playing with others

A few weeks ago I was in Arizona visiting grandchildren (and children). We had a weekend full of birthday parties, Halloween parties, baptisms, you name it. We managed to squeeze in watching one of our grandsons play soccer. He is not-quite-four. I didn't know that there were soccer teams for 3-year-olds!

There were only three players on the field at any time--and the field was about half the size of a normal one. The job was to get the ball in the goal--there were no penalties or anything like that. There was also no sense of teamwork. Our grandson (in the gray shirt above) was aggressive. He would just go in there and start kicking the ball. About half the time he kicked it into the opposing team's net--apparently nothing about each team having a goal was in his frame of reference.

One of the funniest things about the whole thing was how often the kids would be kicking the ball and lose ir or someone would kick it away or out of bounds, and the little players (both boys and girls) would suddenly stop, stamp a foot (or both of them), fold their arms, and start crying. They did not like their play interrupted, their progress thwarted. Parents and/or coaches would have to help soothe--and sometimes remove a player from the field. It was funny. I kept thinking, "how little they are! how much like babies they really still are."

And then I thought that I might not actually stomp my foot, fold my arms and start crying--but I do it inside and more subtly when I get bugged at people who "steal MY ball." We aren't, after all, so different, except that we've learned to respond less like a three-year-old. We still want our way, we want all the prizes and all the praise. We want to make our goals without any interference. Seeing those budding soccer players put my life into a different lens. I hope I'm nicer to drivers on the way home today.

Little things

I was in Maine this past weekend. One afternoon after the workshop ended, I drove around to see sights. It was, after all, my first time in Maine. I loved the rocky coastline and the working fishing boats in the harbors. I loved the trees and the granite outcroppings. I loved the white wooden houses with their flat fronts against the narrow streets, so proud and forthright. On my map, I noticed that there was a lighthouse nearby, so how I could I resist? I headed over and walked the trail that led to these stairs. I have to admit, even from this perspective, the lighthouse looked small. I mean, I have read about lighthouses (they are a particular interest of mine) and seen some in Florida and Oregon, and they'd all been big. This one didn't seem so big.

 When I got up to it, I realized that my original perception had been accurate. It wasn't big. I wouldn't want to live in it, the way some people lived in lighthouses. I found out later that the keeper's house was built two years after the lighthouse, so apparently there was no need for it to serve two purposes. It did the job. It had all the requisite parts of a lighthouse--and it's been there for 150 years (built in 1852!), so it is obviously useful. It was tidy and sturdy. Small, yes, but just what it needed to be. Kind of cute, actually.

Today I read a picture book called Little Bird (Germano Zullo). It's about the little things in life that matter. In the book--which I HIGHLY recommend--the author says this: "Most of the time we don't notice these things. Because little things are not made to be noticed. They are there to be discovered."  I reflected (not for the first time) that big things can be impressive just because of size, but little things (people, events, emotions) matter, too. Little things others do matter to my life: the smile of a stranger, a text message from a friend. The small things that make me smile (my 3-year-old grandson had his mom text me a picture of a piece of an apple he'd shaped with his teeth into a boat) and the small moments that matter (a former student just stopped by my open door to thank me for helping solve a problem last week) are the things that help to make the foundation of a life. If we discover them. They are, after all, not made to be noticed. I have to look for them. Little things. Discover. Good reminder.

living more importantly

I am going to show off some of my grandchildren today with two photos I received recently. The one at the tops shows Millie: she'd gotten into the bowl of pears her mom had left on the table and eaten parts of five different ones. I love her look that says "Aren't I wonderful?" With the one at the bottom, my son-in-law attached this caption: "which of these doesn't belong?" (since one of the "princesses" is a boy). Obviously, Gabe didn't think anything except that he'd been having fun with his cousins.

I guess I'm putting these photos on my blog today partly because they both made me smile. They are, after all, my darling grandchildren who always can bring a smile to my heart and face. And partly, they also both made me think about how kids don't think the way I do. I would think I should finish one pear before I begin another--or, worse, that I should only allow myself one pear, even though they taste SO GOOD that I'd like another. I might forget just having fun with my cousins and think that I don't want to appear silly. In my grown-up thinking, I worry if something is appropriate or healthy or wise or silly or a waste of time or whatever. And there are good reasons that as we grow we learn to think like that. It's important to think mature, wise thoughts. But I wonder if too often I forget the joy that comes from not worrying, just for a minute, about grown-up things. The pleasure of eating a cookie before the salad (or, heaven forbid, in place of the salad). The joy of sitting with my husband in the backyard swing and simply watching the sunset when there is a stack of papers to be graded inside the house and floors to be vacuumed. The pleasures that come just from enjoying the moment and not worrying about the next one. Thankfully, I have these delightful reminders that there are, sometimes, more important ways of living.

new things

When we were at the grocery story last week, we saw this fruit.

It's called a Jackfruit. It is the largest fruit that grows on trees. This one was about 20 pounds, but they can get as big as 80 pounds. I want to see the tree that can bear that kind of fruit! Jackfruit is common in Southeast Asia, but I had never seen one before going to the store. I guess the inside is full of pods that cover seeds that look like nuts--and the meat is VERY sticky. One source said that even the knife you use to cut open the fruit should be oiled because the fruit is so sticky. If it's cooked, I learned, the meat resembles chicken in texture (doesn't everything?) and can be a part of a vegetarian diet in that way.

Anyway, the jackfruit got me thinking about all the things that exist in this world that I don't know anything about. I don't even know they exist! Our lives--or I guess I should say, my life--are really sheltered in some regards. We have all this access to information (all I had to do was google the word on my phone, and I had more info than I wanted), but we still can't comprehend all that is out there, even just in our surroundings (not counting space or the depths of the sea). It's cool to think there will always be more to learn, but kind of daunting, too. So much to learn, so little time to learn it.

perception

There's a new show on TV by this name. The details of each episode change, but the general idea of perception (as presented on the show) is unique. What do we think we see? Is it really what others see? Can we trust the obvious? Or is there more?

I have some experiences with seeing something and thinking that it is something else in that first moment of viewing. I've often found that first impressions are often wrong. And yet, seeing is so much more. Smithsonian recently had an issue with three pieces about seeing and invisibility. In one study, researchers found that if observers were asked to count the number of times a basketball was passed among players, they totally missed the gorilla (fake) that walked through the scene partway through the study. Another short piece explains the art work of Liu Bolin, a Chinese artist who has an assistant paint him so that he blends almost perfectly into his surrounding. I've seen some of his art before. It's a very compelling statement about invisibility, about perception, about seeing.

This weekend we went up to Swiss Days in Heber. In one of the booths, an artist sold photos of words--but the letters were bits of things in our environment--the curve of a railing, the notch in a tree. The artist saw in these elements, letters. And from these he created words that had meaning. It fascinated me because it showed me a different way to see.

We had parked in a field outside of town and ridden a shuttle into the fair. As we got into the car to come home, I noticed this tree.

It looks like the tree has dark leaves, but all of them are birds. When we shut our doors, they all flew up and around, like a big wind swirling leaves through the field. Then they settled back into the tree, again looking like black leaves.

In The Little Prince, we read that it is only with the heart that we can see clearly. In another book, Antoine de Saint Exupery says this: A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral. 

How often do I see without seeing?

first day of school

Why is it, after more than 20 years of teaching, that I still get anxiety before school starts? 
I love teaching. I love my students. I love what I teach. 
But I have nightmares (this year, at least, it wasn't the normal dream that my students had used the phone in the back of the room to order 100 pizzas, and, while I am trying to deal with the mix-up, they are jumping from desk-top to desk-top and I am wondering how the phone in the room, which only goes to the office, could have been used to order pizzas to be delivered!). Still, a night of nightmares over the weekend, and then two hours of sleeplessness in the middle of the night last night, wondering if I had thought everything through, if I had all the preparations REALLY completed. If I was ready. And what would I wear??? As if that mattered! 
Maybe it's because I know how important teaching (and teachers) can be. 
Maybe it's because I love what I do so much that I want it to be perfect (even though I know that's rarely possible). 
Maybe it's because I realize, more every year, how little control I have over what happens in my students' minds--that what they bring to the classroom is so vital to making a class "work" or not, and I have only so much influence on that. I can hope to establish a good sense of community, but I can't do it alone. Maybe it's that sense of what I want my classroom to be, every day and every year, and my own sense that such a classroom is a fragile and precious thing. And I don't want to mess it up for my students. 
What I do matters. But I'm not doing it alone. And that's what I remember every year at this time of year. And that's what brings the nightmares and the open eyes and wandering mind in the dark of the night when I should be asleep. 
But I wouldn't trade it for anything else I could do. 
Hooray for the first day! 

Dottie

 My mother-in-law passed away about a month ago. I wrote about her in summer institute, right after her passing,  but now I think I want to share here what I wrote.
Here's a photo of her with my children (and one grandchild!) taken with her about a week before she passed.She doesn't look much like the woman in my writing. I hadn't realized, until I was helping to write the life sketch and watched a DVD my daughter had made of Dottie three years ago, how much she had changed from the woman I remember for most of my life--certainly all my adult life.

Here's what I wrote:

Sometimes you just get used to a person's clothing. That's what they wear, what they are. And then, at odd moments, you realize that the clothing is as much a part of them as their laugh or their voice. Dottie always wore bright clothes. And not just bright in color but large bright patterns, too. In the 70s, she wore psychedelic prints--like modern art paintings in colors that shocked the eye to be next to each other: fuschia and chartreuse and mustard and lime and violet. She loved to laugh, to feed people, to give parties. The bright colors seem to reflect her approach to life: full and vibrant.

Dottie was a large woman, so you'd think that she would wear tame colors. But she said that if she was going to be large, she was going to be noticeable at it. And she was. She often changed her hair color--red, black, and then orange for a while when she tried to bleach the black out. Whatever she did, though, she did with flash.

Most of her nine children inherited Dottie's love of color. My husband, for instance, thinks nothing of wearing bright red or yellow shirts. He has always looked for and purchased bright orange swim trunks. Although they make him easy to spot on the beach or in the water, most of us wouldn't pick that color once, let alone for decades. David's sisters wear bright colors and also large, chunky jewelry designed to call attention to the wearer.

When I was pregnant with one of my own children, Dottie gave me a pantsuit--maternity top and bottom--in a bold red plaid. I thanked her, and tried to keep my face impassive. I didn't think I could wear it. After all, I was already as big as a house, a barn, practically. This would just draw attention to it, right? I tried it on. Oh my. I couldn't wear it. No way. I loved Dottie, and I knew it hurt her that I wouldn't wear the outfit, but I just couldn’t.

I want to live life with Dottie’s enthusiasm, with her awareness of herself and her acceptance of that self--but I hope I do it without the bold-colored clothes.