Going for a Swim

I have been a mess as long as I can remember - an overanalyzing, jumping-to-conclusions, borderline manic-depressive, impatient mess. And I have hated that about myself. 

I've decided I am not going to do that anymore. I am going to embrace the messiness of living with my heart on my sleeve and my filter off.  I am going to tell people I love them or they've rocked my world or they make my toes curl or they make my head hurt or they make me sad or tired or angry. Not in an in-your-face, obnoxious, it's-all-about-me kind of way, but I am going to be real. I'm done worrying about whether or not they will still like or respect me or whether or not I will scare the hell out of them. 

Life is complicated - feelings are messy. 

It's all about whether or not we are willing to wade into the mess, willing to swim in it until it's either not such a mess or it becomes a comfortable mess that determines how passionately we feel and how passionately we live.  Passion, by definition, brings pain.  But it is worth it.  

I am thankful for the good, good, good people who have been there through the mess and the brave, brave, brave people who are willing to wade into it with me.  You are why I rediscovered my smile.

Every Contact Counts

When I was in high school, I had a particularly demanding coach.  Hours on the track, hours in the gym, lots of sweating, some crying, and even occasional bleeding.  It wasn’t always pleasant, but it paid off.  While I have many great memories of that time, there are two that stand out more than any today.  

The first happened all four years: preseason camp.  Running from 7 am until 4 pm, we had a lot of time, and we always, always, always drilled and killed the basic skills.  I can distinctly recall running through the passing and setting progressions, two of the most basic skills of the sport, every blessed morning.  As most of you can imagine, it can get pretty boring to go through the same drill every single day, morning after morning.  Especially for high schoolers, who usually think they know everything.  I remember, though, quite clearly, my coach’s voice ringing above the sound of the volleyballs bouncing off of forearms or the floor, saying, “Every contact counts.”  Over and over and over again.  Walking around the gym, saying it repeatedly.  And it paid off.  It turns out that all of those mind-numbing drills created the foundation necessary to win three state titles.  It turns out that the care and precision we took in the fundamentals of the sport made the more advanced stuff, like a first tempo offense, so much simpler.  

The second memory developed from the first.  As challenging as my coach was, he was also willing

to give everything to players who were giving everything.  For me, this resulted in countless hours of him staying after practice to drill volleyballs at me so I could improve defensively.  And when I say countless, I mean at least an hour every day.  (What can I say, I fell in love with the game!)  The contacts from practice weren’t enough for me; I wanted more to get better.  It became a matter of pride: he would finally have to tell me that he was only hitting a set number more, so I had to get all of them or I felt like I’d failed myself.  (Yeah, I was dramatic - wait, I still am.)  Three years of this.  I loved every single minute.

Not surprisingly, life is like this. If we go through the motions on what we think are the mundane things, the big stuff will come crashing down around us.  If I am not willing to make each action purposeful and work to execute it with such purpose, I bet I will see the results of that time and time again.  Maybe not immediately, but eventually.  It is the person willing to take each action seriously and willing to do this every single time who will ultimately consummate the dreams for which s/he strives.

I am incredibly thankful for the sport of volleyball, especially that I fell in love with it when I was young.  So much of what I’ve learned about life, of who I am as a human being, stems directly from my experiences with the sport: how to lead when necessary, how to recover from mistakes, how to take criticism, how to win and lose with grace, how to set goals, how to achieve them, how to work together with people I like or don’t like, how to set priorities and maintain them, how to balance my time, how to deal with pressure, how to work hard, etc.  I literally could type a list as long as my arm.

I don’t know whether it is one of the many things volleyball taught me or if it a result of all that it taught me, but I can honestly say volleyball has given me an internal drive that I do not see in a great many people.  It’s not something I have figured out how to teach or instill in the youth I coach and teach, but it’s something they need.  It’s something we all need.  I am not talking about a drive to succeed in the big things in life or a drive to get better, though they are part of it.  I am talking about the drive to make every action purposeful, even the “little” ones.  I am talking about making each contact count.

Politics and Poker

Day 5...

Politics and Poker

I would be a horrible poker player because I am terrible at hiding how I feel.  Anyone who knows me knows I wear my heart on my sleeves, and if someone isn’t up to looking at said sleeves for him/herself, I have little fear of speaking my mind.  I don’t think this is a bad quality at all, but I can tell you that there are some proverbial games in life that I just fail.  

Unfortunately, politics plays a pretty big role in my job, and since I don’t have a poker face and I shoot from the hip, I can honestly say not everyone is a fan of Ms. Ryce.  Granted, I am not here to make fans, but I find it rather amusing how it’s usually the adults who take the most umbrage with my forthright ways.  The majority of my kids respect it because they know exactly what they’re going to get so there aren’t any surprises.  It baffles me why some adults don’t want that very same thing.  I know I much prefer it.  

For those of you who haven’t had a conversation with me to know this, which begs the question why you’re reading my blog since it’s pretty much just a few friends who check this out, but for those who haven’t, I am an over-thinking-analyzing-brain-picking kind of gal.  Like, to the point of keeping myself up all night or making myself nauseous.  So when someone isn’t the heart-on-the-sleeves kind of person, his/her words send my manic brain into overdrive.  Not surprisingly, I usually jump feet-first into the pool of wrong conclusions and the water is cold.  

Student Response:
"Why are you so honest? What made you that way?"
"Are you only super honest in specific situations or is it all the time?"
"Who is the speaker?"

She Wondered

Day 4....

She wondered why he smiled at her,

why he said her name.

She wondered why he called her

after several of his games.

She wondered why he asked to meet

to talk and have a drink.

She wondered why his smile and laugh

made her overthink.

She wondered how the time with him

could make her feel so new.

She wondered how he thought of her

was it many times or few.

She wondered how to hide her heart

so the racing wouldn’t show.

She wondered how to breathe in deep

to make her pulse go slow.

She wondered what to say to him

so he wouldn’t guess.

She wondered what he would think

if he knew she’d been a mess.

She wondered what to show him

of her wounds and baggaged past.

She wondered what his eyes would say,

“I understand,” or “run away, fast!”?

She wondered why he reminded her

of who she is and wants to be.

She wondered what to share with him

to show him how much he means.

She wondered how to tell him what

a difference he has made.

She wondered if they would remain

good friends or somehow slowly fade.



Student Responses
"I wondered what he wonders. Maybe you should include that." (to which another student replied, "That would be kind of hard for her since she's not a boy." - he's one of my smart kids.)
"What if you made it a story instead of a poem?"
"Was this a time capsule?"
"What happened that gave her wounds?"
"What if there was a stanza where she didn't wonder?"

You Who Leave

Day 3 of the writing unit

You Who Leave

can live with integrity

can live deceitfully

can be a model of what to do

can be a model of what not to do

can show respect for others and yourself

can worry only about pleasing yourself

can use all that you’ve learned to make the world a better place.

can ignore every opportunity you’ve been given.

can take responsibility for who you are going to be.

can lay blame on others for who you are.

can make these choices, every single day.

You Who Leave.

Student Responses
"You use more good literary elements."
"Where would you hang this as a sign?"

You Who Enter

Day 2 of the writing unit...

You Who Enter

will learn if you are willing to listen.

will be challenged if you work hard.

will be distracted if you make your social life your priority.

will make friends if you are willing to open yourself.

will make enemies if you are willing to stand up against the crowd.

will face bullies who might make life unbearable.

will face obstacles that can make or break you depending on your response.

will fall in love, with a person, an activity, or a subject.

will learn who you are and who you want to be.

will have the choice to do all of this, every single day.

You Who Enter


Student Responses:
"I think you should write another one that starts with You Who Leave."
"You use lots of literary elements. Especially the good ones."

Dancing in the Rain

Every year, after the big test, I work in a creative writing unit with my seniors.  This involves responding to various quotes from a text.  The format (short story, poetry, personal narrative, etc.) is up to the student, as is the length.  The goal is simply to write a lot and engage each other in meaningful sharing and discussion about personal voice.  This is, by far, my favorite unit of the year.  

My hope is to post my daily musings with some of the responses of my students.  

~

Dancing in the Rain

She looked foolish, but she didn't care.

Centered in the light cast from the streetlamp, she spun and spun and spun. A hearty spring rain dowsed her hair, now plastered to her face, small rivers of water streaming from the ends. Her mottled blue tee-shirt clung to her; her jeans grew exponentially heavier with every twirl as the rain washed down the road.

Each drop fell cool on her skin, immediately coming together in a liquid embrace.  Water rushed between her bare toes, the smooth red bricks a riverbed beneath. She extended her arms, lifting them toward the sky, a smile spreading, and a laugh escaping.

It was a lifetime ago when she last did this. A handful of broken hearts, innumerable tears and laughs, new relationships formed, old relationships faded, strong relationships bolstered: uncountable experiences that slowly chiseled her into the woman now giggling and spinning in the the middle of the street in cascades of rain.

This. This is who I am. How could I ever forget?

Last night, I danced in the rain.

~

Student responses:

"Exponentially is a cool word."

"Why did she forget who she was?"

"What if you told it from the rain's point of view? Like personified it?"

Revisiting the Scale

Scale:  a calibrated system of measurement

We have myriad scales with which we measure ourselves: it may be in comparison to someone else, an index that tells us where we fall in a group, a physical device to measure weight or height, a musical spectrum to measure pitch, a ranking system, etc.  That we fall where we fall on such scales isn’t the problem.  A number is a number.  The problem arises when the numbers are assigned a value or worth.  

Don’t get me wrong: worth and value are important.  It is necessary for people to seek these things.  I think that we, as a species, find life’s meaning in the value or worth of the people we love and the things we do.  Unfortunately, though, I am afraid that many of us do not determine the value or worth for the numbers; we let others do that for us.  Sometimes we do this because we do not know or haven’t learned as much about a subject as others, so by default, their definition of value trumps our own.  Sometimes, it is the social construct of the scale, etched into our brains through repeated images and words by the media that defines the value.  And sometimes it is those we love who determine the standards of the ideal.  Rarely, so rarely, is it the individual who examines the scale and assigns worth.  Even less frequently does one create his/her own scale altogether.

Measure:  a standard unit of quantity or quality

My own struggles with scales began long ago (see my last post), and what started as a clash of calories in versus calories out has since morphed into an internal war that has defined me in ways of which I was never quite aware until recently.  Quite simply, it boils down to works.  If I work hard enough at something, to erase an imperfection, to strengthen a weakness, to be flawless, I will have worth.  I know millions of others get where I’m comin’ from; in fact, Alanis Morrissette wrote some awesome lyrics and Janice Mirikitani composed a powerful poem that say it much more eloquently than I.  

Each of us has something about us that we believe holds us down or back or outside of some perceived value in an imposed measurement system.  For a long time, at least in my mind, I thought that something has been my weight.  However, over the past couple of months as I have navigated the tempests of depression and the squalls of weight loss, I have come to realize my issue isn’t just about weight but about achieving somebody else’s definition of worth.  

Quality:  value; worth

I’ve never had a deliberate conversation with myself about my own definition of worth.  Sure, I have adopted certain criterion I know are good: honesty, loyalty, empathy, compassion, faith, the ability to celebrate the moment, the ability to appreciate the blessings I have been given, the ability to laugh - a lot - as well as the ability to cry.  These have all come to me through my awesome family, friends, and experiences, though some of these weren’t-so-awesome.  Still, I have yet to consciously define what I deem worth.

I am not going to preach about how I’ve had some sort of epiphany and I suddenly celebrate all the wonderful things my body does, like play the game I love so much or allow me to live a full life, which it does.  My struggle with that scale may never end.  I am hoping, though, that I can now start to create my own scale and that I can recognize that others’ might well be very different than my own.  My hope is that in my pursuit of my own definition of worth, I can be cognizant of using my own scale rather than those established by others.  My hope is that my scale will be something I use to measure my growth and not to diminish someone else.  Let’s face it: most of us do enough diminishing of ourselves.

Living to Scale...

Several years ago, I participated in the National Writing Project.  It was an intense six-week course of writing in which I really began to discover my voice.  While I wrote many pieces in that time, there has been one that has been on my mind a lot lately.  When I pulled it up and re-read it, of course I wanted to revise, but I think the words we give to our thoughts hinge on our experiences.  I have had a slew of experience since originally penning this, so my plan is to revisit these thoughts and feelings in a later post.  Until then, the original:

Living to Scale

My sixth grade teacher told me I looked great one day, after I’d dropped two pant sizes.   Finally, I was adequate…    

That god-awful scale had an orange plastic base with a white dish on top to hold the food being measured and weighed.  Its box was ripped and falling apart from taking it out and putting it back at every meal and snack.  Mom would be at the sink, washing vegetables and meat for hers and my sister's meal while I had to weigh each portion of my own before they were cooked, the Weight Watchers book open so I knew how much I was allowed.  

I remember tiny lines on the metal at the front of the scale, measuring my spirit at every hash.  I remember the red slit dropping lower as the dish, filled with my self, rested on top.  I measure perfectly to the line, never drop too low, never put more of me in that scale than it could handle.  I could always be lighter, but never, never heavier; no more than six ounces of fish, or whatever the magic number was, all the while praying I was losing more this week than last.  If my prayers are answered, Mom will be so proud; everyone will be so impressed.  

The grass opened up to a big hill on those weekly treks for weigh-in at my aunt’s house.  Every blade meant a calorie to me, one more to burn off in that ten-minute walk.  I wondered how much Pepsi I could afford if I took the long way instead.  Every tree pointed accusingly at me.  

“How many calories did you have today?  Everyone will know when you step on the scale!”

And the scale never lied; it was brutally honest.  

“Only two pounds this week?  You were doing so well before!  You’ll have to make sure that red gash stays afloat this week.  Less fish and chicken, definitely less rice.” 

Funny how I always feared the bloody gash dropping too low on my scale, but rejoiced when I was lower on my aunt’s.    

No one else I know weighs their food.  No one I know has to lie on their mothers’ beds, listening to Madonna and rolling a rolling pin up and down on their bellies while their sisters watch to time them and make sure they are actually doing it. Does anyone else have their Valentine’s Day candy hidden from them?  

But the trees couldn't care less, and the blades of grass, weary from my steps, were tired of hearing it.

Another trip to my aunt’s for the weekly weigh-in, like a god-damned heifer, only instead of a blue ribbon for growing, they celebrate me dwindling away.