Oh my." I ate lunch by myself for the rest of the year, but I wished I could show them all the pages of the National Geographic book with full color photographs of Pitcher plants devouring insects in their luminous sticky green throats.
As I sat there, reminiscing about forgotten pages and pictures, it occurred to me - for me to know these pages as well as I still do, I must have spent hours upon hours reading them. I don't remember my parents making that mandatory; there was not a designated twenty minute reading time on my homework to check off. I had wide open afternoons and weekends, I had freedom to do whatever I wanted as long as I didn't leave the yard. But do you know what I didn't have? Constant entertainment. I didn't have a steady flow of friends in and out of my house, I didn't have video games or television really, except Saturday morning cartoons. I played outside, I harassed my brother at every opportunity, and I read books.
Somewhere into book four on Saturday, my teacher brain kicked back in. I love to read. I LOVE it. And how did I get this way? Because my parents made books available to me from the youngest possible age. They read to me sometimes, but mostly they just made them available and then they got out of the way. When I got bored, I read a book. They didn't sign me up for an activity, I didn't comb the neighborhood looking for someone to play with...it seemed like the easiest thing in the world was just to open a book and disappear for a little while. What a simple, simple time.
Don't get me wrong - since becoming a parent I have made time for play dates for my kids and the list of activities I sign them up to try borders on ridiculous. I love every single thing about every single one of them, so I'm not criticizing the decisions we make as parents to expose them to activity. I'm just reflecting a little on a precious commodity that I don't give myself enough credit for having. When we lived at the farm we had a very isolated, simple life, and it really served us well. We couldn't keep everything when we came to town, but I will say that we still don't have internet at our house for a reason. When we are home, my kids wander around looking for something to do, since a screen isn't readily available. One of mine reads voraciously, asking for book series after book series until I almost literally can't afford his reading habit. One is into sewing at the moment, as well as the fine art of nails and make-up. One especially prefers to paint - on canvas, on rocks - even on an old cello she scavenged from the discard pile at school and I couldn't be happier. I think they become their most creative selves when they have nothing at all to do.
I teach 10th graders now, and by the time they get to me, reading habits are pretty much locked. They read, or they don't. The best I can hope for is to expose them to great stories while I have them, and hope it catches on. But for all my friends who are just starting out on the parenting journey...if I had one thing I would make sure I did all over again, it would be to always have an endless supply of books on hand, and to have hours and hours of absolutely nothing to do.
January 25, 2019
On Gatsby, Snowmobiles, and a Really Good Metaphor
Back when I started teaching, I could assign projects for no reason other than the sheer pleasure of doing a project and tapping into our creativity. But as education evolves, so do the expectations for projects: they must connect to standard mastery, they must address learning styles, they should have skill scaffolding, and if administered cooperatively, they should also address accountability. I need to know where their base learning is, measure their growth, and communicate an outcome based on said project. It's a little exhausting, honestly. Important! But exhausting. I'm always checking, checking, checking for understanding - are they getting something out of this project? Can they read closely? Do they understand how characters develop? Can they identify author's purpose? Is there any VALUE to this assignment?
I started The Great Gatsby with my sophomores this week. I love this book with my whole entire self. I love my sophomores too, and I LOVE this unit. I spent a LOT of time putting together a project that meets the above guidelines. Students have options, expectations, and rubrics. I was enjoying walking around today as they got started on them, discussing their project plan and getting an idea of where they were at so far in their understanding of the novel, its themes, and its characters.
As I worked with one group, I couldn't help but overhear the group next to me, deep in discussion, flipping through magazines. As I listened, one of them said, "I can't find anything in here with a picture of carbon-fiber." What? Carbon fiber? There's nothing in The Great Gatsby that even resembles carbon fiber, so I was pretty sure they were a little off task. I decided I'd better wander over and see what was going on. I saw they had poster board, glue sticks, scissors, and a pile of magazines on their table. They had chosen a collage project on four major settings present in the novel. They had a big stack of Minnesota Snowmobiling magazines they were flipping through and talking about. So far they had labeled the four quadrants, and had cut out some pictures of snowmobiles, engine parts, and some Ski-Doo logos. I was puzzled.
I gently inserted myself into the conversation, and then asked, "What does carbon fiber have to do with Gatsby, may I ask?"
One young man looked up at me, surprised. "It's really expensive! I need a picture of it for Gatsby's mansion, he's the only one who could probably afford it."
I'm not sure if you just had a moment, but I just had a moment. A moment where I realized exactly how much I DON'T know. A moment where I realized how much he DID understand about Gatsby, and a moment where I was smacked in the face with the reminder that the crossing over of interdisciplinary worlds is a REALLY BIG DEAL. It absolutely delighted me. I laughed out loud and said, "That is so awesome, I didn't know that. Show me what else you have on there."
He said, "Well, I put a Ski-Doo in Nick Carraway's quadrant because he's poor and they're junk." One of his friends laughed, but his partner said, "Hey! I have a Ski-Doo!" and then we all giggled. Then the partner said, "Yeah, actually, they are junk. That's probably where it belongs." I told them I had a lot to learn, and they would have to help me figure their project out a little bit.
The third group member said, "Gudahl, we're doing, like, metaphors. You get it?"
Yep. I get it. Carry on.
I started The Great Gatsby with my sophomores this week. I love this book with my whole entire self. I love my sophomores too, and I LOVE this unit. I spent a LOT of time putting together a project that meets the above guidelines. Students have options, expectations, and rubrics. I was enjoying walking around today as they got started on them, discussing their project plan and getting an idea of where they were at so far in their understanding of the novel, its themes, and its characters.
As I worked with one group, I couldn't help but overhear the group next to me, deep in discussion, flipping through magazines. As I listened, one of them said, "I can't find anything in here with a picture of carbon-fiber." What? Carbon fiber? There's nothing in The Great Gatsby that even resembles carbon fiber, so I was pretty sure they were a little off task. I decided I'd better wander over and see what was going on. I saw they had poster board, glue sticks, scissors, and a pile of magazines on their table. They had chosen a collage project on four major settings present in the novel. They had a big stack of Minnesota Snowmobiling magazines they were flipping through and talking about. So far they had labeled the four quadrants, and had cut out some pictures of snowmobiles, engine parts, and some Ski-Doo logos. I was puzzled.
I gently inserted myself into the conversation, and then asked, "What does carbon fiber have to do with Gatsby, may I ask?"
One young man looked up at me, surprised. "It's really expensive! I need a picture of it for Gatsby's mansion, he's the only one who could probably afford it."
I'm not sure if you just had a moment, but I just had a moment. A moment where I realized exactly how much I DON'T know. A moment where I realized how much he DID understand about Gatsby, and a moment where I was smacked in the face with the reminder that the crossing over of interdisciplinary worlds is a REALLY BIG DEAL. It absolutely delighted me. I laughed out loud and said, "That is so awesome, I didn't know that. Show me what else you have on there."
He said, "Well, I put a Ski-Doo in Nick Carraway's quadrant because he's poor and they're junk." One of his friends laughed, but his partner said, "Hey! I have a Ski-Doo!" and then we all giggled. Then the partner said, "Yeah, actually, they are junk. That's probably where it belongs." I told them I had a lot to learn, and they would have to help me figure their project out a little bit.
The third group member said, "Gudahl, we're doing, like, metaphors. You get it?"
Yep. I get it. Carry on.
January 5, 2019
Piece By Piece
Once upon a time, a long long time ago, I had a broken heart. My parents made my house a place for mending broken things, so I holed up in my upstairs bedroom for a while and felt sorry for myself. My mom was especially good at solving problems, but this one was out of her wheelhouse. She let me wallow for a while, cooking dinners I didn't feel like eating and waiting for me to emerge. When I didn't, one evening she went rummaging around in the upstairs closet. She pulled out forgotten projects and suggested that I find something to do to take my mind off my troubles.
The bottom of the bin held a stash of vintage cotton fabric; I found remnants from a set of curtains she'd made for a much loved childhood bedroom. There was a pink calico from a set of doll clothes, a blue gingham from a familiar pillow backing and a pink candy cane stripe from a skirt she'd made for me once. Out of distraction more than anything, I gathered these pieces, cut some not very uniform squares, (I struggle a little bit with precise things like numbers and measuring) and decided to start piecing them together.
I didn't really have a plan. I don't sew, I certainly don't quilt, and Mom's sewing machine can really only accurately be described as a hostile adversary of mine. But the distraction kept me from crying too much, so I pressed onward. Over the course of 48 hours I listened to every sad song I could find in my CD/tape collection, and somehow I managed to piece together a quilt top. Most importantly, the ache in my chest was just a tiny little bit lighter than it was when I started.
Fast forward a whole bunch of years. Mom found that quilt top one day and brought it over to the house. I was so surprised - I'd forgotten it. Like memories do, though, I was sharply reminded upon seeing it of that broken heart and the bruise I carried from it. I took it to a quilter friend who helped me get it top-stitched, then all that was left to do was bind it.
And here's where another gigantic break in time happens. Binding is hard. Maybe not for a regular quilter, but for me? It's hard. I would have to sit still in one place for a LONG time. I would have to have some dexterity in my fingertips. I would have to care about things like the aforementioned numbers and measuring. Binding is not really a Sara Gudahl activity. So I boxed up the quilt top and stuffed it back in a closet.
Fast forward a whole bunch more years. Cleaning out a closet one day, I found that quilt top, and quilter friend Holly happened to be over. She said, "Seriously? You still haven't bound that quilt?" I think I maybe just grinned sheepishly. She scooped it up and took it home with her. Today she brought it back.
Somehow she found vintage cotton prints that so closely resemble the originals, they look like they belonged on it. She bound it so beautifully, and when I pulled it out of the bag, do you know what happened? I expected to feel the bite and sting of that original broken heart. I thought I would sharply remember the pain of it and the reason for making this quilt in the first place. But you know what they say about time and it's ability to soften things. Instead, I thought about my mom.
There's a big old metaphor just begging to be used here - my Mom solved problems like a Boss. She was the Master, the Queen Bee of problem solving. She was so good at it - there was almost nothing she couldn't do. But that particular winter, she knew she couldn't fix my problem; she couldn't keep my heart from breaking. But she did know that it needed to be stitched back together, and she knew I had to do it myself. So she brought me a bunch of scraps, some representatives of my childhood and reminders of things that mattered, and challenged to make something out of it. And look at that - I did.
Then she went and left me, and broke my dang heart all over again.
Holly, you know how important you are to me, friend. You said this wasn't a big deal - but it was. Thanks for finishing this for me. It's not just a binding, you know. You stitched together a few pieces of my broken heart, and for that - I can never say thank you enough.
The bottom of the bin held a stash of vintage cotton fabric; I found remnants from a set of curtains she'd made for a much loved childhood bedroom. There was a pink calico from a set of doll clothes, a blue gingham from a familiar pillow backing and a pink candy cane stripe from a skirt she'd made for me once. Out of distraction more than anything, I gathered these pieces, cut some not very uniform squares, (I struggle a little bit with precise things like numbers and measuring) and decided to start piecing them together.
I didn't really have a plan. I don't sew, I certainly don't quilt, and Mom's sewing machine can really only accurately be described as a hostile adversary of mine. But the distraction kept me from crying too much, so I pressed onward. Over the course of 48 hours I listened to every sad song I could find in my CD/tape collection, and somehow I managed to piece together a quilt top. Most importantly, the ache in my chest was just a tiny little bit lighter than it was when I started.
Fast forward a whole bunch of years. Mom found that quilt top one day and brought it over to the house. I was so surprised - I'd forgotten it. Like memories do, though, I was sharply reminded upon seeing it of that broken heart and the bruise I carried from it. I took it to a quilter friend who helped me get it top-stitched, then all that was left to do was bind it.
And here's where another gigantic break in time happens. Binding is hard. Maybe not for a regular quilter, but for me? It's hard. I would have to sit still in one place for a LONG time. I would have to have some dexterity in my fingertips. I would have to care about things like the aforementioned numbers and measuring. Binding is not really a Sara Gudahl activity. So I boxed up the quilt top and stuffed it back in a closet.
Fast forward a whole bunch more years. Cleaning out a closet one day, I found that quilt top, and quilter friend Holly happened to be over. She said, "Seriously? You still haven't bound that quilt?" I think I maybe just grinned sheepishly. She scooped it up and took it home with her. Today she brought it back.
Somehow she found vintage cotton prints that so closely resemble the originals, they look like they belonged on it. She bound it so beautifully, and when I pulled it out of the bag, do you know what happened? I expected to feel the bite and sting of that original broken heart. I thought I would sharply remember the pain of it and the reason for making this quilt in the first place. But you know what they say about time and it's ability to soften things. Instead, I thought about my mom.
There's a big old metaphor just begging to be used here - my Mom solved problems like a Boss. She was the Master, the Queen Bee of problem solving. She was so good at it - there was almost nothing she couldn't do. But that particular winter, she knew she couldn't fix my problem; she couldn't keep my heart from breaking. But she did know that it needed to be stitched back together, and she knew I had to do it myself. So she brought me a bunch of scraps, some representatives of my childhood and reminders of things that mattered, and challenged to make something out of it. And look at that - I did.
Then she went and left me, and broke my dang heart all over again.
Holly, you know how important you are to me, friend. You said this wasn't a big deal - but it was. Thanks for finishing this for me. It's not just a binding, you know. You stitched together a few pieces of my broken heart, and for that - I can never say thank you enough.
December 23, 2018
Evolution
I've been a little quiet on the family blog this fall; it's not that there's nothing to write about, I assure you. It's only because I started a Master's program. As it turns out, a Creative Writing Master's expects you to write a lot. (Who knew?) To date, I have written 41 papers for class. I started in July, so you can do the math on that.
It's hard to find minutes to write for myself, but I do have a few thoughts in the quiet week of Christmas Break to share on the all important topic of evolution. I'm talking mainly about social evolution - the way we grow and change with our surroundings and our circumstances. This year we've had a lot of change in our world, and I see it manifesting in each of us differently. My kids are weathering the storms of physical and emotional growth and maturity with as much grace as I could ask of them. There are certainly ups and downs, but I remain proud of their ability to make mistakes and learn from them. So far the stakes have been low, and I'm glad for opportunities to parent them through small things, hoping that the life lessons will stick someday when there are big things.
Aaron dissolved the family business this year, stepping away from tile setting and construction for the first time in his life since he was sixteen years old. Making the decision to accept a job at the school for the Building, Grounds & Maintenance crew was scary; he's been setting his own work schedule for so long I wondered how he was going to adjust to that setting. (Not only does he have set hours on a set schedule, he's got to watch his construction crew language now that he's in school around kids all the time!) But this change has transformed our family in so many ways.
He goes to work at 5:45 every morning, and punches out right before the kids get out of school. That makes him available to pick them up from school, attend every single school activity, and be home every single night for supper. No more road trips, jobs in other states, no more working every odd hour imaginable, including weekends. I can't count how many days and nights he was missing from the family unit in pursuit of the business that kept us afloat. Having him here and present has changed our family dynamic tremendously.
My favorite change that has come with this new position is harder to define. For many years, my job at school has been a little bit of a mystery to my husband. I can talk about school as much as I want, but the truth is, unless you are IN education, it's hard to really relate to the special circumstances and challenges that being an educator brings. He's become a different kind of listener; now that he is in the system he understands me differently, and I can't begin to articulate how much our relationship to each other has deepened and evolved.
I remember a conversation we had a long time ago when we were first married. I was spending lots of hours at school, working on one thing or another. Aaron would be annoyed at my seeming inability to set it down and just come home. He couldn't understand why I would spend unpaid hours there doing extra or unnecessary things. I think when you work in the private sector, that is probably unheard of: you get paid for the work you do and that is that. Teachers' hours are measured in heartbeats, not in money. We live and breathe for our kids, and don't think about the time or the money or the stress; we think about their faces and their minds and their hearts. Once, a long time ago, he asked me, "Why are you giving so much of yourself to other people? What about you?" And I didn't have a good answer for that - I didn't even know how to explain it.
Well last week, we came full circle, back to the question. Being in the school all day every day has put him in close, regular contact with students. And one, in particular, has caught his attention. He's begun to notice for himself that some kids don't have what other kids have. It's one thing to know it, its quite another to FEEL it, especially when that kid is someone you begin to feel a connection to. In the past month, he's been on a mission; buying extra packs of socks and pants and tee shirts, school supplies and odds and ends and donating them to a particular classroom. He comes home with stories about his interactions with students - one teacher even convinced him to wear a purple fuzzy Santa hat all day and participate in a school Scavenger hunt. (What?! Have you MET my husband?) These are just a few examples - he's volunteering for overtime, going in on weekends just because, and asking what else we can do to make life better for kids at school. I'm leaving out some details for privacy, obviously, but this change in my husband is delighting me more than I can even articulate. He gets it - finally. And that means he gets me too, on a level we haven't been able to connect on before.
It makes me think about how we evolve. Every new challenge changes us and brings us to an entirely new plane of understanding. I couldn't have imagined this 15 years ago when we were first married. I wonder what the next fifteen will bring?
It's hard to find minutes to write for myself, but I do have a few thoughts in the quiet week of Christmas Break to share on the all important topic of evolution. I'm talking mainly about social evolution - the way we grow and change with our surroundings and our circumstances. This year we've had a lot of change in our world, and I see it manifesting in each of us differently. My kids are weathering the storms of physical and emotional growth and maturity with as much grace as I could ask of them. There are certainly ups and downs, but I remain proud of their ability to make mistakes and learn from them. So far the stakes have been low, and I'm glad for opportunities to parent them through small things, hoping that the life lessons will stick someday when there are big things.
Aaron dissolved the family business this year, stepping away from tile setting and construction for the first time in his life since he was sixteen years old. Making the decision to accept a job at the school for the Building, Grounds & Maintenance crew was scary; he's been setting his own work schedule for so long I wondered how he was going to adjust to that setting. (Not only does he have set hours on a set schedule, he's got to watch his construction crew language now that he's in school around kids all the time!) But this change has transformed our family in so many ways.
He goes to work at 5:45 every morning, and punches out right before the kids get out of school. That makes him available to pick them up from school, attend every single school activity, and be home every single night for supper. No more road trips, jobs in other states, no more working every odd hour imaginable, including weekends. I can't count how many days and nights he was missing from the family unit in pursuit of the business that kept us afloat. Having him here and present has changed our family dynamic tremendously.
My favorite change that has come with this new position is harder to define. For many years, my job at school has been a little bit of a mystery to my husband. I can talk about school as much as I want, but the truth is, unless you are IN education, it's hard to really relate to the special circumstances and challenges that being an educator brings. He's become a different kind of listener; now that he is in the system he understands me differently, and I can't begin to articulate how much our relationship to each other has deepened and evolved.
I remember a conversation we had a long time ago when we were first married. I was spending lots of hours at school, working on one thing or another. Aaron would be annoyed at my seeming inability to set it down and just come home. He couldn't understand why I would spend unpaid hours there doing extra or unnecessary things. I think when you work in the private sector, that is probably unheard of: you get paid for the work you do and that is that. Teachers' hours are measured in heartbeats, not in money. We live and breathe for our kids, and don't think about the time or the money or the stress; we think about their faces and their minds and their hearts. Once, a long time ago, he asked me, "Why are you giving so much of yourself to other people? What about you?" And I didn't have a good answer for that - I didn't even know how to explain it.
Well last week, we came full circle, back to the question. Being in the school all day every day has put him in close, regular contact with students. And one, in particular, has caught his attention. He's begun to notice for himself that some kids don't have what other kids have. It's one thing to know it, its quite another to FEEL it, especially when that kid is someone you begin to feel a connection to. In the past month, he's been on a mission; buying extra packs of socks and pants and tee shirts, school supplies and odds and ends and donating them to a particular classroom. He comes home with stories about his interactions with students - one teacher even convinced him to wear a purple fuzzy Santa hat all day and participate in a school Scavenger hunt. (What?! Have you MET my husband?) These are just a few examples - he's volunteering for overtime, going in on weekends just because, and asking what else we can do to make life better for kids at school. I'm leaving out some details for privacy, obviously, but this change in my husband is delighting me more than I can even articulate. He gets it - finally. And that means he gets me too, on a level we haven't been able to connect on before.
It makes me think about how we evolve. Every new challenge changes us and brings us to an entirely new plane of understanding. I couldn't have imagined this 15 years ago when we were first married. I wonder what the next fifteen will bring?
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