The Stories We Bring

 "There are three sides to every story, yours, mine, and the truth". Robert Evans

We had our first blanket of snow recently which has disappeared already but in its wake, it left the little people in my life anticipating its return.  As we stepped out on the playground to snow falling softly and the flakes beginning to speckle the ground, there were five to seven-year-olds squealing with delight. The momentum of the squeals caused their own flurry of excitement in the air and the energy was contagious. A gradual white sheet formed while some students proclaimed, "I love snow!" and others chimed, "It's snowing!", to anyone near.  Snow was magical and celebrated in their exuberance. 

When I stepped outside with the snow flurries whirling about and covering my hatless head, I silently cursed the flakes and myself for not being prepared.  My mind went to the absence of snow tires on my car as I had not been able to get an appointment until later in the month.  Shaking out my hair and pulling up my hood, I thought of the people living rough who had just experienced twenty-two-degree weather a few short days ago and thought of what a shock it must be for the weather to change so drastically. The magic of snow was lost on me in that brief instance because of the stories I was bringing to this moment.

Both of these realities were two sides to the same story and then there was the truth of snow.  Snow is just frozen water. Snowflakes are just ice crystals that fall to the earth from the sky. There are no two ice crystals alike as their shapes and designs change as they fall from the clouds with fluctuating temperatures. No two snow crystals or flakes will have the same history of development either, due to the conditions changing for each and creating a new and original design or form, much like us.

Thinking about the stories we bring along with us that seem to shape the reality we see or the truths we believe in, becoming a teacher was at the forefront of my mind. With a student intern doing her teaching in my classroom now, I have been remembering my own experience more vividly.   I felt like I was so unprepared for the practicum component. Walking into an alternate universe was how I could describe stepping into the school culture.  There was a lot of feeling overwhelmed by the expectations of a busy classroom.  Most days I wasn't sure I could navigate my own fluctuations of emotions and behavior so was feeling quite intimidated by the idea of doing so for the twenty young bodies before me.  I remember one of the teachers I spent time with. She had young children of her own and was eager for help in the class. I remember her telling me how poorly it all goes at times even with years of experience. She was a kind and caring woman and even her critiques of me were done with such care and respect that I knew I would be harder on myself through this experience than she ever would.  Her story she brought to this mentoring experience was that I was doing my best, I was her equal even as a beginner, and that because we will always find ourselves in places as beginners, we should never forget what that looks and feels like.  I am thinking she has a similar mentor in her life.  I thought I would never become an effective teacher or do what she made look so effortless because of my story of lack in skill and knowledge.  She was overly generous with me in her perspective, and I  was beyond critical of myself.  The real story in this was that teaching is a gift affecting lives, helping others grow and realize their potential, so rewarding and the idea of managing or controlling twenty human beings successfully all day every day is an unnatural and unattainable expectation or aspiration but thirty years later I am still teaching and continuing to learn and recognize the stories I am bringing to each interaction I encounter. It is less about managing and more about creating a space for all the stories the students bring to their individual experience which can often look like chaos and it is loud and messy more times than not, as all growth and real learning are.  

The dear friend I had the pleasure of sitting down with for tea, who sees me as someone who holds space without judgment even though she has also witnessed all of my shadows and the scope of my humanity, is a gift.  Because she has done and is committed to doing the work to recognize her own shadows and the stories she brings. She believes in the evolution and growth of herself and therefore is able to see it in me.  There also remains the person who carries the story, because of experiencing a conflict with me, who sees me only from the shadows when indeed the truth is I am both my friend and my adversaries' story. I am all of it and own it as all the colors of me.  It took me a long time to embrace my shadows and my light that exist in one physical form. Many of us need to be reminded that we are all of these things and what we abhor or become resistant to in others at times. 

I have mentored many teachers over the years and I am sure I thought I knew the truth of their experience until I realized I didn't and that none of us truly do.  Whether it is in a career, politics, religion, language, gender, or any of the other divisive places we find ourselves in, it is good to remember that we don't ever check ourselves or our stories at the door. We don't leave our personal lives at home, and maybe we don't have to.  Maybe we need to bring all of ourselves with our stories of what is truth, with the awareness of our unhealed places, our triggers, shadows, and experiences so we can remember all the parts of who we are and like my sweet friend doing the work, we can recognize ourselves in some aspect of our coworker, the dysregulated child in meltdown mode or the student intern figuring out the complexities of doing a job that feels humanly impossible right now, and understand with humility the stories we are bringing, and where the divide is happening. We can turn our attention inward and ask what is creating the strong feeling or why am I acting with resistance here? 

 Like the more than a septillion snowflakes that fall across Canada every winter, we bring our own unique design from the conditions that have created and shaped us, the stories, and maybe, only relative truths.  Because the truth is, well the truth is.. just the quality or state of being true to facts and then of course to our own realities with the discretion that it is of our own design and maybe we will be able to see the truth of someone else's experience, bringing peace to ourselves and another and we will remember there are always three sides to every story.

"Bird by Bird"

 "Driving a car at night, you can only see as far as your headlights  but you can make the whole trip that way." E.L. Doctorow

Thinking back to our family's drive home from Florida a few years ago. We had made it without incident most of the way and then we hit a snowstorm.  The worst of the storm was the last hour to our home and the visibility was so poor we were unsure if we should continue.   After gassing up, we headed back on the highway and to our good fortune, we landed behind a snow plow. He was going thirty kilometers an hour and blocking all sight of what was ahead on the road, but with a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel my husband, Mark decided to continue to follow. The distance between us and the plow was a car's length, illuminated by the lights on the vehicle. In this space, crawling along, we made the increments of the final leg of our journey home. Not knowing what was ahead but trusting in what we could see in the small illuminated space in front of us. 

The world population has rolled over to eight billion. Mother Earth is also driving with her headlights on and is only seeing this small space in the here and now and she is figuring out how to navigate it. She too is doing what only makes sense in this light from that high beam. She is sitting with all of us under the weight of excess and still being that presence of calm. Still providing us with this moment of peace in the view she provides.  

I had the pleasure of hearing the author Anne Lamott share the origin of the title of her book, Bird by Bird,  lessons on writing and life.  She talked about her ten-year-old brother who had been struggling to write a report on birds which he had known about for three months and it was now due tomorrow. He was seated at the kitchen table, close to tears, and surrounded by unopened books on birds, paper, and notebooks,  and his father came and sat down,  put his arm around him, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird". 

These stories, memories, and facts landed in my lap this week and I realized that, without the words or the analogy, we too have been helping our daughter, Maya, with her transition to life in much the same way. We have savagely cajoled every last ounce of connection and purpose we could out of what was right here in front of us, the present circumstance with the intention to create a meaningful life and future for our autistic daughter.  We began with minuscule steps.  Post an ad, interview a person, inquire about a job placement, follow up, and follow through. Stumble across opportunities and programs, break down days, and hours. If not that then this. If this then maybe them. If them then also her.  Search, inquire, say no to that, try another, try again.  It has always really been bird by bird for Maya and most of us really. There was never a map or even a social structure for a person with a disability in our community or any other we know of.  It was looking at what was in front of us. What are the people who care doing? What map have others followed or created? Where did they arrive? Can we expect more,  or better? Can we try for something else? Is there something that someone else hasn't thought of? None of us can question, push or advocate all over ourselves all the time, or know what the future will look like but we can break it apart bird by bird, just like we do thought by thought in a meditation or moment of stillness. 

I think we can all appreciate what a meaningful piece of wisdom Anne has offered here in her beautiful story of her brother.  We all understand that none of us know what lies ahead by design and that we can only try our best with our own illuminated space before us and not chase the idea of the future. With our own range of sight, we decide to pick up the paintbrush instead of wondering if we will paint like Picasso. We put our fingers on the strings of a guitar before planning to perform a concert one day, pick up a pencil before we can write that memoir, and strap on the skis, before seeing the win of our first race. We play just this note, write only the line that matters, or paint the first stroke on the canvas. We are designing only the moment we can see and letting go of what comes next but knowing it leads somewhere.

"Bird by bird" in this way for Maya now looks like working in a school preparing and delivering a breakfast program, helping sort items for a hot lunch program, assisted by my husband or me on one day and a wonderful young woman on two others. It looks like attending a cooking class supported by another amazing young woman while socializing with others whose experiences are similar. It is a youth group with old high school friends and outings for independence. Its singing group, yoga class and drama group, L'arche Fredericton gatherings, and therapeutic riding. It's extra time to slow down or sleep in or cancel when it's not going to work today. It's slowly and intentionally looking like a life she can thrive in with continued areas for growth, improvement, supports, and change. It is becoming Maya's life as she adds color by color, "bird by bird".  Of course, we are always drawn back into the questions about the future. Sometimes the task can seem so daunting or overwhelming that we land in that state of freeze like Anne's brother.  We are led away from the headlights and into the darker unknown spaces where we may want to know how it will turn out if we will meet the deadline, and what the current situation will look like next year or in five years.  We want to know if the systems or circumstances will improve. Wondering too if we will find the time or the resources as we project into the future and to where our attention is stranded in the present.  We may all find ourselves here in search of insight, long-term solutions, and reassurances about the future at times. But we can come back to our own remaining voice of reason or the comforting words of another, " It's alright, we are taking this situation,  circumstance by circumstance, love by love, or step by step, and for most of us we will live an entire life, a beautiful life in this very way, "bird by bird".

How It Feels

 "It doesn't matter how it looks. It only matters how it feels." Lauren Sapala

I saw my first full moon/lunar eclipse this week.  With a front-row seat, early Tuesday morning, I felt a child-like giddiness as I caught just the toenail of this full moon illuminated before it all went to shade. It wasn't how the dark of the moon with the eclipse looked. It was how it felt to witness the timing of this when it only occurs once a year at a particular moment. The earth, moon, and sun aligning so closely to create this shadow show.

This wasn't my only first this week. Participating in an ongoing writing workshop, we were asked to follow a new poem form, the Panoume.   I had never done this before and she guided us to think of something that makes us smile for the first line, our thought or reaction to it in the second, what happened because of it, and a line to wrap up the four-line stanza.  The rest of the poem is numbered and many of the first four lines repeat throughout and new ones are added to make this spoken word poem.  I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed this poetry form. A lot of my writing is not done from a feeling of bliss even though it feels good to write in any form and release it, I do spend time rereading and thinking about how it looks as a finished piece before I put it in this space.  Trying something new and leaving it as it was the first time I did it felt like flow.

Thinking of how firsts feel, it occurred to me that most come about from intentionality,  unlike the firsts that multiply in earlier periods of our lives or the incidental ones like the eclipse. There is a feeling to firsts that make us feel alive and stir our creativity. To others, they may look like ordinary experiences. To us, they can feel exhilarating and life-giving.

This summer I wanted to remember turning fifty-three with a photo. Of course, I was concerned with how this would look since getting my picture taken feels vulnerable to me somehow. So I asked my daughter to take a few and scrutinized each that she showed me until we settled on one for keeping and I used it for my social media platforms.  During the moments trying for a photo, my dog Shanti made an appearance and proceeded to lick my entire face.  My daughter continued to take pictures. When I look at this photo now, it is the one that feels good and feels right.  It feels like bliss, easy and mask-free.

 We have been so conditioned with messages that tell us that it only matters how it looks and not how it feels that we carry this into our lives like the very heavy weight it can be at times.  We begin to believe that what we show the world is more important than what our own experiences of the world really feel like for us. Showing strength when we feel weak stops others from being able to support us. Saying yes when we feel a hard no can cross boundaries and force us to use the energy we need to feel rested and whole.  

Right now I am writing to you in real-time.  I haven't critiqued,  edited, or changed anything. In fact, I had a completely different piece of writing ready to share but this jumble of thoughts and sharing my Panoume was what felt right.   I hope you are inspired to feel into the moments of your own life regardless of what they look like because as emphatically as I can, I want to be your reminder as was Lauren for me, it ONLY matters how it feels.   The poem below comes from a space of bliss and I loved every minute of the moments it describes and the moments of making it a poem. 

Seeing Shanti sprawled out on the bottom of my bed when waking.

As though he owns the space of rest for himself

I feel comforted by his ease as we lock eyes and he extends his body towards me

So much love where the sleeping dog lies

As though he owns the space of rest for himself

His eyes plead for that first-morning belly rub

So much love where the sleeping dog lies

When he hears the footsteps coming to retrieve him for his walk

His eyes plead for that first-morning belly rub

I lean into his sweet gaze and he leans into my touch

When he hears the footsteps coming to retrieve him for his walk

We cuddle here hoping not to be noticed for a few short moments of rest longer

I lean into his sweet gaze and he leans into my touch

I feel comforted by his ease as we lock eyes and he extends his body towards me

We cuddle here hoping to not be noticed for a few short moments of rest longer

Seeing my dog Shanti sprawled out on the bottom of my bed when waking. 

Impermanence

"Sunsets and Sunrises will paint stories across the sky. Day and Night will flip the switch again and again. The Sun and Moon will change places, repeating this sequence over and over, until it is over." Ameera Essabar

 November usually brings with it darker days, winds, and rains. Conditions  less favorable for most living things that have been flourishing in the past months. Any that remain hanging on take a tremendous hit with the first frost. It is always still a surprise when we see the mums on the step instantly brown or the last perennial wither away and become dormant.   Death in nature can be so predictable, so surprising, such a dichotomy. Natural and absurd, easeful and difficult. I think watching the process of the earth's vibrant beauty be released, we fear our own light and vibrancy will become dimmed in the darkness that ensues. The weather recently has been extraordinary and rare for the area where I live. Each day seems borrowed.  I find myself checking on the roses that remain on the bush in my garden in the morning to see if they have made it another night.  Knowing that their impermanence is real makes their extended life such a gift.    

My phone notification was waiting for me but I put it off until morning, having a gut feeling that it may not be good news.  I had inquired with my colleague and friend about another teacher's health and hoped she would have heard something different. Instead, she confirmed that her prognosis was not good.  By morning, her words were that she had passed away. I only knew of this sweet teacher, partner, mother, and friend but shared a kinship from afar as she was a stepmom to an autistic adult daughter.   Many of my Facebook friends worked with her and there wasn't one who didn't also have a close connection with her. The heavy grief they were all feeling was palpable and with all their words of loss and grief shared on social media, I could feel the darkness of November creep in. But when I made my way into my day it manifested in a different way and the words and feelings below flowed. 

" Today felt different somehow. My feet attached to the floor beneath as though it were the first time they did so.  I looked around my space and thought, I get to be here today.  With each task or movement, I had done a million times before, I felt these words, this feeling, this thought.  It felt like putting on that well-worn cardigan and greeting it as a best friend.   I get to feel the comfort and loss of being alive today. I get to witness the uncertainties with curiosity and without burdening myself with control. Today I get to see, hear and feel my loved ones, brush shoulders with strangers, hear the hum of the washing machine, the clank of the dryer, and my dog scratching at the door.  I get to feel frustrated and take for granted that there will be another moment when it will be obsolete.   I get to see my reflection and witness my physical presence in the mirror staring back at me. I get to make a plethora of choices about my present reality. Whatever feels nourishing, I get to experience the sensations from all of my senses that only come with having a physical form. "I get", rolls easily off my tongue today and leaves my heart bursting in my chest. I get to feel the absurdity of joy existing simultaneously with the loss of another. Today I honor my aliveness. I want to remember this feeling, bottle these fleeting moments of gratitude.  I want it to seep into my conscience and velcro to my brain that I have been given the gift of another day.  I want to promise or pledge that I will not forget this when I am deep in worry or searching for the light when it feels dark. But I know the emptiness of this promise when the veil or cloak of humanness takes its place comfortably over my form again in its own time. Probably in the wake and urgency of ordinary living. But for today or maybe only for this brief moment, my aliveness is honored with the gift of understanding that "I get to" and I will be walking through my day carrying a heavy heart for those who do not have this same privilege  and a lightness of spirit for the honoring of being able to wrap my arms around life for yet another day with a fragile and tender awareness."

This moment had me wishing we could carry the impermanence of life with us like a recipe for living. Maybe invest ourselves in the reality, as we do the needs of a newborn. Instead of putting down this awareness and walking away from its proven reality over and over again.  If we could find ourselves visiting its possibility, our own mortality, and the impermanence of all we love, I wonder if it might change the way we live even just for this moment.