Learning

Learning
by Judith Viorst
I'm learning to say thank you. And I'm learning to say please. And I'm learning to use Kleenex, Not my sweater, when I sneeze. And I'm learning not to dribble. And I'm learning not to slurp. And I'm learning (though it sometimes really hurts me) Not to burp. And I'm learning to chew softer When I eat corn on the cob. And I'm learning that it's much Much easier to be a slob. ______________________________________________________ I had to laugh when I read this poem by Viorst. I had to share it.

Morning Prayer
~Ogden Nash
Now another day is breaking, Sleep was sweet and so is waking. Dear Lord, I promised you last night Never again to sulk or fight. Such vows are easier to keep When a child is sound asleep. Today, O Lord, for your dear sake, I'll try to keep them when awake. Ogden Nash is one of my favorite poets -- not the least for the fact that he speaks simple truths in simple ways.  This particular poem is one that I have printed and posted on the mirror of my children's  bathroom.  It is one that I keep with me to remind me of the challenges inherent in holding to one's  resolutions. Each night I make promises to myself about the coming day. Each morning I wake with the best intentions. But the truth that I have finally come to understand is that personal resolutions do not always take into account the wills and ways of other people.  I am not arguing that one shouldn't seek to better oneself. Not at all. But watching my sons struggle to  balance the drive to improve with acceptance of themselves as they are, I have come to understand that we need to remember that the fact that we can improve some elements of our lives and behavior should never imply that we, as individuals, are less than lovable, less than valuable just as we are. This distinction is important for our own individual sense of self worth but it becomes critical when we have  children. We teach by example, whether we intend to do so or not. If we do not love and accept ourselves,  flaws and all, if we do not value our own gifts and offer those gifts to others, how can we expect our children to do so?   So... what am I saying? The Greek myth of Narcissus warns us against selfish love, love that ignores others in it's self obsession but it is easy to go too far in the opposite direction... I am not saying anything new here,  I suppose. Other people have talked about draining the well dry, about giving so much that there is nothing left with which to replenish the source. What I am saying, however, is that when we do this, we teach our children that this is what SHOULD be done. We set them up to have unreasonable expectations of themselves and others. We set a dangerous precedent -- and set our children up to fail. The rain is making me gloomy I fear.

Learning hard lessons

I am reminded that learning is not just about books and academic subjects -- Life itself is a constant lesson and, unfortunately often Life lessons are painful.  For me, perhaps the hardest part of being a mother is watching/re-experiencing those painful lessons as my children encounter them. It would be so nice to hold out my own learning and say 'Here, take this, it won't hurt as much.' But, of course, that is not the way that Life lessons are learned. The best I can do, as a parent, as a person, is to be there, to hold a hand, to wipe away tears, to offer loving arms while my child learns.  Knowing that does not make any of it easier. I wish something did.

One thing I have learned as I have grown older is that compassion for others is an under-appreciated, rarely offered gift. People generally find it easier to offer judgment than compassion. The first has the advantage of placing the Judger in a position of power, authority and immunity from pain. The latter requires empathy, an understanding and recognition of the other person's essential humanity. 'Walk a mile in my moccasins' is not a popular past time. Too painful, too scary.  But it seems to me that if this world and the human race are to survive, we really MUST step into those other shoes. We cannot allow ourselves to be anesthetized to the pain of those around us. It is very human to try to avoid pain but to hide from the pain of others, is to hide from others and that is not living.

That said, as a mother, I wish I could ease the pain my children experience.  Sometimes I fear for my sons: both are extremely empathetic and they absorb the pain of those around them to an alarming degree. Both want so desperately to heal the injuries of the world but they lack, as yet, the experience and wisdom to know what they can do and what they cannot.  And, of course, pain untreated can turn into rage -- rage at the helplessness they feel, rage at the source of the pain. Another lesson, then: Anger is the path to the dark side.  In truth, I think that that may have been the most powerful moment in the Star Wars series, when Anakin, mad with grief, seeks out and destroys all the Sand People, the people who tortured and killed his mother.  When he wakes from his grief induced madness, he wakes in horror at what he has done. That moment is crystalline. It has mostly been ignored by the watchers of the film. Most concentrate on Anakin's conversion to Darth Vader and enjoy the wild ride... but the lesson is there, just as it is in 'Frankenstein'. Both Victor F. and Anakin want to save and protect. Both are driven by a sense of grief and rage at what they perceive as their weakness and failures. Both seek Power, hoping to use it well. But Gandalf the Grey recognized what they did not: Power tempts.  There is that moment, in the first book of the Ring Cycle where Frodo offers Gandalf the ring:

Frodo: Take it!
Gandalf: No, Frodo.
Frodo: You must take it!
Gandalf: You cannot offer me this ring!
Frodo: I'm giving it to you!
Gandalf: Don't... tempt me Frodo! I dare not take it. Not even to keep it safe. Understand, Frodo. I would use this ring from a desire to do good... But through me, it would wield a power too great and terrible to imagine.

Gandalf's wisdom is resisting the temptation of power is something we all need to practice. Too many times, when we are given that power over another, we uses it abusively -- all the while thinking that we are doing it for the well being of the one we control. But how is a parent to know when to step back, to let his/her child stumble and fall and get scraped and bruised, to allow them to rage and cry and recover all on their own? That is the issue I struggle with -- fighting to find a balance between protectiveness and doing harm by stopping my child's growth. Ah well, perhaps I shall re-read The Hobbit: 70th Anniversary Edition and The Lord of the Rings: 50th Anniversary, One Vol. Edition and get their take on the subject. Grin. They always provide me with unusual perspectives...

Remembrance of things past

I don't know about anyone else but I am an inveterate storyteller -- and the stories my children love to hear (and the ones they actually REMEMBER) are stories from my childhood.

In these stories, certain characters appear over and over. My brothers, for example, 'loom large in my legend' (to paraphrase George Harrison). But the person who has my attention today was a teacher I knew many, many years ago. His name, as far as I knew it, was Mr. Chick and he was my teacher at Sharon Elementary school in Sharon. Massachusetts in 1976. The year is memorable for any number of reasons, not the least being that it was the bi-centennial in Massachusetts and that meant re-enactments of every kind. But it was also memorable because of the friends I made (Hi, Hilary! Hi, Martha!) and because of Mr. Chick.

My sons love to hear HOW Mr. Chick taught -- and really, anyone who teaches can take a lesson from him. He brought joy and excitement and an element of play into what could otherwise have been deadly dull.

For example -- we needed to learn the Preamble to the Constitution and the first ten Amendments. Many of my generation probably remember it from Schoolhouse rock and I admit, that did reinforce the Preamble for me. (Grin). But Mr. Chick had his own approach: He turned it into a marching chant. At the time, he was team teaching with Mrs. Borenstein and they shared a small building with two classrooms divided by a hall. He had us learn the Preamble then marched us out of his classroom and in through hers, shouting the Preamble as loudly as we could. We loved it... though I am not sure what she thought about it!

He did more than that though: when recess came, he PLAYED with us. There was a game called 'Four Square' which involved four players, a red bouncy ball, and a square divided into four smaller squares. Everyone in the whole school knew the basic rules but for us, privileged children of Mr. Chick/Mrs. Borenstein's class, we knew 'Chick's rules'. Perhaps my funniest memory of that game was the time Mr. Chick was playing with a bunch of us. He bounced the ball so hard that it flew out of control and hit... a school window. The crack was so loud that everyone on the playground froze. Everyone but Mr. Chick: "RUN!" he yelled, waving his arms and like obedient children, we fled the scene of the crime... Laugh. I do not know what happened with the window in the end but we were all quite pleased to keep his secret.

He took us on a nature hike once, out just beyond the school grounds. He had mentioned, several times, that we should stay on the path. Of course, once we were out in the green world, several of the boys decided to plunge off and explore. Raising his voice only slightly, Mr. Chick called 'And just watch out for Poison IVY!' The boys returned to the path faster than they had left it... I don't think anyone left the path after that. When we returned to the classroom, he taught us about Poison Ivy, Poison oak and Poison sumac. It was an amazingly effective lesson.

My sons' favorite story, by far, though is of a rather different caliber. Imagine a group of school children in the basement of an old school building. It is nearing the end of the year and the temperatures are rising. The room, dedicated to teaching children typing, is stifling hot and the young teacher (A separate 'typing' teacher had come over from the 'Big' school to teach us.) has thrown open the windows in an attempt to get some air in the room. All the children are melting, dragged down by the heat and no one, including the teacher, is getting much accomplished. Suddenly the door is FLUNG open and Mr. Chick, shining in the sunlight yells 'FLEE, Children! BE FREE!' He holds the door open and children, at first stunned, then delighted, flood past him into the outer world. A last glimpse of the wilted typing teacher shows her gaping at the scene, too hot to even think up a protest.

Mr. Chick taught but he did more than that. He shared joy with us and made the process of learning something more like play and less like punishment. He is no longer with us, and for that, I grieve. But he left me, at least, with a powerful memory -- of what teaching SHOULD be, how it CAN be done, and how truly joyful it can make the learning  process. Thank you, Mr. Chick.