Making and Creating

 

The heaviness of the world right now would have made it more than easy to not make a post this week but as I watched people sending aid, making poetry, and showing up in the ways they could,  I was inspired to show up too. My words have been transformed a time or two to arrive at what you are actually going to read because it seemed bizarre to be writing a simple story on a blog. I read an artist's reflection on why we continue to make and create and she talked about how she paints to show compassion to herself and hope that it extends to others.  I think when I write I feel empowered and I am comforted by the possibility of my words extending this to someone else.  

In my small part of the world this week, we were taking part in an antibullying campaign, called Pink Shirt Day. This campaign began with a couple of students in Nova Scotia who wanted to raise awareness about bullying after a student had been bullied for wearing a pink shirt.  The campaign grew and became acknowledged throughout Canada and other places in the world  I am amazed every time I hear this story to think of just two young boys creating and making such a difference.   Every year, in my school and classroom, I get to witness the sea of pink and how this story continues to have an impact. As a teacher, I try to think of new ways on this day and every day to empower students, teach compassion, acceptance, and offer strategies to deal with difficult people and interactions.  

This year I was thinking of my own experience with bullying. Throughout elementary and junior high school some students seemed to target me for taunting.  Having moved to a new school in grade two, I was one of the only students whose family had not always been part of this community. By grade 5 at this school, there were a group of girls who made it their mission to intimidate me daily.  The washroom was in the basement of this little school and I would be afraid to go down there as that was their meeting place and between there and the playground would be where I was most vulnerable out of the teacher's view. I used to hear them talking about how their community was being changed by the new subdivisions being built and that they didn't need new people living there. These were not stories of eleven and twelve-year-olds, I realized later and it was a fear of change they may have been receiving from their families which were projected onto me.   Bullying for me continued in junior high school, with a new group of girls, in many of my classes and outside on breaks. As it got more severe, I would receive phone calls, when caller ID was not a thing, they would call me derogatory names and give verbal threats to my safety if I were to go to concerts, the roller skating rink, or the neighborhood where my good friend lived at the time. My parents wanted to intervene on several occasions but I told them it would only make things worse.  So I stopped sharing the details of what was happening. I won't ever know for sure why I was a target of these girls' anger but I do understand now that these young women had experienced extreme trauma in their lives, they didn't have a sense of safety outside of the walls of the school and maybe I was just the least vulnerable place for their anger to land.  

These memories reminded me this week that the big issues don't just arrive on the world stage suddenly. They start small.   Maybe with the dwindling away of compassion, the perceived widening of the gap in our similarities to each other, the growing fears of lack, and the imbalance of our needs and wants. Maybe they start in our homes, our schools and on our playgrounds.  

A few years ago I was introduced to a beautiful story of a woman author, Amy Krause Rosenthal.  She was deceased at the time I heard of her story but I was enthralled with what an amazing part of her legacy it was.  I was so moved by how one person can be so powerful and reassured by the beauty of how she chose to use her power.   

The story is called, "The Beckoning of Lovely".  She had created a video of seventeen things she had made. Some of these included the children's and adult's books she had written but there were also her children, her bed, her sandwich, her wedding vows, and so on. Making the ordinary and extraordinary become one.   The Beckoning of Lovely was the project name for making the eighteenth thing. She invited people through social media to meet with her on the eighth day of the eighth month at 8:08.. at a monument in the center of her city. Having no idea who or how many would show, she told them that they would know her by her yellow umbrella.  She arrived to hundreds of people, children, parents, lovers, teenagers,  and seniors all coming together as strangers.  She gave them all tasks to make and separated them into groups as they volunteered for the task.  Some made a grand entrance, others a friend, some made something pretty and others made someone's day. They made music, made do with what they had, made peace, made it up as they went, and made a splash. The eighteenth thing was the video of the making of all of these things coming together. It was humbling, ordinary, and extraordinary. It was compassion in the center of the city on a hot summer night because a group of people were committed to making and creating a story of compassion together.

In this world with bigotry, fear, greed, and disease, for me, there is always the making and creating of compassion, joy, and peace,   through you, me, and our children. As I see our young people continue to wear their pink, orange, and rainbow shirts, another seed of hope is planted.

The Beckoning of Lovely 8/08/08 - YouTube  

"His" story or "Our" Story

 A young man had recently left university as the demands of online learning were too intense. He was experiencing overwhelm and becoming depressed without being able to leave home, as his anxiety around getting COVID was intense. He found himself turning away from even connecting virtually and was not responding to friends.   One of his friends was very concerned so she created a care package which she delivered to his door and texted him to let him know as she knew he would not see her in person.   Weeks passed and she did not hear anything from her friend and her concern grew.  It was Valentine's day last year, and sitting in her living room with her family she saw someone walking up the street and entering the driveway.  The person did not knock at the door but the squeak of the mailbox was heard and then the young man was seen heading back where he had come.   She went to the mailbox to see that two valentine treats were there with a handwritten note that said he had been going through a difficult time and that her act of kindness had meant a lot to him.  Many people had stopped reaching out so it was so meaningful to him and he wanted to thank her and let her know how it affected him. The treat he said, was for her and her sister.

A young woman who had recently started a singing group for all abilities singers that identified with having a  disability had done so for her sister who didn't have a lot of social interaction and loved to sing.  The group started out with three people but it continued to grow and was gaining momentum when restrictions began in the last couple of years.  She was very concerned for her new friends so she decided to host the event in the backyard of her home. She socially distanced chairs in the yard and set up her technology under an open-air tent.   She served snacks with gloves and masks on and continued to create laughter and an opportunity to interact.  As restrictions tightened the group switched to online and she fumbled her way through, getting everyone connected to sing and talk.  She has recently been able to meet with a small group again but they continue to sing masked and share time together. 

These are two small stories that show the best of the human spirit and exemplify compassion, resilience, and grace that I have had the privilege to witness in my world and for each of these, there are a million more from each one of you. 

I was thinking about these stories this week and your stories and the way they become part of our recorded history.  History becomes the voices that get amplified. This led to a question for me. I am wondering what stories will we tell of this time?

Will the stories that get recorded include the marginalized populations?  My daughter was recently sharing with me the history of our 2SLGBTQIA+ population. She was talking about a particular man who had helped young people who were ostracized from their communities and families. He along with his team of five often provided a place to stay until they were able to find their own. They also operated a hotline for those needing support or a listening ear.  This same man is currently playing a role in helping to create historical records for the queer heritage initiative of New Brunswick.  It turns out that he was a former colleague and friend of mine and used to drive my husband to work every day for a couple of years when we were teaching in different schools.   I didn't know about his involvement in supporting his community or realize how much information had been left out of our history books.  I am overwhelmed at times by the misinformation or lack of information that leads people to think that neurodiversity and queerness did not exist in the past or that it has grown exponentially in recent years but it is no fault of their own as these stories and facts have just not been recorded. We are currently in February which is Black history month and it only makes sense that we need a month to spotlight Black history because again their voices and stories are missing from the recorded narratives.  I can remember a time as a young child when I thought that if you read it in a book it had to be true and the same goes for if it wasn't in a book, it must not have occurred.   

Last year I read the Book of Longing by Sue Monk Kidd. It is a fictional novel about the unrecorded life of the Christian figure, Jesus, and, is told from the perspective of his wife named Anne.  This is a fictional account of what life may have been like for Jesus leading up to the years of his disciples and crucifixion, but it is purposeful in making you think about the possibilities of the rest of the story or the story that didn't get recorded or the experiences or people that were left out of this story or all the stories that we call historical events.  The same year I read Cassandra Speaks by Elizabeth Lesser where she discusses how when women are the storytellers, the human story changes.    Both of these books have pushed the parameters of history and called the reader to see from a different vantage point or perspective. 

As with any events that span a longer period, the information gets muddled and the stories fade and new ones take the stage. Our state of mind and weariness with change can also cloud how we receive what is taking place around us as well.  But I am optimistic that we will be able to decipher the real history that needs to be written down, retold, and shared with our next generations, in our schools, and in our books.  These stories with be the best of the human spirit.  

They will not just exist as a shout-out of good news on Friday on our local radio station, but the nurses who snowshoed to work after a major storm shut down roads so they could relieve their overworked coworkers, will be documented and revered as part of a timeline of events.  The women who took in aging parents to protect their health and support their quality of life during difficult times will also be a part of the narrative. The people who buried parents, spouses, children, and siblings without proper funerals, will be heroes too.   The parents who supported online learning while working from home, the woman at the grocery check out who put her child in daycare every day and went to an uncertain level of safety for her health and that of her family will be mentioned.   

We can and will have an impact on how these stories are recorded and told when we buy the books and listen to the recounts.   We will need to be discerning and brave to make sure all the voices are represented, a level of honesty to embrace the reality that the pandemic impacted our indigenous communities more severely, and what was or wasn't done to change this.  We will need to be sure we share that when the world got still, we began to become more aware of our privilege and how we couldn't turn our heads to the continuing black oppression.  We will need to be able to account for how these historical events have led to change in our own personal lives and our larger communities.  

I am hoping that the stories of love, compassion, perseverance, truth, grace, and, strength are the historical go tos.    I am counting on history evolving into a change from the tired narratives I grew up with.  We get more of what we consume because there are always people analyzing what sells. Let's start consuming things that include stories we are all included in. That shows your worth and value as a contributor to things worth remembering.

My history book would start with the beautiful songs sung from the balconies for health care workers. In the middle would be the notes written on windows, the skating rinks and luges built for community use, the custodians who kept cleaning and keeping us safe, the endless self less days of health care workers, child care workers, parents, volunteers, and neighbors and it would conclude with everyone doing what they needed to do to keep everyone as safe as possible to move back into creating our new moments that will always include uncertainty, risk, joy, grief, and the best of the human spirit. 

Silence

 

A fourth-year university student, an autistic nineteen-year-old, a large black poodle, a deaf fifteen-year-old cat, two kindergarten teachers, and a two-year pandemic functioning in a twelve hundred square foot bungalow most days, does not leave room for accidental silence to play a large role in our lives. In our home, there is a lack of space for silence.  The fourth-year university student and I are in constant communication when she is around. I get to learn about everything that is new in the world and what she is thinking and feeling.  I love having this honor but not after 8:30 at night.  I simply check out and need a little time to be with my own thoughts.   My autistic nineteen-year-old does not speak often in her day at her job placement or in her school situation so she saves all of her emotion, vocabulary, and communication for home.  It starts the minute she gets out of bed and ends when she is calling from her bedroom until she falls asleep. There is no volume button on the overwhelm and anxiety release at home where she feels most comfortable.  My husband and I share a classroom and the back and forth of information is endless as well as the stories that unfold from being with five-year-olds all day.   Did I mention the lack of silence involved with being with five-year-olds all day?   They can't learn and interact without lots of voice so there is no changing that environment and it is often a blessing to get away from the other noise of the world.   The deaf fifteen-year-old cat can't hear herself anymore so her meow has gone up several decibels and increased its frequency and inopportune times of urgency such as midnight and four a.m.   The black poodle is really the quietest in the house which isn't saying much.   I know we have not been the only family making a go of living, working, and learning together in a more concentrated fashion so that left me with some thoughts and reasoning for the oversharing of my home life.

 I really think that we are all struggling with silence deprivation more than ever and I would even go as far as to say it has more of an effect, or at least as much of one as our lack of rest.  There are the snowblowers, lawnmowers, leaf blowers, plows, cars, motorbikes, highways, coffee grinders, fans, timers, televisions,  car radios,  computers, and phones that have all been with us for some time.  We also have people texting, emailing, zooming, and popping into our virtual conversations constantly. Social media and media in general, sharing everything that is happening as it is happening when we just open our phones.   My concern is that this lack of silence in our lives is disconnecting us from ourselves.  Depending on your relationship to silence, you may not see this as a problem but silence is not only the absence of sound but is synonymous with peace and noise translates often to chaos and hysteria, as we've seen highlighted throughout the last couple of years. 

 As it came closer to posting this week, I was starting to feel a bit anxious.  I  didn't have any idea what I would write about and I had set the goal of sharing a post weekly.  This is the first time this has happened to me since I started the blog and I was curious about it.  What I realized was that as my life lacks silence that is not purposeful, I had not been able to make time for any this week or maybe for a couple of weeks. There have been many interruptions to the already irregular life that we have established like online learning, lockdowns, and storm days.  I am sure I am not alone in how I can move through what is happening but in the "after" or "return to", I tend to feel the feels of the past situations.  I guess this is reflective of a fight or flight response.  So this is where I found myself without any creative thoughts that were flowing naturally.  So I did what we all seem to do with a problem these days,   I got out my computer and started researching silence.  I found science to back up a lack of silence as even a physiological problem.  There were studies of individuals in open offices versus closed and they found that the workers in open offices actually had more adrenalin in their urine translating as more stress.   The people in the closed offices had better sleep, digestion and were less irritable which correlated with more silence and less stress.  

I'm not a researcher and science is not my forte,, to say the least, but what if science is telling us something about our obsession with noise and distraction and what it is doing to us and to our society at large.  I have never heard of anyone being tapped into inspiration or creativity in anything other than quiet.   People who walk the neighborhoods or grocery aisles with their phone to their ear chatting are not taking in the person needing help with their cart or the mom needing someone to hold the door so she can get her stroller inside.   They aren't seeing or connecting with the people around them that they may need to offer themselves to or that may have something to offer them. The lack of silence in their surroundings is contributing to their disconnect or the loss of attention for what really matters to them. They aren't aware of how their back may be aching or how their recent experiences are causing them to lash out at some innocent person they come in contact with.  When we are turning on the television for companionship maybe instead we need to feel the loneliness or emptiness to see what it is really trying to tell us about our need for connection.   I am sure that not every silence should be filled in conversation or shared space.  What if we got comfortable with silence and let it into our world or even demanded it from all the external sources of noise?  If we left the radio off on our car commute and instead noticed the sun rising and thought about what we were grateful for in the day ahead.   If we continue to fall asleep with tik tok videos or games on our phones, how will our over-busy mind be given space to unfurl.   When we walk through a day of a person, not unlike ourselves who wakes to their phone alarm, is thrust into conversation and problem solving with the people we live with, or move onto automatically checking into the weather channel, morning new shows, and our phones, what opportunity does our mind and body have to know how we are feeling and what we want from our day?  Where and how will you creep into your own mindset? Will it be in the work tasks and demands being asked of you by your co-workers or the ten thousand other voices we tune into saying this is important, and this is.   Where will our own deciphering of a situation come into play when we can't drown out the noise of those frantic, and sometimes manic voices, full of stories others are telling us about our own lives and current real or imagined realities?  

I read an eloquent quote about silence, by Dadi Janki, that has stuck with me as I write this, "Silence is the language of the soul". If this is true, then we are regularly disconnecting willingly at times and more often, because of imposed noise, from our soul, and therein lies my concern.

Silence may feel uncomfortable and unnecessary at times but the lack of silence is cumulative and eventually, we can't hear ourselves anymore. We won't be able to filter out the information coming at lightning speed and recognize the one small voice that is asking to be heard?  This voice is our own and is the one that can connect us to peace,  and to the silence within ourselves.  

I recently heard of the Dali Lama saying that the western woman would save the world.   My dear rest friend and author of Daring to Rest, Karen Brody said she would take it a step further and say that a well-rested woman would save the world.    I am stealing this statement to add my own perspective. It is only through silence, that we will recognize our needs for rest,  for peace, and connecting to those quiet soul whispers that will allow us to show up in the world in a way that is respectful of ourselves and others.  The natural elements of the world are not asking to be saved but for us to stay awake and silent enough to hear their guidance forward.

 I did find my silence this week when I stepped outside in the early morning after our latest snowstorm for a run.  The trees were ladened with heavy snow and brightened up the entire street.  There was a soft glow from the street light reflecting on my path and the insulation of both the darkness and blanket of white, before the buzz of snowblowers and passing cars, held stillness and peace that I witnessed and was, in that brief moment.  This was the silence that only comes from recognizing the silence of the natural world, the sun, the moon, the trees, the still water,  breathing it in and allowing it into our heart space.

Dear Humanity

I guess you could say I have lived in a visceral world most of my life.   Everything coming from a place of deep feeling rather than intellect has been to my benefit but also to my detriment as well.  That is where discernment comes in as a practice but most days it is challenging. It comes as no surprise that my writing would reflect this as well. I write from my heart and not my head.  I get feelings about what needs to be said, what I need to write.  It can often feel like it isn't coming from me. This post felt like that and I was a skeptic at first. The idea kept coming back from a place of deep feeling. The feeling of how amazing it would be if we could use words to unburden others,  if I could see the five-year-old in the face of the angry, confrontational man I encountered a few weeks ago , if I  could recognize old wounds of my own and at the same time be able to help someone else do the same.  

The visceral me said I could do this with a letter.   I could write a love letter to humanity.  Not any love letter, not the love letter of romantic love or Valentine commercial phrases and poetry but a universal love and this love coming from none other than a kindergarten teacher.  So stay with me, maybe this is for you.  If we are being honest, who couldn't use a love letter right now?

Dear Humanity,

I think I have met you as a small child of 4, 5, or 6.  I recognize your eagerness to please and your awe for life.  I see you in the faces of all of the small children that have come into my care over the years. Your bright smile,  and openness, mixed with a bit of fear.  I know your good intentions and dreams. Your wish to be liked, even loved, to fit in, to accept all of yourself, to get the gold star.   I hear your laughter and endless questions. I remember your lightness of step and the ease with which you move and nourish your body without the imposed thoughts of any flaws.  How much you loved the outdoors and your wonder at the intense blue of the sky and the first snowfall. Your amazement in the changes of the seasons and special holidays that allow any kind of celebration and togetherness.  How you wanted to know everything and believed I had the key to all of the answers.  

Now that I hold you in my mind's eye and in the depth of my heart, I want to be completely honest and fully transparent. I really didn't have all the answers and deep down I knew and I hoped you might too, that you already had them and still do.  You just need to take a minute to remember, to believe in yourself and your knowing.

I want to apologize for all the times I moved too quickly or didn't respond to your needs in the moment as I could have.   How I didn't slow down enough for you to catch up or catch your breath. How I didn't always see you as you were. I hope you are slowing down and finding your pace and space now. You are still the greatest hope for the future and you need to take great care.

I want you to know I wish I had never said, don't cry, say sorry, or it's no big deal because your feelings mattered. Crying is just letting go of all that needs to be released and saying sorry when you don't mean it is just dismissing you and your experiences and it was a big deal to you at that moment and now is that nagging guilt that you carry that those little things shouldn't bother you. 

Now that we have cleared the air between us a bit, there are so many questions I still have for you and so many things I wish we had time to learn together.

Did you ever move through those challenges in your family of origin so that you would not continue those patterns in your own relationships and family? Did you find a sense of belonging that honors who you are as a person? Are you able to look at how your experiences may have created biases and are you able to own them?

I am not worried about you finding a career but have you found a place for your focus and attention that is helpful, expansive, and nurturing? Are you listening deeply and raising the voices of others? Are you living in reciprocity with nature in a way that heals you day to day ?  Are you caring for and loving yourself in ways that you are proud of?

As I said, I didn't have all the answers but I do have some lived truths that I would love to share. I want you to remember that nothing is permanent, everything is continually changing and flowing so I hope you find a way to do this as well. As much as I loved the five-year-old you, I want you to make adulthood look like something we should all desire so we are not clinging to childhood.

I want you to remember to ask others for their stories. People are difficult to dislike when they have the opportunity to remove their masks. Be true to your own story as well. There is no you and them, only us.  Our experiences will make it difficult to have a first good reaction to challenging circumstances or people. We are not responsible for this first reaction but we are always responsible for our second and third reactions. You will mess up, we all will, just don't stay in the mess.

Honor when you need to move forward and when you need to come to a full stop.  You will never be rewarded for your busyness and overworking so steal space and stillness into every day and allow creativity to seep in. Remember to explore your inner landscape as much as you explore the outer world. Both you and the world will be better for it.

Find what eases your tendencies in difficulty.  If it's long walks, yoga, meditation, or anything that gets you in the flow, keep coming back to it. It will help you find little pockets of yourself that you may have lost along the way. Don't be disillusioned by the shadow side of others and yourself. It is there in all of us but eighty percent of us on any given day are attempting to share our light and that was the same percent in our classroom back in your time there. 

Be reminded often of the magnitude of your own power and use it for kindness and love. 

I know you will receive my letter of love for what it is for you because once, you believed in unicorns, Santa, the Easter Bunny, the kindness of strangers, and yourself and I believe in you now.

With more love than you can imagine,

Your Kindergarten Teacher.