It’s spring. While many are feeling the restless giddiness of spring fever, I’m struggling through my weird version of spring fever—ennui. If spring were not the herald of summer, I would enjoy it more. But as much as I love daffodils (even if I manage to kill every one I buy), I know that they are wolves in sunshiny yellow sheep’s clothing easing me to the end of the school year and to the torrid months of southern summer.
I know, I know—teachers are supposed to love summer. As I pointed out to one of my friends who has partial custody of her son, she wouldn’t enjoy not getting to see him for three months. That’s what summer is for me. Three months of not getting to see my kids. So, as I usually do when I need a serious pick-me-up, I brew a cup of joe and pull out my memory box. In it, I have ticket stubs, letters, playbills, a random rock, a string bracelet—tangible reminders of the past. But, most important is the folder labeled “Read Me When You Need Encouragement.” Somehow today as I go through that folder, a phrase from Scripture keeps floating through my thoughts: “the sacrifice of praise.” I save this folder for encouraging letters and thank-you notes (many of them for things that I didn’t even realize I had done). On the surface, there’s nothing sacrificial about these notes. Sacrifices are supposed to be hard, right? How hard is it to send a close friend a funny Valentine’s Day card (on the outside: a groundhog staring at a heart-shaped shadow; on the inside: “If only this meant six more weeks of chocolate”)? Is it any harder to add a personal note? But there is something beautifully sacrificial in these notes, especially in our instant, transient, digital world. These note-senders, yes, have sacrificed some time and money, but they have also sacrificed privacy and safety. By sending me a note, they have expressed that they care enough to put their thoughts in permanent writing (not a text), a vulnerable position in our “everything’s wonderful” social media world. For an incredibly private person, I find that honesty an amazing sacrifice. So, whether it’s a green sticky note Mom slipped into my church bulletin in high school, an “I Love Lucy” card from a college roommate, or a smeared “Thanks, Miss Lane” on a 3x5 card from a student, each of these notes is a powerful reminder that I am not alone, even if summer is coming.
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Twice a year with my seasonal head colds, I lose my voice. Imagine the fun that accompanies that since, as a teacher, mine is the voice of authority. Yet, strangely, I find that losing my voice aids my authority. Students suddenly have to really hang on every word that I am mouthing to them or they will miss something important. Or as I write them notes, they must patiently wait to see what revelation Miss Lane is about to share with them.
Even more surprising, I find that my peers listen to me more. In my classroom (my seat of power, so to speak) I comfortably share my ideas; if I don't, my students still ask for my opinion. I do not, however, typically share my ideas with adults unless they solicit them. Over the years I have convinced myself that it wasn't my place to speak. I've rendered myself voiceless except for when I lose my voice and people must ask me what think and wait while I write an answer. As I reread the following poem I wrote nearly a decade ago, I realized that I need to add another stanza or perhaps write a parallel poem changing the anaphora from "because I thought I'd fail" to "because I thought they wouldn't listen." A decade later, I'm finally starting to share my writing with others, and (as I assure my students) each lesson I teach is an experiment with new thoughts ("Will this method work with these students with the variables at play in my classroom today?"). I suppose my next challenge is giving myself a voice. It could take another decade before I'm ready for that. Failure Because I thought I’d fail I didn’t write my stories, my poems, my thoughts. I wrote nothing. Because I thought I’d fail I didn’t compose the songs that accompany my life. I kept them to myself. Because I thought I’d fail I didn’t experiment with new thoughts or unconventional ideas Someone else did. They succeeded. Because I thought I’d fail I didn’t try. Because I thought I’d fail I did. Little things matter. Perhaps because I’m short, I find that idea particularly comforting. To me, insignificant details are the stuff of life. Life, relationships, and personality are made up of details. When we discuss philosophical ideas, my friends tease me because I see the forest, but I also see the trees, the groves that the trees belong to, and the leaves on the individual trees, and I think that all of those things are sublimely important; whereas, my friends see forests or trees, depending on what we are focused on as we solve the world’s problems over coffee.
Little things also become the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I have the fortitude to accept major calamity; in fact, I moderately enjoy chaos if it can lead to a good story later. But the minor irritants—I cannot face a slew of them with the same equanimity. To borrow logic from Much Ado about Nothing’s Benedick: One day brings a headache, yet I am well; another brings allergies, yet I am well; another brings sleeplessness, yet I am well, but when all calamities grace one day, that day shall not bring out my grace. Yet, little things can make the major calamities bearable, too. A smile from total stranger. A fuzzy blanket still warm from the dryer. A funny-shaped cloud at sunset. Splashing in pollen-dyed slush puddles. (Take that and that, Pollen!) Laughing at the ridiculously of dropping the same pile of books three times in a row. Enjoying a homemade eggroll with fried rice. Any of those would make a bad day better. |
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