Category: Uncategorized (Page 5 of 188)

Today, in the mundane act of getting my children delivered to school, I was overwhelmed by the amount of care that our community provides to our little ones.

Normally a little fairy named JJ takes care of this act of dispensing children; my major responsibility is feeding and making sure they are dressed in a seasonally-appropriate manner. (Let’s remember, 75% is a passing grade.) And then, at the end of the day, they are magically returned to me, typically in a state of hunger. This week, with the fairy tending to other people’s children in DC, I had the privilege/responsibility of this delivery duty.

As I pulled into my assigned drop-off lane, the principal – under coat and umbrella – greeted the children with a smile and helped usher them on their way. Normally when I consider the role and responsibility of a building leaders, I think of mentoring teachers and providing instructional feedback. I think of managing budgets and dealing with student discipline. There are state meetings and building meetings and administrative district meetings and forms, forms, forms. Also, there is the follow up with parents about action for student needs, times 500. This seems, to me, to be the work of school administration, to keep things moving ahead. But here, if not in all buildings, part of the work of leading is standing under an umbrella for an hour to get kids in the door. I have to wonder if, at times, it seems that we could make better use of this leader’s time by hiring out the task. Then again, perhaps opening car doors helps keep us grounded in the why we go to those administration meetings and balance building budgets. I’m not sure how or why the principal became the one who has to be patient with my fancy automatic doors that won’t open unless I’m in park, but I was grateful that someone cares enough to greet my kids on arrival. Without words, my kids know they’re welcomed here.

In leaving the drop-off, on previous days I turned right toward St. Pete’s and thought maybe that was a poor decision. Today I made the mistake of trying to turn left onto Warpole from Finley Street, so I had a solid 5 minutes of reflection on the art of child transportation (before I gave up, turned right and went around the block.)

While waiting, I encountered several buses finishing their work of fetching and delivering children. Now, make no mistake: on my list of Top 5 Jobs I Don’t Want is bus driver (along with kindergarten teacher). I watched these buses complete their given task of safely shuttling kids so they can have a day full of learning, no matter the transportational situation of their parents, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. The drivers, and the school system, are providing for us. Perhaps normal people don’t see driving a diesel as a radical act of care and nurture, but to me this morning, it most certainly was. What a message this act can send to a child: you mean so much, and your education is of such value, that we will come and get you, and then take you home.

On my little around-the-block detour, I drove by the city police making his rounds. We can choose to think, “goodness, in this traffic? Now?” to his patrol route. But this morning, I thought, “Wow, our children are safe.” Beyond the district, the community is protecting our children, keeping drivers accountable to going slow, reminding us to proceed with caution, because these little feet and legs that might sprint across the street, they matter to us all.

Driving out of town, I see the lights on in the many homes of families doing what we do every day. Getting kids ready, reminding them to eat, finding the lost library book, arguing over appropriate footwear, just trying to get out the door. There is a oneness behind these common acts of care. We’re all the same, trying to love and live the best or maybe only way we know.

A community is much more than a town you live in or the people you repeatedly see on your path. It’s the fabric that holds the patterns you see, even when you see them so often that the patterns appear invisible. A community interweaves our roles, blending people and institutions,  keeping the world moving forward. It’s the way the city police support the school, and the way the school supports the family. A community is in busing patterns and patrols as much as it is in the librarian’s face as she helps you find the free-to-you materials you want to borrow.

I’ve been appreciative of my community, especially when we fall into times of distress.  But this morning wasn’t stressful. It was the regularity of it all that made my eyes water. These people opening doors, driving buses, and patrolling side streets do it every day, whether I recognize the need for it or not. They see what needs to happen to support learning and thriving in our community, so they make it happen, even when I don’t understand or acknowledge it. So much happens behind the scenes to make my rights realized, my privileges a part of my routine.

JJ just arrived home from an afternoon full of yardwork and football, exhausted. I flopped onto the chair after a day full of childwork and house-ness, exhausted. He, physically spent. Me, emotionally done.

Wait. Aren’t we exhausted because of the work we’re “gifted” at doing? Weren’t we doing the stuff for which we feel best suited? Why are we so utterly exhausted after a basic day’s docket?

Of course, there’s the standard theory: we did it right. We gave it our all. A case could be made in that direction. I’ll pose a co-existing, alternative idea: that whole “live your strengths” thing is more smoke than fire. (Now, now. I’m not saying to be all Even Steven in everything. If you’re not using your gifts, you’re in the wrong spot. But there’s a theory in the world that says you only do what you’re good at and forget the rest. I’m challenging that.)

You see, I recently dove into some lit reviews on the benefits and dangers of youth sports. Stick with me here. There’s great benefit to joining the local baseball team and even traveling a bit with club soccer. However, studies are pretty consistent in showing that the earlier a kid “specializes” – sticks to a single sport – the rate of injury jumps much higher, amongst other pitfalls. It seems the human shoulder wasn’t designed to throw fastballs 7 days a week beginning at age 7.

Too much of our gift invokes fatigue. Even for the things we love; our abilities, our talents.

Recruiters love a well-rounded athlete, one that can use her whole body, not just individual parts and pieces. Why would the bigger scope of our lives be any different?

Taking the half of your life that you do well and ignoring the rest isn’t living a whole life. In fact, I think that’s why we see so much burnout, even in high-level spaces. Really fantastic artists and business executives and athletes and healthcare workers still want to be whole people, perhaps with friends and children and hobbies and a service to a greater good. When they cannot fulfill that because their hours are spent doing their “gift”, they begin to suffer. Their angst doesn’t only affect the spaces they don’t inhabit. Their gifts begin to fatigue.

So while I’m not lobbying to pick up yardwork assignments in our household, I can recognize that bearing an emotional burden day in and day out takes it’s toll when it’s overused. Putting our hands into a variety of work, even when some of it is newer or more challenging, relieves the pressure of our primary assignment and begins to help us develop into stronger overall humans.

It’s yard sale season, the perfect occasion to score a new-to-you anything. Sometimes you can tell the set of golf clubs has been well-used and the owner is exchanging his “starter set” for a better brand. The best finds, however, are the NWT (new with tags) items. These are the things purchased with the highest intent. Maybe it’s some sort of ab gadget or an entire Bowflex lifting system. A set of pastels with the one included canvas missing. A 10-year-old snowboard which kept its sheen thanks to an expensive case and little time on the slopes.

Garage sales, be it the online FB version or the old fashioned stop-on-the-side-of-the-road sort, tell the stories of our best intentions which fizzled.

In talking to a friend about wanting to rediscover her artistic talents, she revealed she missed pottery. She wanted to buy a wheel and a kiln to rekindle the habit of creating. I asked her if she ever took a community class when it was offered, or spoke with the local art teacher about getting access to materials before taking on a costly and space-consuming attempt.

“No, I just figure that if I have the things in my home, that I’ll use them more often. It’s so much work to try to get to a class or a studio.”

I anticipate my friend will become not a potter, but an owner of a potter’s wheel.

Not to dismiss the need for the appropriate gear before setting out to try a new hobby, but our garages tend to give us a glimpse into our society’s approach to change. We try to better ourselves by buying something for ourselves. We mistake consumption for transformation.

I heard once that any problem that can be solved by throwing money at it isn’t a very interesting problem. I believe the theory to hold true as it pertains to our personal growth. If a bigger budget would make you the person you wanted to be, I’m just going to say, you won’t be a very interesting person.

Money, and subsequently, stuff, makes things easier. We like easy. But rarely does easy equate to good. Quicker? Easy can do that. Cheaper? Easy can get behind that one, too. Easy cannot give depth, however, or longevity. It doesn’t bring about change that lasts.

The writer who will lock herself in the closet at 5am with pen and paper when a laptop isn’t available is a writer. The gal with the Macbook Pro sitting on her desk with a few scribbled notes about the next big book idea is an owner of a Macbook Pro.

The guy who laces up in the middle of winter because he needs to get in 10 miles is a runner. The guy with brand new Under Armor fleece lined compression pants sitting in his drawer owns nice running gear.

We are not a sum total of our stuff. Our character is revealed in how we live. As Annie Dillard said, “How we live our days is, of course, how we live our lives.” What we keep in our garage, basement or closet has only the smallest influence on those things.