Perspectives

We drove to Idaho this past weekend to visit with one of our sons and his family. The road was fine, but we went through several patches of thick fog. For long stretches of time, it was hard to tell the sky from the ground.

Even when the fog lifted at brief moments, the world beyond the fog was all white and gray. In the fog, my eyes strained to see very far ahead of me, but I had to wear sunglasses because the glare was so intense. It was bleak and it was beautiful.

I am reminded that the way we look at things can often make them become what we want to see or expect to see. The angle I look from, the lens I use. . . all of these make a difference in my seeing. I try to keep positive, to look from a position of goodness, but sometimes life events make that difficult. I hope the hours of driving, of striving to see well, will be a good reminder to look well, to see good no matter what.

Reflecting

I had to give a keynote address a few months ago. The theme of the conference was "Students as Explorers, Teachers as Guides." I developed the center of the talk to teachers by comparing different kinds of guides I've had experience with through the years with different kinds of teachers.

When I went to develop the part about students as explorers, I tried to consider all kinds of explorers. I was giving the address at a conference in Yosemite, so, naturally, I did some research on explorers in that area. That was very interesting. But I also considered explorers in my own life. As I did so, I recalled that both sets of my grandparents had moved to Alaska when my parents were still in high school, before it was a state. I know what the state was like when I was growing up: primitive in so many ways compared to the way we live here and now. I think about how long it would have taken them to get there and how seldom they would have been able to see the family members left behind in Oregon and Idaho. Leaving like that--moving to somewhere far away and without the communication conveniences of today--would have been a difficult choice to make. But both sets of grandparents did it.

What an example of exploration, of the risk-taking and adventuring explorers through the ages have needed. I have that in my heritage, and I shouldn't forget it. I am proud of people I came from.

ice and snow

I am not a fan of winter: ice, snow, cold, and more cold. Yes, I was born and raised in Alaska and lived there the majority of my life. People think that means I must like winter or at least be used to it. I'm sorry. Extended time in dark winter does not make a person like it. It could be just the opposite. My father-in-law and I used to dread the signs of impending winter in Alaska: when the fireweed blooms at the top of the stock, when termination dust shows up on the mountain tops. We'd call each other, naming the signs, dreading the oncoming winter together.

And, after two years ago this week when I slipped on ice and ended up with a smashed wrist and (ultimately) three surgeries over 4 months to resolve the issue, I'm even more negative about winter. I walk very carefully and drive carefully and dread going when it's slick. Our house is on a hill, on the very spot where cars seem to spin out (going up) or start the slide (going down), so I know the sounds of slick before I even look out the window. I dread the big piles of dirty snow that get plowed up along the sidewalks and then turn to ice as the days warm and cool. It's all yuck to me.

But then there are moments of beauty in winter that make me pause and consider the other side, too. The shimmering icicles. The moon on the fresh snow. The loveliness of snow falling softly through the glow of streetlamps.

And so I try to remember that there is beauty around me, even during the winter. And there is beauty in people I might not normally like. . . and in so many other aspects of life. I can find beauty if I look for it.

This I Believe

I believe we can do hard things. I'm reading my students' postings about how hard the end of the semester is and notice one student's comment: we always survive. I believe we can survive hard things.

When I was working on my Master's degree, I participated in an experimental program the university only offered twice. The price was good--the cost was great. We went to classes full time two summers. In between, during the school year, I would attend classes every other weekend:  10 hours on Saturday and 10 hours on Sunday. I was teaching junior high at the time, so I would teach five days, go to classes for two days, teach five days, and then have two days off. I had six children at home at the time. My family agreed that I should do it, so they were great in picking up some of the home pieces (my husband even tried to cook a turkey for one Sunday dinner--disaster!). The load was tremendous. In fact, it got so bad that I had tremors from typing and writing so much (on my students' papers and writing my own). My mother was convinced I had a tumor. I didn't. I had stress. I had a constant tension headache, which I ignored. I had other ailments. When my back went into muscle spasms just bending over to pick up a piece of paper, I went to the doctor. Turns out our bodies give us signals. When we are under stress, if we ignore one signal, it will give us another. . . and another. . . and another: until we pay attention. I survived.

A few years later I started a doctoral program. The schedule was more spread out. Still full time classes in summers, but not on weekends. Night classes, two a week. I was teaching high school now. I would drive from school into Seattle twice a week for classes that lasted from 4:30-7:30 or 5:30-8:30. Then I would drive across Lake Washington to my home: to kids and homework and prep for tomorrow's teaching and anything else a mother/wife/teacher/daughter/church member has to do. In some ways, it was easier. I had weekends back. But the workload intellectually was much more intense. I thought I was handling it. I was a person who handled things, even if I did get physical symptoms. Until one day in the University of Washington library.

I was doing research and went to the copy machine to make copies of some articles to study in more depth at home. Standing at the copy machine, repetitively turning pages and pushing buttons, I lost my breath. I couldn't breathe! I started gasping and weeping. I didn't know what the matter was, but I knew something was wrong. The weird thing is that no one stopped me as I made my gasping, weeping way out of the library to my car. I made a lot of noise trying to gulp in air as I drove across the bridge--and to a friend's house. Why not my own? I don't know. But when she opened the door, she knew immediately what to do: she pushed me into a chair, pushed my head down, and brought me a paper bag to breathe into. A panic attack. That's what I'd had. I'd heard of them, but had never had one. My friend's daughters had, so she knew. How could a person panic copying articles at a copy machine? What was there to panic about? What I learned is that we all have limits. I was older, but I had never learned my limits. I know now more about myself and about others. I don't judge like I used to. We all have limits--and they are not all the same.

I finished my doctorate degree. I can do hard things. I learned how to take better care of myself. I learned that I don't have to make hard things harder. I learned I could let some things go: I didn't have to keep every ball in the air. I could take a detour now and then. I made choices about what was a priority in my life and in my family's life. My house wasn't as clean. We ate soup from cans or scrambled eggs and toast a lot more. I learned little signs that it was time to let something go, time to take care of myself. I learned that I could still push myself, I could do hard things, but I could also be okay with not being my best all the time. I learned to be okay with "this is the best I can do right now--and I'm okay with that." And even more, I learned to accept that in others: someone is unkind or doesn't do what I expect? Maybe that's just the best they can be right now.

So, I believe we can do hard things. We can also make them harder than they need to be. But we can also accept ourselves for doing our best, even if that best isn't quite what we hoped it would be in our minds. That, too, is a hard thing.

"I really, really like myself"

My grandson's birthday is October 30. On that morning, he opened a present that was something he could wear to school for Halloween: a football uniform---no pads, but everything else. He is crazy about football, so I knew he would be excited. I had no idea how much.

Since his family currently lives with us, we see him everyday. On his birthday, there was a knock on my bedroom door about 7:00 in the morning. I said, "Just a minute--I have to finish dressing." It was about three minutes until I opened the door--and there he was: in a football stance to show off the wonderful uniform. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd been in that stance the whole three minutes!

I ooh-ed and aaah-ed about every aspect of the uniform: the helmet, the shirt, the pants, the black patches on his cheeks, the number on the jersey. For several minutes we admired the pieces and the whole. "You look great!" I told him. He stood for a moment looking down at himself through the face guard and then looked up at me: "I really, really like myself," he said.

Here he is at the end of the day--still dancing because he is so excited.

And here he is trying to get a drink from a straw without removing the helmet--I don't think he wanted to take it off to sleep that night!

Ever since, Gabe said that to me, I have thought about the power of that statement: I really, really like myself. I have been thinking what a wonderful world it would be if, every day, every one of us could put on a costume--football uniform, princess dress, superhero cape--look in the mirror, and say to ourselves: "I really, really like myself." Maybe, eventually, we wouldn't have to wear the costumes and could see what wonderful people we are without the extra outfit. We get beat up each day by the stresses and arrows of life. How great if we could start again each next day with that affirmation: I really, really like myself. I think the whole world would be a better place and we'd all be happier for it.

Seasons

What is it about autumn that I love so much? I love to watch every single aspect of the visual display. I love the changing leaves. I love the kinds of flowers that bloom in fall--such deep, rich purples and oranges, and reds. I love the look of cornstalks and pumpkins and bales of hay. I love the smell in the air--cold and leafy, sometimes a whiff of smoke from burning leaves or fireplaces being lit on a cold night. I love the temperatures--both cool and warm but not too much of either. I love the clothes I get to wear--boots and sweaters and corduroy and denim. I love hot chocolate and pumpkin anything.

With all of that love, you'd think I'd like winter, too. There are holidays and families--and that's all good. And winter is okay,  at first. The snow is lovely the first few times it falls, blanketing everything in white cotton. And the deer that come out of the hills add a lovely feel to the picture. But I tire of the unceasing cold, the slippery roads and sidewalks, the snow that quickly turns dirty. I spend much of winter watching for signs of spring--and I'm really good at noticing the smallest signs. It's what comes of being an Alaskan: we always learned to watch for the slightest sign that our interminable season was coming to an end.

Spring begins for me when I see the first hint of green in the bare willow branches. They change color before they get leaves. I love seeing the bitty green buds on the trees I walk under each day on my way to work, the little green blades of hyacinths and tulips and daffodils peeking through the wet brown dirt as the snow melts, the pastel petals peeping out on the fruit trees. I love the promise of that bright lime green that is the color of spring: new and young and fresh. Winter is ending, and that's a good thing.

I endure summer. It's probably a remnant of my childhood, too, but I don't like blazing sun everyday. I enjoy a summer evening when it cools off (if it does) and I can swing in the back yard with the scent of honeysuckle (something I never had in Alaska) wafting on the breeze as the sun sets. I really love a good rain storm pounding away. But the days? I'd rather spend them inside. I don't like my skin burning. I'm not much of a water person, so water sports have little appeal. I tend to stay indoors and read, although an Oregon beach in summer is something I can do. I just don't get to often enough.

No. For me, the season is fall. It's the season that I wallow in, savoring everything about it. I hate to see it ending.

silver linings

I woke up with a migraine this morning--again. For the last few years, the doctor has had me on meds to control headaches and help with insomnia (a life-long affliction). But when I told him I had absolutely zero energy, no matter how much sleep I might get, that sometimes I felt like I couldn't take another step or get up off a chair, he said it was probably a side effect of the meds and suggested I try to go off them. I did. My energy level went back up. Hooray!

But I had forgotten how often I had migraines before. Now, I have them two or three times a week. I remember now the fear I walked around with, fear that one might be coming on. Was this blurred vision just tired eyes or the onset of another one? Was that flashing light at the edge of my vision just a trick of light or an indicator? Would I have one when I was trying to teach or give a talk? Because there are stomach/intestinal issues that accompany the migraine, I have to consider that, too. Am I going to be sick when I'm somewhere inconvenient? After the pain is gone, I feel kind of shaky and weepy, which can be a bad thing in meetings or events with strangers.

My grandfather had migraines, too. His were often food related--chocolate of all things. I would just have to die if chocolate triggered mine. Mine are more often triggered by stress; I've never noticed any food trigger that I can identify. One of my children has migraines, and (so far) one of my grandchildren does, too. Mine started as a girl, about 8 years old. My son was about the same age. It's a terrible affliction to pass along genetically, but at least we can learn coping strategies. My mother taught me not to go to bed. We can take medicine, and then we shoulder on. I'm glad now for that teaching. I need to keep going. When I told her that I was off the meds and having so many migraines now, she said maybe I should go on the medicine again. I didn't even think about it.

This morning, on my way to work, I saw this. The sun shining behind the clouds above the mountains. It was a perfect silver lining--something I've heard of all my life but can't remember ever seeing until now. I pulled over, took the shot, and thought for a bit. Everyone has challenges. I certainly wouldn't trade mine for anyone else's--and in many, many ways I know I have a blessed life. Not as many challenges as most people, I think. But sometimes, when the mood is just right, I might wonder a moment about the ones I have. Today, I was thinking, I'd rather have pain than the lack of energy I had before. That was debilitating. This is just inconvenient. That's a silver lining. I need to remember to look for them more regularly.