I Take It Personally

Dear Teenagers:

If you have ever wondered why a teacher gets angry when you have a lame excuse for being in the hall, or why a teacher raises her voice when you try to justify being late to class, or why a teacher stops talking altogether after the seven hundredth time you say “I don’t wanna do the vocabulary,” I am going to give you the answer.

It is because we spend countless hours planning lessons we hope will be engaging, challenging, and relevant.  It is because we spend countless hours aching over students who do not achieve or understand.  It is because we sacrifice time and sleep and energy because we want YOU to succeed.  

It is because I take it personally when I tax my physical and sometimes mental health to give you the priceless gift of education the best way I know how and you skip class, yelling as you roam the halls and distracting the kids who do care.  It is because I take it personally when I invest time and money to learn new ways to engage you and you mock it or ignore it.  

It is because I take my job personally.  Because it means something to me to help students see the world beyond the city limits in which they live.  It means something to me to see a student get it, the a-ha moment, after struggling for days or sometimes years.  

You mean something to me.  

And when you swear at me, or ignore me, or roll your eyes, or put your head down, I take it personally.

Sincerely,

Teachers Everywhere

Dawn

I have been sad for over a year.  Not curl-in-a-fetal-position sad, at least not on a regular basis, but sad nonetheless.  I've spent many days and nights laying on the couch watching TV shows I've seen hundreds of times before or sitting on my back porch playing mindless games on an iPad.  I stopped working out.

This past summer, I spent the majority of my time watching past episodes of a TV show that happened to be in reruns.  I declined offers to go out and about from most people.  The four gazillion ideas I had from Pinterest to landscape my yard or organize my house or craft away didn't get done.  The plan to properly leash-train my pup fell by the wayside.

Worst of all, I stopped praying for myself.  I prayed quite often for others, but I stopped talking to Him about me, about my weaknesses, about my thanks, about my hopes.  I felt, for a very long time, that I was failing at life.

About a month ago, I went to the doctor for a check-up.  I didn't have anything in mind other than it had been quite a while since I'd been and I thought I was due.  I mentioned feeling super cranky with hormones, so the doc prescribed Prozac.  Just to be sure, she drew blood to run some tests.  A few days later, lo and behold, it turns out my thyroid has begun to fizzle out.

So I went to my GP for more blood tests, an ultrasound of my thyroid, and a confirmation of hypothyroidism.  Want to guess what the symptoms are?  Depression.  Lethargy.  Weight gain.  Fatigue.

I wish I could express what a relief it was to learn this.  I wish I could explain how quickly my eyes filled with tears with the knowledge that I wasn't going completely bananas.  I mean, let's face it, I'm kinda nutty on my own but it's nice to know that's just a fun personality quirk and not a condition that leads to the men with the white jackets ringing my doorbell.

I have been taking thyroid hormone for about a month, and they're still regulating the dosage, but good golly, what a difference!  I feel like I am a completely different person!  It's not just the energy difference; with teaching and coaching, I'm still pretty wiped.  It's the difference in my thoughts.  I am not focusing on the negative.  I am not sad anymore.  I no longer feel worthless.  Best of all, I am praying again.

I'm not one to talk about my feelings a whole bunch.  I might mention something in passing, but I rarely reach out for fear of burdening someone else.  I remember talking about this particular feeling a handful of times.  I am thankful for one friend who listened and encouraged rather than some others who dismissed it as nonsensical.  I didn't even want to write about it because it feels like I'm just whining, but I have been thinking a lot about how much my life has changed in the past two or three years, about how much of that change has been internal as well as external.

I think it is very easy to look at those around us and imagine them to be happier than we are, more successful, skinnier, prettier, whatever-ier, and lose sight of the fact that they've got a lot going on inside as well.  I think it is easy to forget that everyone struggles and not everyone wears it on their sleeves.  I think it is important to remember that a little compassion, a little empathy, can make someone's struggle a bit more bearable, if even for a moment.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. ~ Proverbs 17:17

Closed for Renovation

I spend a lot of time in my head.  That sounds fairly obvious; I mean, who isn’t in their own heads?  (I will pause here so you can fill in the blank for that question - I’m sure everyone can think of one person who just doesn’t seem like s/he EVER spends time in thought.)  I am constantly thinking, analyzing, pondering, wondering... It doesn’t matter if I am with others, either; though, engaging with other people does manage to turn down the volume on the inner monologue that sometimes screams at me late at night.  I just cannot seem to get out of my head.

There are times when my thoughts are very focused, like when I am generating lists of things that need to be done for a particular lesson, in order to pack for vacation, or the preparation for a social gathering.  When I have something on which to focus the raw energy of my thoughts, it’s downright scary what I can accomplish in a short amount of time.  For example, in preparing for my recent vacation, I procrastinated getting started despite the ticker tape of things I knew I needed to do.  Lo and behold, two days before I was to leave, I wrote the list and got my butt in gear.  In two days, I managed to cook for the wonderful people who volunteered to pup-sit, cook for the trip, do laundry, clean the house, mow the yard, and pack my clothes and car.  Not a ton of stuff, but considering I still had to run practice, managed to play tennis, and have lunch with some pretty awesome ladies during that 48-hour time period, I am relatively proud that I got everything done.

Now, when there is no focus for my thoughts, well, I imagine if someone were to be able to hear my inner monologue, s/he might believe me to be the poster child for Ritalin.  Laying down to sleep, working in the yard, driving longer than ten minutes, sitting on the beach watching the sun rise... the thoughts are like pinballs, traveling in one direction only to bounce wildly in a completely different and often unanticipated direction.  This morning, for instance, as I sat and watched the sun rise, my brain covered the following gamut: what I need to do to get fit, what I need to plan for an upcoming conference, how to get my mom and aunts to start talking like rational human beings, how to let go of some old resentments, what I need to do to get ready for school, what I need to do to prepare for my season, what God’s plan is for me, how much I miss playing volleyball, how much I hope my nieces will experience all the good in this world, if I’m ever going to meet someone, how annoying the sand fleas were that nipped at my ankles, and what I wanted to read next.  Two hours, my inner monologue at mach-5.  The nap I took after that was delightful.

Sometimes, I wish I had a mute button.  (Go ahead, say it.  Some of you wish that, too.)  I wish there were a way to mute the internal narrative, or at least a way to turn the volume way down.  It’s not so much that I mind reflection or introspection or rumination.  I think it is important to be able to do those things honestly in order to grow.  The problem with spending so much time in my head is two-fold:  1.  I’m sick of myself.  You know how it gets when you go on vacation with someone, and it rains so you are stuck in the hotel or condo together for days at a time?  It gets so annoying that even the way they breathe makes you want to stab a pen in both eyes... yeah, that’s how I feel about my brain right now.  And 2.  The constant analysis is creating a ridiculous amount of negative self-talk.  The ever-lasting, ipod shuffle-and-loop playlist of my brain seems only to focus on my flaws and failures.  This delightful by-product, in turn, increases #1 which then exacerbates the negativity.  To be cliche, it is a vicious cycle.

I think most people would advise me to simply find a focus to keep that energy harnessed.  If I were talking to someone else who expressed the same things, I would tell her or him to do just that.  Why in the world, then, is it so unbelievably difficult to do that?  Reading helps, but I may spend my retirement fund on books if that is going to be my only escape.  Pinterest can also be a labyrinthine distraction, as can be the mind-numbing apps on the iPad, but somehow I think there is more to living than these things.

Perhaps this is my eviction notice to myself.  Or, maybe not an eviction, but a notice of renovation.  It’s time to get out of my head.  Or, perhaps not get out, but let in the sunlight and fresh air that surrounds me because I gotta tell you, the air is getting stale and oppressive, and the ambience is dreary.  If anyone can recommend some good cleaning techniques, let me know.

Friends

I follow an advice columnist, Carolyn Hax, on Facebook.  She is not the “dear Abby” kind of columnist but rather one who is honest, sometimes gentle and sometimes sarcastic, and will gently redirect someone in pain as often as she’ll call someone out who has his/her head up a butt.  In short, I’m a fan.  She has a live discussion every Friday and sometimes will develop question threads into a stand-alone column.  Today, her column was just that and its subject was “How to end, or mend, a friendship.” (I suggest reading the comments section - her followers are hysterical!)

I have been on both sides of this equation, and it is fascinating to me how differently the equation plays out for all of us.  I have had friends with whom our common bond ceased to be common, and there seemed to be a natural fade.   I had one friend who crossed a line of hurt that just changed the way I saw her.  I admit to not handling it well, ignoring calls and texts.  When she finally asked about it, I did explain it, and she just erupted with an “I-can’t-believe-you’re-still-upset-about-that.”  I have also had a friend who stopped talking to me rather abruptly.  While I think about the other friendships that have passed from my life from time to time, this last one is the most painful, most likely because it is the most recent and it was a 20 year friendship that ended.

I have talked about this with a friend (who, bless her heart, is still very present in the weirdness that is my life) and she is probably reading this and banging her head off the keyboard.  She doesn’t understand why I won’t contact my former friend, why I won’t ask what happened.  She doesn’t understand my (il)logical thinking of “if 20 years of friendship isn’t worth a conversation, then why should I try to force it?”  Yeah, yeah.  I know what you’re thinking: I should swap “(il)logical” for stubborn.  I think this is a natural reaction to hurt, to try to block it by being flippant.  The truth is, though, that it does hurt.

I am not a fan of pain.  I imagine most people aren’t.  I think it’s natural to try to avoid it.  However, at some point, a person has to face it, feel it, and figure out what to do with it.  This is the part that I am a fan of: pain brings growth.  It can be for the better or for the worse, but hurting presents an opportunity to grow.  I’m not quite certain, yet, what kind of growth this particular hurt will bring.  Perhaps it will be to remind me to cherish the friends I have present.  Perhaps it will be to bring me closer to God.  Perhaps it will be to make me a better friend to others.

I am grateful for the friendships I have and have had in my life.  Some friends have taught me an appreciation for music, some taught me how to be selfless.  Some friends have taught me an appreciation for the healing laughter can bring, others taught me the strength to be found in humility.  Some have challenged me to be a better teacher, some have challenged to be closer in my walk with God.  All of them have contributed to who I am.

Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend. (Proverbs 27:17)

Manning the Ships

There are many types of sea-going vessels: boats, ships, canoes, kayaks, scows, barges, dinghies, gondolas, yachts, submarines, etc. Some are small, meant only for one occupant; others large, meant for groups.  Some are for leisure, a quiet place to fish as the sun rises or a raucous place to party with a group of friends.  Some are for provision, carrying coal from one part of the country to another or hauling in myriad types of seafood for consumption.  Whatever the size, whatever the purpose, each vessel needs proper maintenance in order to function.

I’ve been thinking about a different type of ship recently: relationships.  Like sea-going vessels, there are many types.  There are the overreaching categories, familial, platonic, and romantic, and within each of those, there are several subcategories.  We have different relationships with parents than we do with siblings, different relationships with colleagues than we do with friends, and different relationships with flirtations than long-term significant others.  

When I was growing up, my mom told my sister and me that friends and boyfriends may come and go, but our sister would always be there.  Every time we fought, she would remind us of this, and I am thankful for the relationship she and I now share, not only because of the comfort, advice, and shared memories we provide each other, but also because I see my nieces developing the same kind of relationship and it makes my heart smile.  

Recently, though, my mom and my aunts have been struggling, the stress that comes with caring for my gram as well as personality clashes have led to more and more tension.  This makes me sad and afraid.  Sad that their relationships are not weathering the storms of life and afraid that, if I am not careful, if I don’t take proper precautions, the same could happen for me.  Sad that my nieces see this, too, and afraid they might think it’s okay to allow the storms of life wash over their relationship and sink it.

Their struggle is certainly not unique to sisters; most relationships face such moments at one point or another, though perhaps not as intense.  When I think about the times I’ve faced them in my own relationships, I wonder if I have made the passage easier or if I have been a lightning rod.  I wonder if my pride has gotten in the way or if I’ve allowed His grace to guide my own.  Sadly, I know I have contributed to the rocky waves more than I would like to admit.  

When we encounter those tempests that threaten, what is the proper balance to fortify the ship?  There is a power balance in relationships that aren’t quite recognizable in fair weather.  People will sail along in blue skies, laughing and bonding.  Friends laughing at the latest episode of Modern Family, lovers gazing adoringly in each others‘ eyes while enjoying a sunset, family celebrating the birth of a child.  When the winds pick up, though, navigating the squall together can be a difficult thing, especially when there is more than one alpha in the mix.

I can’t remember where I read it, but I recall a quote that goes something along the lines of, “Saying I am sorry doesn’t always mean you’ve lost.  Sometimes it means you value the relationship more than you value being right.”  I think relationships are built, and broken, in the typhoons and hurricanes of life.  These are the times when we discover our own strengths and weaknesses as well as each others’.  If we are brave enough to be honest with ourselves and each other, brave enough to recognize where we are placing the value, we can adjust the sails or rudders together.  

A Father's Love

My parents divorced when I was young; thus, my father wasn’t as present in my life as those whose fathers lived with them.  My grandparents lived next door to us growing up, and my grandfather gave us more than enough love to guide us and nurture is in the day-to-day growing.  He was a man of discipline and hard work who also loved to laugh and have a good time.  I remember holiday gatherings, with him at the head of the table and cracking jokes.  I remember the way he looked at my gram and the way he looked at my mom and her sisters.  He may not have been one to say it with words, but he loved the women in his life very much.

My stepfather may have started on the periphery when we first met him, but his presence in our lives now is indelible.  He is also a man of discipline and hard work who loves to laugh and have a good time.  He came to every volleyball tournament when I was in high school, even those across the country, something he continues to do with my nieces, his granddaughters.  He climbed through feet of snow to go house-hunting with me, and he has given me much time, sweat, and energy in making my house a home and a safe one at that, something I know he does with my step-brother and sister as well.  His generosity is quiet, and he asks for nothing in return.  

While my dad wasn’t around for the day-to-day stuff when I was growing up, and while we don’t have a typical father-daughter relationship now, I know he’s a good dad.  I’ve seen him with my younger half-sisters; they know they are loved deeply.  I will not lie and say it doesn’t hurt at times, but he and I have our own moments: funny conversations waiting for the movie to begin, seeing all the sci-fi and silly movies no one else wants to see, a shared sense of humor.

My brother-in-law has been a member of the family for 24 years, my sister’s high school sweetheart who’ve built an amazing life together.  I’ve seen my brother-in-law be silly, be serious, be patient, be stern, be playful, be loving, and sometimes, be sad.  I’ve seen him be a brother, a son, a husband, a dad, an uncle, a grand-son, and a friend. Last summer, though, was the first time I had the chance to see him be a dad in the every-day business of it: the disciplining, tucking-in, playing-in-the-sand, meal-preparing every-day business of it.  And it was awesome.

Another Father’s Day comes upon us this weekend, and I’ve been thinking about fathers.  Everyone has a different relationship with their fathers, and everyone defines fatherhood differently.  Some dads are hands-on, some more comfortable providing in other ways.  Some dads are great spiritual leaders, some are stars at the grill.  Some dads rock at crawling around on the floor at play, some make books come to life.  Yes, dads have flaws because dads are humans; sometimes those flaws hurt but sometimes they make us stronger.  

In Luke 15, the Lord tells the story of the prodigal son, taking his inheritance from his father, leaving, and spending it riotously.  Finding himself in dire straits, he worked the fields, eating the same meal as the swine with which he slept, before realizing the offense in his rejection of his father’s love and humbly returning.  Rather than disowning him or lashing out in anger, his father thrilled at his return, embraced him, and called for the finest raiments and a feast.  It is this unconditional love that I celebrate this Father’s Day.  This unconditional love with which I have been blessed by the pretty amazing father-figures I have had in my life as well as the extraordinary fathers with whom I am friends.  Flaws and all, they have inspired me, encouraged me, and made me into the woman I am.  

To you, I wish the greatest of days: may you find yourselves surrounded by good food, good conversation, and may you find the unconditional love you give given in return.

Lovesong

I was 11 years old, sitting in a hot and steamy college gym, watching a sport that until then I had only seen played in the back yard at picnics.  We went to watch because my sister had just begun playing for the freshman team and the varsity team had made it to states.  I watched high school athletes throwing their bodies around on the floor, jumping and swinging and celebrating, and cry their hearts out when they lost in the championship.  I fell in love.

It has been a part of my life ever since that Saturday a long time ago.  I watched my sister earn two PIAA silver medals and play division I ball.  I started playing myself in seventh grade, was part of a three-time state championship team, played club ball that took me to parts of the country I probably would never have seen otherwise, and earned a college scholarship to a small school that brought amazing people into my life and made me the woman I am.  I helped manage the newly created men’s program at my high school, preparing me for coaching, which I have been doing in some capacity since I was 19 years old.  I played in co-ed leagues and tournaments as an adult, though not much recently.  I even watched my mom accept a national award for Parent of the Year for it.

It has introduced me to amazing people: one coach in high school who I am not sure realizes that he saved me from myself and another who was willing to spend countless hours after practice just hitting the ball at me to make me better; friends from my high school, club, and college teams who may not be a part of my every day life anymore, but who taught me who I want as well as who I do not want to be; people from adult leagues who, though a continent away, are among my best friends in the world.

It has taught me important things: how to rely on others to make something happen; how to take charge when others are struggling and need someone to look to; how to follow strong leaders who know where they’re going; how to get up and try again when I make a mistake; how to celebrate respectfully when I sometimes win; how to encourage, how to be honest, how to meet new people, how to be comfortable in my own skin.  It has given me a strength I do not know I would have had I not fallen in love with it so very long ago.

It was my passion for a long time.  I ate, slept, and breathed it.  There were days when I spent half a day with it, when I went from one practice to another to another, when I became so gym-drunk, the punchiness brought fits of giggles only a fellow player or coach could understand. 

I spent the past holiday weekend watching my nieces play the sport their mother and I so love for a club in which I once played, my mother once ran as the director, and my sister and I coached.  They are 14 and 11-years-old, and they have the bug.  I see it and hear it in their voices.  If the oldest could play it for 16 hours a day, she probably would.  And they’re good.  Very good.  They work hard and play with intensity and love it, love it, love it.  But as good as they are, what makes me happiest is knowing that they will learn all of the things I learned, meet awesome people like I did, and have countless great memories and experiences to forever shape who they will become.

I debate at the end of every season whether I want to continue coaching because the passion has begun to wane after 26 years.  Every year it takes a little longer before I say yes in my head.  Part of me thinks I continue to coach because I don’t know who I would be if it weren’t part of my life anymore.  Part of me thinks that if it weren’t for volleyball, a piece of my heart would stop beating.  Part of me thinks that a love affair this long means forever, for better or for worse.  

Entitlement

Disclaimer:  For the anecdotes included in the following writing, I use first person for sake of a smoother pronoun agreement; however, I am just as guilty of some of these and just witnessed the others. I would like to direct the following words toward myself more if not as much as toward the general population.  

I walk up to customer service and say, “I need to leave something here and pick it up later because it won’t fit in my car” rather than “Would it be possible for me to leave this here to pick up later?  I can’t fit it in my car.”   

or

My significant other breaks up with me, several months or several years ago, and I only call particular friends to unload all of my heartache and never ask how s/he is doing, even after months have passed since I’ve asked.

or

I sit in my classes and do nothing but creep on Facebook or tweet on Twitter, and I am shocked that I got a zero percent for the marking period.  “I should get something just for showing up!”

or

I make plans with someone, but then I back out because something better comes along or because I just don’t feel like it.  The next time I want to go out, I am annoyed that my friend won’t go.

What is wrong with us?  How is it that we have morphed into a group of people who feel they are entitled to special treatment, special rules or exemption from the rules that apply to everyone else?  How have we become a group of people who think of themselves first and everyone and everything else as secondary?  

Please understand, I know there are times when we do need to come first because if we don’t, we wouldn’t have enough to keep on living.  But think about it: what is so bad that I cannot ask someone how they are (and mean it)?  You can count on one of your hands events or situations that qualify.  What makes me so much better than someone else that I get to do whatever I want?  Answer: nothing.

Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my pain and start focusing on how I could help someone else, my pain would somehow abate.  Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my frustration and start focusing on what I can do to make things run more smoothly for someone else, my patience would grow.  Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my disappointment and start focusing on being a blessing for someone else, maybe I will be able to see all the blessings I’ve been given.

Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, 

love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous: 

~ 1 Peter 3:8

Comparative Grief

When most people hear the term grief, they assume there has been a literal, physical death; and, usually, their compassion valves switch on and they immediately offer condolences and support.  What is interesting is how people tend to have considerably less compassion when the death is metaphorical instead.  

Think about the times you, or someone you know, came to the end of a long-term, romantic relationship.  If you are anything like me, the person you love is your best friend as well, so when that ends, there is a double whammy.  I remember hearing some sort of explanation for romantic grief on a television show: the amount of time permissible to grieve is directly proportionate to the length of time one was in said relationship by a third or some such.  As if grief works like an algebra equation.  Don’t get me wrong, if that is a personal mantra for you and it works for you, brilliant!  It is the application to others, and judging them according to that personal mantra, that drives me bananas.

I also find it curious that people, and I am guilty of this myself, tend to put more weight on the dissolution of a marriage than the ending of a long-term relationship.  (Clarification: when I think long-term, I think 2 years or more; I am sure that is different for everyone.)  While I have never been through a divorce, I have struggled through the ending of an 8 year relationship.  No, there were no legal waters to navigate.  Yes, I understand that legal matters can become incredibly nasty.  However, I still had to face family gatherings alone, to feel the fresh cut of the knife every time an acquaintance would ask about us, to face shared spots alone, to feel the pain anew every time a special song evoked the innumerable memories.  

There is also the great unspoken grief: fading or losing friendships.  As we grow and change, which I hope is a never-ending process, sometimes the people in our lives no longer fit.  I think it is natural for some friendships to fade because commonalities dissipate or belief systems change and are no longer compatible.  Sometimes, the feelings are mutually recognized; sometimes, they are not.  The surprising fact: it is rare for friends to have “the talk” like those ending a romantic relationship would.  I have been both the one to pull away and the one from whom friends have withdrawn.  I don’t feel good about either, and as awkward as those “talks” may have been, the closure they would have provided would have been worth it.  

Confession: I do not talk much about these things to my friends.  I have had both good and bad experiences when I have tried to talk about it.  One friend told me it’s on me to figure out how to feel better; another friend just about flicked me in the forehead for not going to her sooner.  My reticence comes more from my own self-judgment more so than my fear of others’.  I judge myself as being weak or ridiculous for perseverating on hurt and pain. Before some of you start banging your heads on the keyboard, I do see the fallacious logic of this.  I mean, come on.  Anyone who knows me knows I do my best to listen to people without judging them.  Why do I do it to myself?  Or even worry for a millisecond about someone judging me?  

I had a conversation with a friend last night who is struggling with grief.  If one were following the Kubler-Ross model of grief, this friend is experiencing anger, bargaining, and depression all at the same time.  Fun times, right?  But in speaking with him, I realized something: it is easy to dismiss someone else’s pain because you think it’s not as bad as, say, a literal death, or a terminal disease, or losing one’s home, or global genocides.  He and I both spoke of the wonderfully vicious cycle of beating ourselves up for feeling sad and angry when there are much worse things in the world, which everyone knows makes the initial pain and hurt feel so much better, right?  

Sometimes, we treat others’ pain as insignificant in comparison to - fill in the blank.  That judgment may never be vocalized, but our thoughts influence what we put into the world in even the smallest of ways.  I hope, I pray, that I remember that what may feel like a catastrophe to me might seem like a gnat to someone else.  I pray that I remember a walk in the park for me might be someone else’s cataclysm.  And may what I put into the world uplift rather than judge.

The Melody of Tears

Hunger.  Discomfort.  Frustration.  Grief.  Joy.  Anger.  Exhaustion.  Empathy. Heartbreak.  Hope.  Despair.  Love.  Gratitude.  

I have known many tears, each its own distinct aria in the score of my life.  We all begin with the infantile overture of hunger or discomfort, solace found, if we are fortunate enough, in the loving arms of parents.  From there, our unique experiences form the mood and tone of each movement of the composition.

Joy:  my salvation serenade.  I had never known one could weep with such gratitude.  Tears of rejoicing formed the hymn of a lifetime.

Grief:  an elegy to my pap, former students who have gone on too early, friends who’ve faded from my life.  These tears play a mournful tune, but they are evidence of how I am forever changed from those presences in my life and provide a salve to my grief.

Empathy:  when my friends ache, when my students hurt, when my family suffers, my heart aches, hurts, and suffers.  Our tears compose a chord for a bridge to healing. 

Heartbreak:  disappointed, left, lied to.  Staccato sobs punctuate every wound, every rent in the fabric of my heart.

Hope:  sometimes it flickers, a piano in the back of my mind.  Sometimes it burns brightly with a timbre that deafens.  These tears slide adagio, a soft reprise.

Exhaustion:  bone-deep, world-weariness, a dissonance in my soul.  Physical languor makes me sleepy; emotional fatigue rings like the cacophony of nails on a blackboard, each tear a release.

Frustration:  it wells when I am unable to reach my students, a crescendo that leads to one of two outlets.  Since I am a professional, I choose not to give in to the tickertape of colorful language running across my mind’s eye; thus, tears fill my eyes and sometimes spill over.

Love:  my mom, my sister, my gram, my nieces, my stepdad, my stepbrother, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my friends, my students, my players.  Individual notes in a chorus, these tears conduct the constant refrain of my life.

I have known many tears.  With the grace of God, I will know many more.  I am thankful for the music they bring, the good and the bad.  Without them, without the concertos and duets, without the symphony of tears, life is fractured and incomplete.

Motherhood

My gram rocked it three times.  My mom rocked it twice. My sister is currently kicking some serious butt at it.  Many of my friends are new to it, but are learning to conquer.  My best friend will be entering the arena come October.  I have witnessed it in the making once and am often awed by all those who wake to it every day and do such an amazing job.  Motherhood.

I have always wanted to have children; there are times when I think about and research all of the things involved with going through the process. FYI: one round of IVF, which has about a 25% chance of success, costs over $10,000; adoption costs range all over the place, but being a single parent puts the odds decidedly not in my favor, a fact that would otherwise make me quite happy if I were entering an Hunger Games. I pray about it a lot, and I wonder if I would even be equipped to handle it alone if I did have the money to make it happen.  (For what it’s worth, I think I would be able to handle anything for the love of a child; it’s the going through the process that I’m afraid might make me crazy.)  I also wonder if perhaps there is a reason my womb has yet to produce.

When I wrote earlier that I am awed by motherhood, that may have been an understatement.  I listen to dear friends who are struggling every day to be the best mom possible, who think they are failing miserably, and who do not understand the absolute beauty and grace with which they shine even when they haven’t showered in two days or feel joyous upon getting out for adult conversation.  I hear the ache in their voices when they discuss how to discipline their children so they will become kind, respectful, helpful, humble, hopeful human beings who will bring light into the world.  My eyes fill up when their eyes do when they admit how much they feel like they are failing, and I want to tell them how truly awesome, in every sense of the word, they are.

I have not carried a child in my belly.  I haven’t had the joy of stretch marks and baby kicks and morning sickness.  I haven’t pushed a child into the world or suffered the searing pain of an episiotomy.  (I saw that, live and in person, and lemme tell you, the empathetic pain I felt made me cry out for my sister.  Once kids are old enough to know what that is, the Mother’s Day gifts should rise exponentially.)  There are times when I look at all these amazing women who are struggling through the pains and joys of motherhood every day and feel a bit jealous, but the majority of the time, my brain simply gapes in wonderment at how they do it.

Ironically, I received two Mother’s Day cards today.  One, a Beauty and the Beast musically-enhanced card, came from my current group of seniors.  I’m not quite sure why they went with this card, especially because they didn’t sign it yet.  I say yet because I was told that would be the card they would all sign the week of graduation.  This is not the first group of students to give me such a card; I have actually gotten cards in the past couple of years as well from some pretty sweet kids.  The second was from my one of my nieces, who I think was trying to send it on behalf of my pup.  This one was not only signed but filled with some of the loveliest words ever.  

As much as I may not understand the reason now, I think there is a reason I haven’t given birth to my own children.  Perhaps I do not have any of my own so I have more to give to others’ children.  Perhaps the Lord’s plan for me is never to have children of my own so I can be of service to those who do.  Or, perhaps He is giving me the opportunity to learn the ropes from some pretty amazing women.  If that is the case, I will have one of the most amazing support systems ever.

In Proverbs, it reads, “Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.” (31:28) Mommas, may you get all the praise you deserve from the blessings you’ve been given.

Diction

I took a two-year hiatus from music.  I drove in silence.  I never had it playing at home.  I had an mp3 player that lay dormant somewhere in my apartment.  I am sure I heard it when I went out-n-about, I may have even put some dollars in a juke box from time to time, but I have no recollection of hearing it play or being particularly moved by anything for that time period.  What I find interesting about this fact is not that I went without; I am certain there are many people who just don’t get into it, and I surely was not a die-hard fan of an musician in particular.  I find it interesting that it was that two year window of my life when I felt the lowest.  

I think about that time today not because I want to write some inspirational piece about how music saved my life; though, I can tell you that one of the first signs of me moving out of that darkness was when I started listening to it again.  Rather, I was thinking about that time because yesterday, as I cleaned and did some yard work, I put on my ipod and lost myself in the world of music for the first time in a little while.  It was lovely, uplifting, and distracting from some of the things about which I tend to brood.  After some thought, I realized that music and the recent blogging process have been two fantastic sources of release for me.

Confession:  I have another blog.  It’s private, a place for me to maintain my discipleship notes and narrate the inner-workings of my mind.  Writing for an audience is foreign to me, and I often doubt that my opinion about things is all that exciting or ground-breaking, so why write at all?  I wish I could be as delightfully witty and sassy as one of my friends in her writing - you know who you are - or as vulnerable as another of my friends.  I suppose the purpose of all this is in the title of the blog itself: to discover my voice, a process I hope never ends.

Attempting to define my purpose as a writer/blogger makes me contemplate the purpose for all of my words - have I mentioned the whole brooding thing? - regardless of the context. I weigh my words much more carefully if I am going to be writing them, in an email, on paper, online, texting, wherever.  And I am often shocked when I see nastiness in the same venues.  There is something about the written word that seems permanent, and thusly, more sacred to me.  Paradoxically, I am rarely offended by swearing or most words, for that matter, if they are spoken, and I am decidedly less careful with the words that run through my head and sometimes spill out of my mouth.  Perhaps I chalk them up to heat-of-the-moment ramblings.  What I have been finding, though, is those points of passion, those sometimes frustration-filled thoughts turn into spoken words that I doubt I would ever put to paper.  

The majority of the music I enjoy focuses on praise and worship, and I love songs with which I can harmonize (though my neighbors probably don’t particularly like it when they come on whilst I am belting out lyrics as I am weeding the flower beds).  One would imagine that the more of those aforementioned heat-of-the-moment ramblings I have, the more I would plug in to the music.  Ironically, it is the converse that is true for me, and I haven’t been listening to much music of late.  I’ve thought about writing about those negative things nipping at the corners of my mind, but what would it profit?  Yes, I might feel better to get it out of my head, but who else would benefit from such an endeavor?

I expect lyricists weigh their diction carefully; after all, they have a message they want to convey clearly.  Each word ached over for its denotation, connotation, sound.  It frustrates me that I am not as conscientious about the words I use to give voice to my thoughts; it disheartens me that I allow them to simmer over into the words I speak; and, it saddens me to know that sometimes those words infuse toxin into someone else’s day.   

In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul writes: Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers. (4:29) I want so badly for my words to be grace-filled and harmonious, not merely in my inner-monologue but for those that trickle, stream, and gush into the world around me.  I want to remember that each word is its own note, part of a greater composition that has the power to disparage or edify, abash or minister, curse or bless, and I want to choose them with care, mindful of my purpose.

Faith Matters

The term "born again" has become quite a loaded expression.  Typically in today's media, it is associated with the conservative side of politics, usually the extreme right-wing movement.  Or, if you are a fan of the Law and Order series, you would hear it associated with a character who murdered someone in order to cover up something or in order to "save my church." Sadly, as is often the case with any particular group of people, the extremists and/or loudest of the group come to represent it as a whole; and, with the speed with which information is propagated today, thus a stereotype is born.  

I was baptized in the Catholic faith, a fact I know but do not remember - if there is anyone who can remember their baby baptism, please let me know 'cause that's just impressive; however, I can recall being in my crib and seing a large green spider crawling across the ceiling, but that's a story for another day.  I was raised and confirmed in the Methodist church my mom grew up in.  This is what I remember: feeling close to God while singing in church, walking up the mountain to the cross at Jumonville during a retreat, and writing about Scripture for missed confirmation classes.  I do not remember feeling particularly passionate about it as I grew up, but I cannot remember a time when I did not have faith in God or Jesus Christ, His Son.  Granted, my expressions of that faith and worship have lacked, dramatically at times, but I have always felt close to God.

I was blessed in college to have some pretty amazing friends, strong in the faith and infinite in their patience with me.  I do not remember - I have typed this phrase several times in two short paragraphs; I am beginning to think working with teenagers might be turning my brain to swiss cheese - anyway, I do not remember when it happened or why for that matter, but it was at this point I became disenchanted with organized religion.  I came to see it as the harbinger of destruction and doom, responsible for all the world's woes.  My dear friends were patient in their efforts to assure me of all the good that comes with it, even with the bad, but I argued my little heart out.  Little did they know they were planting seeds that would take 15 years to bear fruit.

Fast-forward through years of living, making both poor choices and good and my conversations with God limited mostly to times of need, my presence in church limited to weddings and baptisms.  After surviving a painful break-up, the house-hunting process that had me at a whole new level of  bananas, and experiencing a level of closeness with a group of students akin to parenthood, I finally understood what Nicodemus struggled to understand almost two thousand years ago.  

On June 9, 2010, I wept.  I sobbed in a way I never had before, with an understanding so profound it redefined me and with a gratitude so immense it brought me to my knees.  I'll be honest: I've had nights of sadness and despair when I've cried and cried and cried.  They were nothing compared to this level of catharsis.  It was this moment when I finally grasped His sacrifice.  I knew with my intellect He died for us, but it was this moment I realized He died for me.  For me.

I have tried to describe this moment to a friend; she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said okay.  Perhaps my words were ineloquent or insufficient.  Perhaps that moment seemed insignificant compared to others'.  Perhaps my friend had a similar moment and she thought everyone already knew it.  I'm not certain, but as I've thought about it, I am convinced that moment is similar yet intensely unique for every one of us who have experienced it.  While I had heard the expression of being born again before, read about it in literature and non-fiction, I didn't get it until I got it.

I wish I could say my life since then has been perfection, but I am human, capable and guilty of sin. For as much as I strive to let Him work through me, I often rebel and fail.  My walk with Christ has had spurts of great growth, times of stagnancy, and stumbles of backsliding.  However, the difference from the Before is an awareness, a recognition of His presence in every aspect of my life, be it the glory of a sunrise, the gift of an heartache, the blessing of a friend's thoughtful text message, the opportunity to help someone in need, or the instruction an impatient moment brings.  The difference in the After is when I struggle, when I choose, when I celebrate, I feel His hand at my back.  I may not choose the best response every time, but I feel Him here.  Acutely. 

Jesus tells Nicodemus, "That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit." (John 3:6)   The media may define it one way, atheists may define it another, and various sects of Christianity may define it yet another way.  Me, I was born again when I became cognizant of what He has done for me, when I allowed the Spirit into a very fallible and broken heart.  

And I pray that my response to that tremendous Gift is worthy of it.

Finding an Outlet

What do you do when you are so frustrated you literally want to scream or lay down and throw a good-old-fashioned-five-year-old-life-is-not-fair tantrum?  Especially when you have to be the role model?  The one who takes the high ground?  What do you do when you put your heart into your job and your audience does. not. care.?  

I had a student try my patience this morning.  I will not go into details but suffice it to say that I was not the person I want to be.  I managed not to raise my voice ~ let’s face it though, my voice is loud even in its “normal” volume ~ there was a very clear edge.   However, the number of curse words that were running through my head has me praying for forgiveness and a whole lotta patience even an hour later.  

This is not an isolated event.  Unfortunately, I find myself encountering situations like this regularly, almost daily.  And unfortunately, I find my ability to move forward lessening by each experience.  I have good kids.  I have great kids.  And I think what makes me the angriest is the fact that I allow students who do not care about education and who have so little respect for me and what I do taint the entire day.  I allow myself to be blinded to the kids who do care; and, once I get angry at myself, it escalates and turns into an exhausting cycle of the equivalent of running at full sprint toward the 60-year-old bricks that compose my house.  

Then there’s the irony with which most of my female friends might be able to empathize: as soon as one thing gets you that frustrated, everything you do sucks and nothing is good enough.  My house? It will never be clean.  My dog?  I need to do more training with her.  My family? I need to be better about calling.  Bible study? I need to spend more time with that.  My friends? I need to write a card for someone who’s struggling with a broken heart or a hangnail.  My diet?  yeah, well, let’s leave that can of worms closed up tight and on the highest shelf there is.

One would think this frustration could lead to productivity, but I do not know how to process my frustration.  I find myself wanting to cry.  I find myself wanting to imbibe adult beverages into oblivion.  I find myself wanting to curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Law and Order I know so well I could tell you who was guilty after the first 30 seconds.  I find myself wanting to surf Pinterest for hours to plan my next meal, house project, or otherwise become the proverbial ostrich burying her head in the sand.  

As I sit and type this, the sky is a glorious blue, there is a breeze blowing through my classroom, and several of those great kids I mentioned earlier are sitting here, quietly working, during my lunch.  I am trying desperately to think of some positive, or at least witty, way to sum up what I’ve been ranting about.... nope... I got nothing.  There are days like that, I suppose.  Days when it just isn’t neat and tidy but messy and tumultuous, a roiling of emotions.  I think my goal for the day is to let these words be the vent to the searing steam of my frustration.  Oh wait... shouldn’t I use that steam for some healthy vegetables for dinner?

Diverging

Robert Frost wrote a rather famous allegory about the consequences of the choices we make in life.  Many people read the poem as a celebration of taking the road less traveled, a road filled with independence, autonomy, and integrity.  While I agree with the concept and have worked hard at various times in my life to do just that (and been lazy at other times and took the easy way out), I do not read the poem that way.

While Frost recognizes the difference taking the “road less-traveled” has made in his life, he seems to wistfully wonder what might have been; after all, the poem is titled “The Road NOT Taken” (emphasis mine).  It is not so much regret that I read into his words but the contemplation of what other differences might have been had if he had taken the first road.

I think many of us find ourselves wondering about the same sort of thing, sometimes with regret over poor choices or with simple curiosity about where those divergences may have led.  For instance, I have often of late wondered why I chose my profession.  I do not know if it is because I am fifteen years into my career or if the type of children and/or people with whom I work have changed so very much in my tenure.  

I remember that first time in the woods, looking at the paths before me, at the ripe old age of 18 when I had to choose.  I wish I could say it was for altruistic reasons like inspiring the youth of America.  It was not.  Truthfully, I just wanted to be able to coach the sport I love, and teaching seemed to be the best way to do that.  It turns out that somewhere along that road, I fell in love with teaching.  This isn’t very surprising as teaching and coaching are so similar, but given that I didn’t have that passion upon embarking on this journey, I am pretty lucky that it worked out that way.

Lately, though, I seem to have fallen out of love with it.  I find that apathy is more the norm and that independent thought is something of the past.  Please don’t misunderstand: I have students who strive to learn and examine the deeper purpose of learning and living.  It is for them I come to school. It is, though, the others who make me question what the purpose of education is, why I chose it, what my purpose is when I once so clearly understood it.  

I do not regret the choices I’ve made, not even the truly toxic choices that took me to rock bottom.  It is because of them, and all of the healthy ones as well, that I am who I am today.  But I think about that other road, the one I didn’t take when I was 18.  Would I have the questions I have now?  Would I feel so inconsequential?  Or would I just have a different set of questions to examine, search, and define?  I tend to think the latter, but that wistful curiosity remains.

Swimming at the Bottom of the Sea

A former student messaged me today with a verse from a poem by John Donne ("Paradox" for those of you who would like to peruse).  I am used to former students emailing or facebooking or skyping with questions about assignments or seeking suggestions for some facet of life; this student, however, had read the poem for pleasure and was simply looking for thoughts about its meaning.  To say my English teacher heart was smiling is an understatement.

Anywho, in the exchange between my thoughts and his response, I began to think of how often I wax philosophical with my own friends or colleagues.  I have a few friends who are film geeks like myself, and we will debate the hidden meanings of a historical biopic or the everyday connection to the latest Lifetime movie.  Many of my friends are voracious readers, which of course leads to discussions about what's "good" literature (as defined by the reader or the canon - which, frankly, needs to get off its high horse and join the rest of us commoners) as opposed to candy-reads.  It's a rockin' time when these two worlds collide and we argue what should or should not be in the cinematic interpretation of a book, often in the midst of the movie while the people sitting behind us want to throw popcorn all over us and tell us to zip it.

Aside from that, I have had many a dialogue with friends and students, both current and former, about other life-stuff, like what love really is, how race and socio-economic class impact social status and the definitions of success, both faith and anti-faith, and myriad other subjects that can be found somewhere along the Laurentian Abyss.  A personal favorite was this quote from a friend: "Did you ever stop to think that when you are looking at the stars, you are actually looking back in time?"

When I think about all of these wonderful, engaging, challenging, labyrinthine conversations, I don't see a particular pattern of my thoughts or, thankfully, the same staunch stance on specific topics.  On the contrary, I have changed quite radically in my perspectives.  To me, it's not about the beliefs, opinions, or ideas so much as the willingness to share them and to consider others' beliefs, opinions, and ideas in genuine discourse.  To me, if I am able to do that, I can see a whole new world, sometimes dark and enigmatic, sometimes vibrant with foreign life.  It is an opportunity to visit a different ecosystem, one that does not require me to take up residence if I so choose but will forever influence how I see my own.