There is a void in my heart. No, not a void but a hollow—a space as real as the silence in music or the “negative space” in visual art—and for most of my life that hollow has boomed like a drum every time anything touched my heart.
I thought the cacophony meant my heart was broken, that I was broken and that it was my fault, and I was ashamed.
Needless to say, these thoughts did not contribute much joy to my life. On the contrary, the noise and what I thought about the noise made me miserable. I was responsible for that misery (we have great power to choose how we think), but it has been the work of a lifetime turning those thoughts around, and I am grateful for all who have helped guide me in that work.
The holidays have typically been difficult for me because so much of what they’re really about touches my heart—the “drum” is always muttering (or shouting) as people and stories and pictures and moments and memories and wishes tap or stroke or bang on my heart—and I never learned to hear that drum’s voice as music.
Never until recently…
As I’ve come to appreciate, even love, who and how I am, come to appreciate and love myself as I am right now, I’ve come to hear the sounds made by that rarely-silent drum as the music it is. And once I could hear the music, I found the courage (only yesterday!) to look at the hollow in my heart that makes the music. and what I see surprised me.
That hollow in my heart shines inside, polished by a million worthy wishes and dreams, wetted by not a few tears. All unknowing, I’ve prepared a place for all I long for, and it is beautiful! It’s beautiful now (though empty)—although it’s empty, it is not emptiness. It is the throat of the voice of the drum of my worthy desires. It is the temple wherein I worship the breath of the voice of the drum of my longing—love, the ultimate contradiction: the intangible tangible.
That hollow is a sacred and holy space, and while it’s meant to be filled, it is no less sacred or holy because it isn’t. It is sacred and holy as it is, and not just in potentia. Without it, there would be no musical drumbeat. Without it, there would be no room for longing. It is necessary and it is beautiful and it is good.
Mele Kalikimaka and much aloha this holiday season and always.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Sunday, December 21, 2014
To Thine Own Self Be True
Last week Maui OnStage closed Elf the Musical. In one of the central musical numbers, “SparkleJollyTwinkleJingeley,” Buddy the Elf sings, “To thine own elf be true,” an allusion to the advice Polonius gives to his son Laertes in Hamlet, Act I, Scene 3:
I count this excellent advice, but I’ve struggled to live it in my own life. I’ve made a serious and grounded effort in recent months, and learned that (right now) I’m really bad at it.
To be fair, I’m bad at it because I’ve never really done it before, and (as with any skill) it takes practice to be true to yourself. It’s so much easier to do and be what others—especially those you respect and love—want than it is to do and be who you are, particularly when you fear the "real you” won’t be liked as well as the easygoing, uncomplaining, compliant “you” you’ve always been.
For someone like me—with decades of practice discounting his own worth and for all those years utterly dependent on the esteem of others—it is terrifying to assert yourself when it might not be what others want and you really like being liked!
It’s easier to keep up the pretense…
Easier, but dishonest. That’s what came to me this morning (although I have been trying to be true to myself in various ways for more than a year).
Polonius is saying that one must be true to oneself in order to be dependably “true” to (honest with) others. By always sacrificing my own desires in order to please others, I’ve lied to them about who I really was. I’ve deceived them—if they like me, they don’t like the real me, but rather the Stepford “me” I created for them to like.
I’m trying to assert myself more—to be authentically who I am, to do what I actually want to do and to not do what I don’t want to do—but I’ve been clumsy about it. It’s a new thing to me, of course I’ve been clumsy, and I’ve sometimes been strident rather than gracious. Doubtless I’ve hurt some feelings (although I never meant to), and I’ve likely given people the wrong impression as to why I’m suddenly doing things I previously didn’t and refusing things I previously accepted. All that is my responsibility…“clumsy” can explain it but not excuse it. If you are among those I’ve hurt, all unwitting, I apologize. And I’ll try to be clearer and classier in the future.
That’s not to say I’m going to go back to being the acquiescent, compliant guy you may have met a few years ago. I’ll find a easygoing, classy and considerate way to assert myself, but I’ll continue to assert myself. What I want and what I care about matter, and acting as though they don’t (or worse, hiding what I want and care about) does me a disservice while deceiving those around me.
The world doesn’t need anyone who becomes whatever others want—who lives down to others’ wishes—the world needs each of us to be “true,” even if “true” sometimes also means “contrary.” Conformity lends itself to mediocrity—it is in the blending of diverse natures that our world is made great.
“This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day,The message is the same in either case—live authentically no matter what others think, and in both word and deed tell the truth about who you are.
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”
I count this excellent advice, but I’ve struggled to live it in my own life. I’ve made a serious and grounded effort in recent months, and learned that (right now) I’m really bad at it.
To be fair, I’m bad at it because I’ve never really done it before, and (as with any skill) it takes practice to be true to yourself. It’s so much easier to do and be what others—especially those you respect and love—want than it is to do and be who you are, particularly when you fear the "real you” won’t be liked as well as the easygoing, uncomplaining, compliant “you” you’ve always been.
For someone like me—with decades of practice discounting his own worth and for all those years utterly dependent on the esteem of others—it is terrifying to assert yourself when it might not be what others want and you really like being liked!
It’s easier to keep up the pretense…
Easier, but dishonest. That’s what came to me this morning (although I have been trying to be true to myself in various ways for more than a year).
Polonius is saying that one must be true to oneself in order to be dependably “true” to (honest with) others. By always sacrificing my own desires in order to please others, I’ve lied to them about who I really was. I’ve deceived them—if they like me, they don’t like the real me, but rather the Stepford “me” I created for them to like.
I’m trying to assert myself more—to be authentically who I am, to do what I actually want to do and to not do what I don’t want to do—but I’ve been clumsy about it. It’s a new thing to me, of course I’ve been clumsy, and I’ve sometimes been strident rather than gracious. Doubtless I’ve hurt some feelings (although I never meant to), and I’ve likely given people the wrong impression as to why I’m suddenly doing things I previously didn’t and refusing things I previously accepted. All that is my responsibility…“clumsy” can explain it but not excuse it. If you are among those I’ve hurt, all unwitting, I apologize. And I’ll try to be clearer and classier in the future.
That’s not to say I’m going to go back to being the acquiescent, compliant guy you may have met a few years ago. I’ll find a easygoing, classy and considerate way to assert myself, but I’ll continue to assert myself. What I want and what I care about matter, and acting as though they don’t (or worse, hiding what I want and care about) does me a disservice while deceiving those around me.
The world doesn’t need anyone who becomes whatever others want—who lives down to others’ wishes—the world needs each of us to be “true,” even if “true” sometimes also means “contrary.” Conformity lends itself to mediocrity—it is in the blending of diverse natures that our world is made great.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Happy Holidays
Happy Holidays (in my faith tradition, that would be “Merry Christmas!”)
Long-time readers may realize that the holidays often lead me to reflect on (and whine about) my circumstances, especially my relational circumstances. This year is, I think, different—I’ll still reflect on circumstances, but it’s like I’ve put on glasses in the proper prescription: my focus is clearer and I’m predisposed to see abundance rather than lack.
I’ve always allowed society to tell me if I’m “okay”—for years because (like so many others) I believed “society” knew best, and even after I wised up because I longed to belong—and around the holidays the clear cultural definition of “okay” has a lot to do with familial and romantic relationships.
Don’t mistake me—my parents and siblings (and grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins) are the absolute best, and their love is the fire that warms me when I'm cold—but that isn’t the kind of family relationship portrayed (in media and story) as “acceptable” for a grown man, and since I don’t have a spouse and children, the holidays (for me) highlighted that “lack.” I felt like a failure because I wasn’t part of that kind of family. And the romantic element—the portrayal of the holiday season as a time for romance (mistletoe, anyone?)—coupled with my profound lifelong longing for romance, and during the holidays I felt like an absolute failure.
Eventually, my habit of reflection helped me look past what society was telling me, but I still longed for (and still long for) romance and spouse and children, and that longing (together with a lingering sense of my own inadequacies) bent my attention always toward what I lacked. As a result I neglected to appreciate all I had. Despite all I had (have!) in my life, I was melancholy whenever society celebrated those things I long for: romance, children, family.
Then, in July of 2012, I moved to Maui. This move has catalyzed big changes in me, changes that continue and multiply, good and positive changes, and among those changes is a change in how I experience the holidays. It didn’t happen overnight, but during this, my third Christmas since moving, I can clearly feel the difference.
I have not stopped longing for romance, children, and family. Those longings are innate, not conditioned by society—society twisted my reaction to those longings, but the longings themselves are neither “good” nor “bad.” I have stopped making those longings (and the lack they imply) the centerpiece of my holiday table. I have stopped judging myself by society’s standards. I have begun to embrace the incredible wealth I enjoy (in personal and spiritual and relational senses) and made that the centerpiece of my holiday table.
As I become more and more aware and appreciative of the abundance in my life, even those longings change character. No more do I feel like an empty vessel, needing to be filled with romance and companionship and children and family—instead I feel like an overflowing vessel and long for those with whom to share the goodness that flows through me. The very nature of my longing has changed, from a hunger to receive to a passion to give.
And that feels good. It feels good to face this season with perhaps a dash of melancholy, though different than what I have felt before, but also with a deep wellspring of gratitude and a powerful sense of fullness, rather than emptiness.
Happy Holidays!
Long-time readers may realize that the holidays often lead me to reflect on (and whine about) my circumstances, especially my relational circumstances. This year is, I think, different—I’ll still reflect on circumstances, but it’s like I’ve put on glasses in the proper prescription: my focus is clearer and I’m predisposed to see abundance rather than lack.
I’ve always allowed society to tell me if I’m “okay”—for years because (like so many others) I believed “society” knew best, and even after I wised up because I longed to belong—and around the holidays the clear cultural definition of “okay” has a lot to do with familial and romantic relationships.
Don’t mistake me—my parents and siblings (and grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins) are the absolute best, and their love is the fire that warms me when I'm cold—but that isn’t the kind of family relationship portrayed (in media and story) as “acceptable” for a grown man, and since I don’t have a spouse and children, the holidays (for me) highlighted that “lack.” I felt like a failure because I wasn’t part of that kind of family. And the romantic element—the portrayal of the holiday season as a time for romance (mistletoe, anyone?)—coupled with my profound lifelong longing for romance, and during the holidays I felt like an absolute failure.
Eventually, my habit of reflection helped me look past what society was telling me, but I still longed for (and still long for) romance and spouse and children, and that longing (together with a lingering sense of my own inadequacies) bent my attention always toward what I lacked. As a result I neglected to appreciate all I had. Despite all I had (have!) in my life, I was melancholy whenever society celebrated those things I long for: romance, children, family.
Then, in July of 2012, I moved to Maui. This move has catalyzed big changes in me, changes that continue and multiply, good and positive changes, and among those changes is a change in how I experience the holidays. It didn’t happen overnight, but during this, my third Christmas since moving, I can clearly feel the difference.
I have not stopped longing for romance, children, and family. Those longings are innate, not conditioned by society—society twisted my reaction to those longings, but the longings themselves are neither “good” nor “bad.” I have stopped making those longings (and the lack they imply) the centerpiece of my holiday table. I have stopped judging myself by society’s standards. I have begun to embrace the incredible wealth I enjoy (in personal and spiritual and relational senses) and made that the centerpiece of my holiday table.
As I become more and more aware and appreciative of the abundance in my life, even those longings change character. No more do I feel like an empty vessel, needing to be filled with romance and companionship and children and family—instead I feel like an overflowing vessel and long for those with whom to share the goodness that flows through me. The very nature of my longing has changed, from a hunger to receive to a passion to give.
And that feels good. It feels good to face this season with perhaps a dash of melancholy, though different than what I have felt before, but also with a deep wellspring of gratitude and a powerful sense of fullness, rather than emptiness.
Happy Holidays!
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Hope Abandoned, Hope Denied, Hope Dashed, Hope...Resurrected
Maybe it’s just me...
Maybe I’m the only one in whom hope wages a constant war with discouragement, disappointment, and despair, winning some battles and losing others but never ever decisively enough to end the war. Maybe I’m the only one...
But probably not. While the balance of power is likely different in every individual case, I imagine each of us deals with this war waged on the battlefield of our hearts. And sometimes each of us is tempted to just surrender hope and let the unholy trio triumph.
I know I’m sometimes tempted...
Hope depends on morale and morale depends (to some degree) on confidence, and confidence is not among my entrenched habits of mind. In some settings, I am quite confident, but in others—especially some where my desire is great—I lack confidence. It can make “going for” what I desire challenging, and while I wait for the outcome, I seesaw between hope and despair, sometimes rapidly.
Hope has a slight edge, simply because I’m unable any longer to sustain despair for too long, but it’s never something certain, never something I can take for granted. It wasn’t that long ago that despair owned me, and I cannot forget that, but somehow I’ve made hope the consolation prize (I just realized this!), and that’s not a great thing. Hope should be the default setting, and it really isn’t the default for me.
I most often feel the concussive reverberations of this battle in the context of theatrical auditions. I love “doing” theatre, but I am not so confident of my ability or suitability that I believe I will win a desired role. The best I can do is hope, and I sometimes do that badly. Since moving to Maui, I feel very much like the “new kid”—add to that the intimidating quality and depth of the Maui talent pool, and hope seems a frail reed indeed.
And yet, though it be frail indeed, I grasp at that reed. Although I treat hope as a consolation prize rather than a default setting, still I welcome hope. Despite its insufficiency, hope is my hero, because “hope springs eternal.” Hope is a perennial flower, the cat that “came back the very next day,” the “bad penny” that always turns up. I get frustrated, I feel defeated, I give up, I surrender...and a few hours or days or months later, hope resurrects itself and I rise with it.
And I strive to make hope my default instead of my consolation. Circumstances can be discouraging and outcomes are beyond my control—I do what I can and do my best to hope for the best without feeling entitled (in the interest of full disclosure, I am not always altogether successful at this).
We’ve all heard (and most of us have given) the advice, “Don’t get your hopes up,” but while I’m sometimes tempted—by doubt, discouragement, disappointment, and despair—I resist. I believe that while it absolutely makes me vulnerable and opens me up to hurt, hope is nevertheless worth all the risk, worth even the hurt.
It’s even worth the hurt...
Maybe I’m the only one in whom hope wages a constant war with discouragement, disappointment, and despair, winning some battles and losing others but never ever decisively enough to end the war. Maybe I’m the only one...
But probably not. While the balance of power is likely different in every individual case, I imagine each of us deals with this war waged on the battlefield of our hearts. And sometimes each of us is tempted to just surrender hope and let the unholy trio triumph.
I know I’m sometimes tempted...
Hope depends on morale and morale depends (to some degree) on confidence, and confidence is not among my entrenched habits of mind. In some settings, I am quite confident, but in others—especially some where my desire is great—I lack confidence. It can make “going for” what I desire challenging, and while I wait for the outcome, I seesaw between hope and despair, sometimes rapidly.
Hope has a slight edge, simply because I’m unable any longer to sustain despair for too long, but it’s never something certain, never something I can take for granted. It wasn’t that long ago that despair owned me, and I cannot forget that, but somehow I’ve made hope the consolation prize (I just realized this!), and that’s not a great thing. Hope should be the default setting, and it really isn’t the default for me.
I most often feel the concussive reverberations of this battle in the context of theatrical auditions. I love “doing” theatre, but I am not so confident of my ability or suitability that I believe I will win a desired role. The best I can do is hope, and I sometimes do that badly. Since moving to Maui, I feel very much like the “new kid”—add to that the intimidating quality and depth of the Maui talent pool, and hope seems a frail reed indeed.
And yet, though it be frail indeed, I grasp at that reed. Although I treat hope as a consolation prize rather than a default setting, still I welcome hope. Despite its insufficiency, hope is my hero, because “hope springs eternal.” Hope is a perennial flower, the cat that “came back the very next day,” the “bad penny” that always turns up. I get frustrated, I feel defeated, I give up, I surrender...and a few hours or days or months later, hope resurrects itself and I rise with it.
And I strive to make hope my default instead of my consolation. Circumstances can be discouraging and outcomes are beyond my control—I do what I can and do my best to hope for the best without feeling entitled (in the interest of full disclosure, I am not always altogether successful at this).
We’ve all heard (and most of us have given) the advice, “Don’t get your hopes up,” but while I’m sometimes tempted—by doubt, discouragement, disappointment, and despair—I resist. I believe that while it absolutely makes me vulnerable and opens me up to hurt, hope is nevertheless worth all the risk, worth even the hurt.
It’s even worth the hurt...
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Long Term
Another election has passed, and—as is generally the case—the balance of power has shifted. Some are gloating at their “triumph,” while others are licking their wounds, both of which indicate just how far astray our political process has wandered. Most, conditioned by media hype, let fear dominate their vote and their response to “opposing” viewpoints, and some on either side are and have been calling their “opponents” sometimes vile names.
Our current metaphor—elections as battles, with winners and losers—is fundamentally flawed. Our politics is not good vs. evil (with the roles of “good” and “evil” cast according to our individual political positions), but rather of competing visions of what constitutes “good.” Liberals/progressives as a class are not stupid (and the sobriquet “Libtard,” based as it is on the term “retard,” is offensive to those to whom it was once applied), and conservatives as a class are not lackeys of moneyed interests (and “Rethuglican” is every bit as inappropriate). The vast majority on either side sincerely want what’s best for Americans; they just differ on what that means.
We seem, however, to have lost sight of that simple fact—that rank-and-file Democrats and Republicans are not caricatures but human beings, complex and many-faceted, but essentially well-intentioned—and instead see the phantasms that pundits in the media paint in our imaginations. And the motives of the media are uncomplicated—“Whatever sells.”
If viewers can be made to fear something—anything, really—they won’t change the channel, and if they don’t change the channel, advertisers will pay. But advertisers aren’t the only ones to pay...we pay, too, although not with money.
Rather, we pay as a society...fear divides us.
In my Facebook stream this morning, someone posted that democracy tends to function better when there’s a common enemy—absent that, we turn on ourselves—and lately, that seems to be the case. It’s easy to cast extremists as the enemy, and extremists (on both sides) have the loudest voices—in many minds, they represent the side as a whole. Instead of uniting against a common external enemy, we manufacture enemies within—the Democrats, or the Republicans—and we attack them as vociferously as we ever did Communism or Fascism.
The thing is, we are not enemies. We may have different views, different ideas, different values, but we are fellow citizens and both as individuals and as a society we depend upon one another. It’s good that we have different ideas and different values, but our power is greatest when we combine them, not when we stand our (ideological) ground. When winning—an election or a debate or a majority or whatever—becomes more important than governing, we all lose.
So here’s my prayer:
With great power comes great responsibility...We the People have exercised our power in electing representatives, and we are responsible for what they do. Let us be vigilant and hold our representatives to a high standard. Let us not concede the high ground, let us not settle for the “least common denominator” without resistance, let us not forget politics and politicians until their actions affect us or until the next election. Let us rather expect much of our representatives, let us demand much of our representatives, let us get much of our representatives.
Our current metaphor—elections as battles, with winners and losers—is fundamentally flawed. Our politics is not good vs. evil (with the roles of “good” and “evil” cast according to our individual political positions), but rather of competing visions of what constitutes “good.” Liberals/progressives as a class are not stupid (and the sobriquet “Libtard,” based as it is on the term “retard,” is offensive to those to whom it was once applied), and conservatives as a class are not lackeys of moneyed interests (and “Rethuglican” is every bit as inappropriate). The vast majority on either side sincerely want what’s best for Americans; they just differ on what that means.
We seem, however, to have lost sight of that simple fact—that rank-and-file Democrats and Republicans are not caricatures but human beings, complex and many-faceted, but essentially well-intentioned—and instead see the phantasms that pundits in the media paint in our imaginations. And the motives of the media are uncomplicated—“Whatever sells.”
If viewers can be made to fear something—anything, really—they won’t change the channel, and if they don’t change the channel, advertisers will pay. But advertisers aren’t the only ones to pay...we pay, too, although not with money.
Rather, we pay as a society...fear divides us.
In my Facebook stream this morning, someone posted that democracy tends to function better when there’s a common enemy—absent that, we turn on ourselves—and lately, that seems to be the case. It’s easy to cast extremists as the enemy, and extremists (on both sides) have the loudest voices—in many minds, they represent the side as a whole. Instead of uniting against a common external enemy, we manufacture enemies within—the Democrats, or the Republicans—and we attack them as vociferously as we ever did Communism or Fascism.
The thing is, we are not enemies. We may have different views, different ideas, different values, but we are fellow citizens and both as individuals and as a society we depend upon one another. It’s good that we have different ideas and different values, but our power is greatest when we combine them, not when we stand our (ideological) ground. When winning—an election or a debate or a majority or whatever—becomes more important than governing, we all lose.
So here’s my prayer:
May those elected honorably and faithfully serve the interests of all citizens (not just those who voted for them). May they abide by the principles that, when honored, lend honor and greatness to us all. May no one be considered expendable, may no one be counted an “acceptable loss,” above all may no one (liberal/progressive, conservative, or other) be counted an enemy. May they be willing to change their minds when evidence indicates that their views are mistaken. May they be humble servants of their constituents—all their constituents—and not rulers, even in their own minds. Insofar as they play favorites at all, may they favor the unfortunate rather than the fortune.
And may the rank and file on either side remember that we are all citizens together, and if we disagree, decide to disagree civilly (even if others do not—why would you let what others do determine what you do?). Let us all hold our representatives accountable for their actions, and if any mistreats, demeans, demonizes, or abuses others, deny them your continuing support.
With great power comes great responsibility...We the People have exercised our power in electing representatives, and we are responsible for what they do. Let us be vigilant and hold our representatives to a high standard. Let us not concede the high ground, let us not settle for the “least common denominator” without resistance, let us not forget politics and politicians until their actions affect us or until the next election. Let us rather expect much of our representatives, let us demand much of our representatives, let us get much of our representatives.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Why Teachers are Demoralized
I love my job. I love my job! I don’t love some of the things that others insist are part of the job, and I don’t love the climate under which I do my job, but (when I’m allowed to do my job) I love my job!
I don’t love grades and grading. I love giving students feedback—feedback fosters learning—but I actively hate setting a value on a given task and assessing a student’s performance on that task as a portion of that value. What about the rest of the story—the student’s growth, the student’s struggles, the student’s discoveries, the student’s development as a scholar and a human being—that grades on assignments never adequately capture?
And tests! I really hate tests. Left to my own devices, students in my classes would never take tests; I believe that other tasks—e.g. writing assignments, projects, and presentations—provide a much richer indication of a student’s learning than do tests.
Alas, I’m not left to my own devices.
Public school teachers everywhere are required to administer mandated tests which they did not write and which in fairness they should not include in their grade calculations. As a public school teacher, I, too, am required to administer certain tests. At my current school, where I see my students approximately 144 hours in a 180 day school year, mandated tests include:
There’s one reason teachers may be demoralized: being required to spend a significant fraction of precious instructional time administering tests of dubious merit when we know that our students learn little from taking them.
Believe it or not, the vast majority of teachers are passionately committed to their students’ learning. And while somewhere along the line most of us were indoctrinated with the idea that tests provided meaningful measures of student achievement (and if we write them to assess student mastery of the skills, concepts, and content we are teaching, they may), very few of us are anywhere near so committed to testing.
Testing is intimately connected to another factor that contributes to poor teacher morale: the deceptively named Educator Effectiveness System (or whatever it’s called outside of Hawai‘i—something like it exists in most states of the United States).
EES (or whatever) purports to measure the effectiveness of teachers, but both the presumptions that underlie it and the methodology itself institutionally demean teachers. The presumption is that teachers are terrible until they prove themselves otherwise, and the means by which teachers are required to prove themselves deserving of their (not exactly lucrative) salaries and (not exactly elevated) jobs are tedious, arbitrary, and insulting. Furthermore, those same high-stakes-for-schools, low-stakes-for-students tests (which only test how well students take them) are linked to educator effectiveness, meaning that teachers are held accountable not just for what they can control—e.g. classroom climate, delivery of concepts and content, quality of instruction—but also for what is beyond their control—e.g. home environment; extracurricular stresses; preexisting physiological, mental, and emotional factors.
The work itself—guiding student learning, fostering critical thinking and inquiry, igniting curiosity and a love of knowledge—is rewarding, but that considerable reward is significantly offset by the presumption that teachers are incompetent, the demand that we spend tens of hours of time performing and documenting work—work that does not necessarily or even usually contribute to our students’ growth as learners—in order to justify our existence, not to mention those not-so-lucrative salaries and the poor esteem in which we are generally held by the public whose children we serve...
I love teaching, and I know how fashion shifts in education as in anything else—if I don’t like the way things are done now, all I have to is wait a few years and I’ll have something different to dislike. I love teaching, but I tell any prospective teacher who will listen to do something else.
Teaching is both rewarding and heartbreaking, and the current educational climate, driven by a “reform” philosophy and the commercial interests of “Big Ed,” adds discouragement and tedium to the heartbreak. It’s hard, sometimes, to see the reward in light of what can feel like punishment.
And the coda is, morale is an important element of teacher effectiveness. Demoralized teachers have a harder time being effective than do teachers with high morale.
I don’t love grades and grading. I love giving students feedback—feedback fosters learning—but I actively hate setting a value on a given task and assessing a student’s performance on that task as a portion of that value. What about the rest of the story—the student’s growth, the student’s struggles, the student’s discoveries, the student’s development as a scholar and a human being—that grades on assignments never adequately capture?
And tests! I really hate tests. Left to my own devices, students in my classes would never take tests; I believe that other tasks—e.g. writing assignments, projects, and presentations—provide a much richer indication of a student’s learning than do tests.
Alas, I’m not left to my own devices.
Public school teachers everywhere are required to administer mandated tests which they did not write and which in fairness they should not include in their grade calculations. As a public school teacher, I, too, am required to administer certain tests. At my current school, where I see my students approximately 144 hours in a 180 day school year, mandated tests include:
- STAR Reading (twice/year at 2 hours per for 4 hours)
- Benchmark Assessments (BMAs: 8 times/year at 2 hours per for 16 hours)
- Smarter Balanced Assessment Consortium test (SBAC: once/year at 8 or more hours)
- EXPLORE Test (pre-ACT: once/year at 2 hours)
There’s one reason teachers may be demoralized: being required to spend a significant fraction of precious instructional time administering tests of dubious merit when we know that our students learn little from taking them.
Believe it or not, the vast majority of teachers are passionately committed to their students’ learning. And while somewhere along the line most of us were indoctrinated with the idea that tests provided meaningful measures of student achievement (and if we write them to assess student mastery of the skills, concepts, and content we are teaching, they may), very few of us are anywhere near so committed to testing.
Testing is intimately connected to another factor that contributes to poor teacher morale: the deceptively named Educator Effectiveness System (or whatever it’s called outside of Hawai‘i—something like it exists in most states of the United States).
EES (or whatever) purports to measure the effectiveness of teachers, but both the presumptions that underlie it and the methodology itself institutionally demean teachers. The presumption is that teachers are terrible until they prove themselves otherwise, and the means by which teachers are required to prove themselves deserving of their (not exactly lucrative) salaries and (not exactly elevated) jobs are tedious, arbitrary, and insulting. Furthermore, those same high-stakes-for-schools, low-stakes-for-students tests (which only test how well students take them) are linked to educator effectiveness, meaning that teachers are held accountable not just for what they can control—e.g. classroom climate, delivery of concepts and content, quality of instruction—but also for what is beyond their control—e.g. home environment; extracurricular stresses; preexisting physiological, mental, and emotional factors.
The work itself—guiding student learning, fostering critical thinking and inquiry, igniting curiosity and a love of knowledge—is rewarding, but that considerable reward is significantly offset by the presumption that teachers are incompetent, the demand that we spend tens of hours of time performing and documenting work—work that does not necessarily or even usually contribute to our students’ growth as learners—in order to justify our existence, not to mention those not-so-lucrative salaries and the poor esteem in which we are generally held by the public whose children we serve...
I love teaching, and I know how fashion shifts in education as in anything else—if I don’t like the way things are done now, all I have to is wait a few years and I’ll have something different to dislike. I love teaching, but I tell any prospective teacher who will listen to do something else.
Teaching is both rewarding and heartbreaking, and the current educational climate, driven by a “reform” philosophy and the commercial interests of “Big Ed,” adds discouragement and tedium to the heartbreak. It’s hard, sometimes, to see the reward in light of what can feel like punishment.
And the coda is, morale is an important element of teacher effectiveness. Demoralized teachers have a harder time being effective than do teachers with high morale.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Passion vs. Reason
If you’re anything like me, you sometimes experience tension between who you are and what you want. Sometimes your highest nature—your passion—dares you to do something fraught with risk and potentially disastrous, while your reason cautions you that the path to a desired outcome is tried and true. And, again if you’re anything like me, reason often wins the debate.
I’m not suggesting that reason is the enemy. On the contrary, reason is a necessary part of our nature, and there are circumstances when reason should triumph—particularly when the stakes are truly high, reason’s perspective is vital—but I’ve discovered that in me, “reason” is often a disguise for fear or desire. Reason dresses up my fears and wants, giving them (seeming) legitimacy.
In the last month or so, I’ve begun to “discover” a part of my voice and vocal range I’ve longed for, because if I can grow in this direction it will open up more possibilities, and I decided that for my next audition, one of my songs would be in that range. It was a risky choice because that part of my voice isn’t quite ready for prime time, but I was determined, and vocally I was close to what I felt would show off this broader potential. I decided to risk it.
Yesterday was audition day. I woke up second guessing my determination. I had another song on deck that I knew I could do well and I wanted—oh, how I wanted!—to ditch the song I’d been preparing all month and go with one that was safe and might get me a role I wanted. It would have been so easy to go that route!
I didn’t. I stayed the course, although I sweated and fretted and, when it came time to sing that song, I tensed up and lost some of what I’d had all month. And the outcome was that I was called back for roles I’d probably have been called back for if I’d played it safe. I don’t think the risk gained me anything. It didn’t really expand my opportunities. I could have played it safe, avoided all that stress, and it wouldn’t have cost me a thing.
Only, that’s not the point.
I’m glad I did what I did—glad I took the chance even though it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, even though it made no difference in the outcome, even though it could have reduced my opportunities—because in taking that chance I pushed back against both fear and petty want and reached for what I really wanted. I didn’t let fear and desire dress themselves up as “reason” and ground my lofty ambitions—I went for it, even if my voice trembled.
Too often, we adults lose what we all had as children: the unselfconscious ability to try anything just because we can. In learning to think things through and anticipate outcomes, we bury that spark of spontaneity and daring for fear of failure. We become perhaps too pragmatic and practical—we “play small” and stay within the bounds of what we know, rather than pushing into the frontiers of what might yet be.
For just a minute yesterday, even though I was terrified and my voice—my whole being—trembled, I dared…and I didn’t die.
I think I’ll dare again.
I’m not suggesting that reason is the enemy. On the contrary, reason is a necessary part of our nature, and there are circumstances when reason should triumph—particularly when the stakes are truly high, reason’s perspective is vital—but I’ve discovered that in me, “reason” is often a disguise for fear or desire. Reason dresses up my fears and wants, giving them (seeming) legitimacy.
For example:
Although I love theatre and performance (in musicals and non-musicals), I find vocal auditions quite daunting under the best of circumstances. I lack confidence in my voice, even though it’s served me pretty well over the years, because (even though I know better) I tend to compare myself with other singers, many of whom have years more training and experience than I. Because when I audition I want a role, I typically play it safe vocally for the sake of my desire, even if my “higher self” wants to do something different that might open up new possibilities.In the last month or so, I’ve begun to “discover” a part of my voice and vocal range I’ve longed for, because if I can grow in this direction it will open up more possibilities, and I decided that for my next audition, one of my songs would be in that range. It was a risky choice because that part of my voice isn’t quite ready for prime time, but I was determined, and vocally I was close to what I felt would show off this broader potential. I decided to risk it.
Yesterday was audition day. I woke up second guessing my determination. I had another song on deck that I knew I could do well and I wanted—oh, how I wanted!—to ditch the song I’d been preparing all month and go with one that was safe and might get me a role I wanted. It would have been so easy to go that route!
I didn’t. I stayed the course, although I sweated and fretted and, when it came time to sing that song, I tensed up and lost some of what I’d had all month. And the outcome was that I was called back for roles I’d probably have been called back for if I’d played it safe. I don’t think the risk gained me anything. It didn’t really expand my opportunities. I could have played it safe, avoided all that stress, and it wouldn’t have cost me a thing.
Only, that’s not the point.
I’m glad I did what I did—glad I took the chance even though it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, even though it made no difference in the outcome, even though it could have reduced my opportunities—because in taking that chance I pushed back against both fear and petty want and reached for what I really wanted. I didn’t let fear and desire dress themselves up as “reason” and ground my lofty ambitions—I went for it, even if my voice trembled.
Too often, we adults lose what we all had as children: the unselfconscious ability to try anything just because we can. In learning to think things through and anticipate outcomes, we bury that spark of spontaneity and daring for fear of failure. We become perhaps too pragmatic and practical—we “play small” and stay within the bounds of what we know, rather than pushing into the frontiers of what might yet be.
For just a minute yesterday, even though I was terrified and my voice—my whole being—trembled, I dared…and I didn’t die.
I think I’ll dare again.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Liberty Call
When I was in the U.S. Navy, I loved “liberty.” Leave was awesome, but it was a fixed amount and when you used it up it was gone, but liberty was a renewable resource.
For those who don’t know, “liberty” was time off—duty free time—and was generally granted when:
Those who have never served in the military may not appreciate the significance of liberty (I think other branches may have called it “on a pass”)—you are accustomed to having a work schedule, and your employer has no claim on you outside that schedule, certainly no authority to control your movements when not working—but for service members, the military absolutely has the right to control your movements. Even when off duty, I had no inherent right to leave my ship unless I’d been granted liberty by Command.
Perhaps you can see, then, why I loved liberty call.
Liberty call meant that I had no duties whatsoever until liberty ended. I could go out and get drunk (I often did—this was before I got sober and long before I got happy), I could stay up all night, I could shop or gorge or do any legal thing (legal according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, admittedly a higher standard than civil law). It was freedom, for a night or a weekend, in San Diego or Singapore or Perth or Subic Bay, P.I.
You might be wondering why I’m dredging up all this admttedly-ancient history, and who would blame you? Five paragraphs and I still haven’t got to the point! Bear with me—it’s all relevant.
A couple of days ago, I read a post that made me think of…“elements”…I would like to be part of my life, but aren’t. Not so long ago, thinking about what I crave but lack would evoke feelings of bitterness and resentment and grief, but my practice has helped me grow beyond those reactions, and my reaction on this most recent occasion was very much like what I used to feel at liberty call. I realized that if those elements were part of my life, they would impose duties, as well, and while I would joyfully accept those duties (I would love to perform those duties in that service), I could also rejoice in not having them right now.
It was…“liberating”…to feel that way—to know that because those elements are not part of my life right now, I have greater “freedom” than I would if they were—even though I would trade that liberty for the sake of those elements without a qualm.
It’s another manifestation of “It’s all good,” and I’m happy to discover how far I’ve come in about a year.
I’m happy, full stop.
I’m happy!
For those who don’t know, “liberty” was time off—duty free time—and was generally granted when:
- Your unit was in a place that accommodated off-duty activities (whether in port or on base)
- Your daily work was done
- You were not assigned “watch” or other supervisory duties during the liberty period
Those who have never served in the military may not appreciate the significance of liberty (I think other branches may have called it “on a pass”)—you are accustomed to having a work schedule, and your employer has no claim on you outside that schedule, certainly no authority to control your movements when not working—but for service members, the military absolutely has the right to control your movements. Even when off duty, I had no inherent right to leave my ship unless I’d been granted liberty by Command.
Perhaps you can see, then, why I loved liberty call.
Liberty call meant that I had no duties whatsoever until liberty ended. I could go out and get drunk (I often did—this was before I got sober and long before I got happy), I could stay up all night, I could shop or gorge or do any legal thing (legal according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, admittedly a higher standard than civil law). It was freedom, for a night or a weekend, in San Diego or Singapore or Perth or Subic Bay, P.I.
You might be wondering why I’m dredging up all this admttedly-ancient history, and who would blame you? Five paragraphs and I still haven’t got to the point! Bear with me—it’s all relevant.
A couple of days ago, I read a post that made me think of…“elements”…I would like to be part of my life, but aren’t. Not so long ago, thinking about what I crave but lack would evoke feelings of bitterness and resentment and grief, but my practice has helped me grow beyond those reactions, and my reaction on this most recent occasion was very much like what I used to feel at liberty call. I realized that if those elements were part of my life, they would impose duties, as well, and while I would joyfully accept those duties (I would love to perform those duties in that service), I could also rejoice in not having them right now.
It was…“liberating”…to feel that way—to know that because those elements are not part of my life right now, I have greater “freedom” than I would if they were—even though I would trade that liberty for the sake of those elements without a qualm.
It’s another manifestation of “It’s all good,” and I’m happy to discover how far I’ve come in about a year.
I’m happy, full stop.
I’m happy!
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Sovereign Souls
I see a number of internet memes that, while well-intentioned, just rub me the wrong way. The underlying sentiment is often a sympathetic one, but the phrasing has an unfortunate tendency to objectify people by talking about them solely in terms of what they do for (or to) others. A case in point:
Each of us is a sovereign soul, charting a course by design or intuition or accident—or some combination thereof—to our own heart’s-home. Each of us (including the ones who reject, abandon, hurt, or hate us) has myriad intentions and purposes, hopes and desires apart from the rest of us.
As each sovereign soul pursues its own self-determined “destiny,” it encounters others and acts according to those unique intentions, purposes, hopes, and desires. Sometimes one sovereign soul’s course is compatible with another’s; other times, they conflict. Whatever happens, each sovereign soul carries gifts for those they encounter in the form of lessons.
Lessons are not always easy. Sometimes they’re painful and usually they’re hard and often they’re unwelcome, but they can be precious gifts. That’s not to say that everything anyone does (no matter how awful) is justified—cruelty in its many forms cannot be excused just because it may teach a lesson—rather, it’s to say that sometimes, maybe even often, our suffering can be in some way redeemed if we find the lesson.
The point, though, is that people never come into our lives just for us. They are sovereign souls, just as we are, and probably just as lost as we are ourselves. We stumble into one another and sometimes all we can take away from a painful encounter—the only thing that makes the pain tolerable—is the lesson.
“Some people come into your life just to teach you how to let go.”There’s significant good in this meme—it encourages those hurting from rejection or loss to find some good in their circumstances—but at the same time it reduces “Some people” to mere objects, defined solely by the affect they have on “you.”
Each of us is a sovereign soul, charting a course by design or intuition or accident—or some combination thereof—to our own heart’s-home. Each of us (including the ones who reject, abandon, hurt, or hate us) has myriad intentions and purposes, hopes and desires apart from the rest of us.
As each sovereign soul pursues its own self-determined “destiny,” it encounters others and acts according to those unique intentions, purposes, hopes, and desires. Sometimes one sovereign soul’s course is compatible with another’s; other times, they conflict. Whatever happens, each sovereign soul carries gifts for those they encounter in the form of lessons.
Lessons are not always easy. Sometimes they’re painful and usually they’re hard and often they’re unwelcome, but they can be precious gifts. That’s not to say that everything anyone does (no matter how awful) is justified—cruelty in its many forms cannot be excused just because it may teach a lesson—rather, it’s to say that sometimes, maybe even often, our suffering can be in some way redeemed if we find the lesson.
The point, though, is that people never come into our lives just for us. They are sovereign souls, just as we are, and probably just as lost as we are ourselves. We stumble into one another and sometimes all we can take away from a painful encounter—the only thing that makes the pain tolerable—is the lesson.
Why I'm Not Taking the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge
Let me preface this by saying that people should do what they want—if they want to do the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge and/or they feel it’s an effective way of raising awareness of a terrible disease, they should follow their hearts. Good deeds are good deeds.
I’ve been issued the Ice Bucket Challenge. I will not be participating in the Ice Bucket Challenge, not because I believe there’s something wrong with it, but because of my values, my beliefs, my relationship with charity, my “issues.” There will be some who accuse me of being a spoilsport (or maybe an elitist), and while what others think of me is none of my business, perhaps one or two are interested in why I won’t play along. This is my answer.
One powerful influence on my values with respect to charity is Matthew 6:3-4:
The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge has raised awareness—and a lot of much-needed money—for a worthy cause. Yay! That’s awesome! I decline to participate not because ALS doesn’t deserve the—attention—it does—nor because it doesn’t need or deserve the support—of course it does. I decline to participate because I’d rather just give without fanfare or fuss, because I want the attention on the cause and not on me, because I’d die of hypothermia if I did an Ice Bucket challenge for every worthy cause—causes dear to my heart include but are not limited to:
Aloha!
I’ve been issued the Ice Bucket Challenge. I will not be participating in the Ice Bucket Challenge, not because I believe there’s something wrong with it, but because of my values, my beliefs, my relationship with charity, my “issues.” There will be some who accuse me of being a spoilsport (or maybe an elitist), and while what others think of me is none of my business, perhaps one or two are interested in why I won’t play along. This is my answer.
One powerful influence on my values with respect to charity is Matthew 6:3-4:
But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.I’m not suggesting that the Ice Bucket Challenge is irreligious. I’m not quoting scripture as some universal authority that must bind and compel anyone, believer or no. I’m not suggesting anything about anyone except me —from a very young age, I have felt that my charitable giving was a private thing, nobody’s business but mine, nothing to boast about or even let others know about, lest feeding my ego become my motive for giving.
New Revised Standard Version
The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge has raised awareness—and a lot of much-needed money—for a worthy cause. Yay! That’s awesome! I decline to participate not because ALS doesn’t deserve the—attention—it does—nor because it doesn’t need or deserve the support—of course it does. I decline to participate because I’d rather just give without fanfare or fuss, because I want the attention on the cause and not on me, because I’d die of hypothermia if I did an Ice Bucket challenge for every worthy cause—causes dear to my heart include but are not limited to:
- the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation
- the American Heart Association
- the American Cancer Society
- the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society
- the Alzheimer’s Association
- the American Diabetes Association
- the ALS Association
- the AIDS Foundation
- numerous conservation organizations
- numerous arts organizations
- numerous youth service groups
Aloha!
Monday, August 18, 2014
Nothing Wrong With Me
As I settle into the excitement of another school year, I reflect on a summer very different than I anticipated (and in some ways uncomfortable) and realize that it was…good.
For a number of reasons, theatre is my primary social outlet—the structure of a production provides a framework within which I know my place, and the collaborative nature of theatre makes relating with one another expected—and when I’m not in a production I find myself slipping into a more solitary (and lonely) pattern. While perhaps it is my nature to be solitary, it is not my desire, which is among the reasons theatre is so important to me—theatre is my ‘ohana and I love it and those who inhabit it intemperately.
For four months now (and counting), by my own choice I’ve been apart from that context, and for much of that time I’ve been somewhat idle, too—while for teachers summer isn’t the idyllic repose others imagine it to be, it is outside the classroom and sans students—leaving me to my own devices and solitary vices.
And it’s been lonely.
Of course I could have invited myself into the lives of my fantastic friends and I would have been welcome, but outside the production context, I just don’t. Everyone has work, everyone has rehearsal…it feels like an imposition, even if intellectually I know better. So I just don’t.
I had the opportunity to be in a show this summer, and I chose not to be. I knew the price of that decision when I made it, and while the price was high, I feel good about that decision and more importantly, I feel good about my reasons for doing what I did. While I confess the importance of theatre to me as a social outlet, I am a theatre artist, and the artistic aspects of theatre outweigh even the substantial heft of the social element. I made a hard choice for a good reason, when it would have been easy to compromise to avoid solitude.
What made it good—good despite the loneliness and idleness, good despite missing my theatre family—is that I actually felt I was in good company. I found myself contemplating the growth I’ve experienced in the last year, and calling it “good.” I spent a lot of time with and on me, and it felt fine. I didn’t like being lonely, but for the first time ever it didn’t make me feel insignificant or unimportant or unvalued. It gave me time to process all that’s changed since RENT closed, to find places in me to celebrate and cherish all I’ve become.
With school back in session, I have a focal point in my students and my teaching practice, which eases the loneliness. And while nothing is promised, I hope to be back in rehearsal soon. I look forward to being back in my element. In the meantime, I’ve gained another measure of peace and contentment, knowing that whatever my circumstances, I’m okay and more than okay.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
For a number of reasons, theatre is my primary social outlet—the structure of a production provides a framework within which I know my place, and the collaborative nature of theatre makes relating with one another expected—and when I’m not in a production I find myself slipping into a more solitary (and lonely) pattern. While perhaps it is my nature to be solitary, it is not my desire, which is among the reasons theatre is so important to me—theatre is my ‘ohana and I love it and those who inhabit it intemperately.
For four months now (and counting), by my own choice I’ve been apart from that context, and for much of that time I’ve been somewhat idle, too—while for teachers summer isn’t the idyllic repose others imagine it to be, it is outside the classroom and sans students—leaving me to my own devices and solitary vices.
And it’s been lonely.
Of course I could have invited myself into the lives of my fantastic friends and I would have been welcome, but outside the production context, I just don’t. Everyone has work, everyone has rehearsal…it feels like an imposition, even if intellectually I know better. So I just don’t.
I had the opportunity to be in a show this summer, and I chose not to be. I knew the price of that decision when I made it, and while the price was high, I feel good about that decision and more importantly, I feel good about my reasons for doing what I did. While I confess the importance of theatre to me as a social outlet, I am a theatre artist, and the artistic aspects of theatre outweigh even the substantial heft of the social element. I made a hard choice for a good reason, when it would have been easy to compromise to avoid solitude.
What made it good—good despite the loneliness and idleness, good despite missing my theatre family—is that I actually felt I was in good company. I found myself contemplating the growth I’ve experienced in the last year, and calling it “good.” I spent a lot of time with and on me, and it felt fine. I didn’t like being lonely, but for the first time ever it didn’t make me feel insignificant or unimportant or unvalued. It gave me time to process all that’s changed since RENT closed, to find places in me to celebrate and cherish all I’ve become.
With school back in session, I have a focal point in my students and my teaching practice, which eases the loneliness. And while nothing is promised, I hope to be back in rehearsal soon. I look forward to being back in my element. In the meantime, I’ve gained another measure of peace and contentment, knowing that whatever my circumstances, I’m okay and more than okay.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Storytelling
The stories we tell ourselves are enormously powerful. For example:
For most of my life I found myself, on the basis of a single (romantic) encounter or very limited involvement, telling myself a story about “the future.” She was “the one,” we were going to be “forever,” she was “perfection,” we were “amazing” together… all because that was the story I wanted. Those stories were enormous burdens to lay on another’s shoulders, and it warped and ultimately destroyed every “storied” relationship. That led to other stories I’d tell myself: I wasn’t good enough, love wasn’t for me, love wasn’t worth it, my life was over.
I’m learning to tell new stories, now, and I’m trying to avoid telling stories about the future. The stories I tell are more like this: “What a nice evening.” “This is an awesome moment.” “I’m happy right now.” “This feels good.”
These stories are short stories, but they’re true stories. They’re stories about the moment. They leave space for the possibility of love, even of mutual love, but they don’t assume it and don’t place an undue burden on another or myself. And I find these short, true stories make disappointment a lot less bitter, because I'm not invested in an entire narrative arc.
The future is unwritten and unpredictable. Staying in the moment helps me deal with uncertainty, far better than does constraining it to my self-serving narrative. I want that brass ring relationship and I’m wide open to it, but I’m not trying any longer to make any encounter fit some script. If it comes, it’ll come as a natural consequence of the episodes we write moment by moment, encounter by encounter.
As with everything else in my current life, this is a practice. It isn’t an achievement I unlock by winning a boss battle, it isn’t a destination I reach after a journey: it’s a routine, a discipline, a practice. I start wherever I am at any given moment and do what is in me to do, and that is sufficient.
It matters, what stories I tell. The stories I tell are the meaning I make of my experience, my existence.
Life is less like a symphony, more like jazz, less like a play and more like improv. And that’s awesome!
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Not Without Ambition
It’s such a human thing, to set goals and select destinations. “I’m going to lose 10 pounds,” or “I intend to retire at age 55,” or “I plan to visit all the inhabited continents on the earth” vie with perhaps more lofty examples like “I will be kinder,” or “I just want to be happy,” or “I will achieve enlightenment.” And maybe it isn’t such a bad thing that we set goals and select destinations, only…
Only what if you actually achieve them? What happens after you lose 10 pounds or achieve enlightenment? What do you do if you actually succeed?
If you’ve ever dieted to “lose 10 pounds,” you know what happens after you succeed. Usually, you gain back the 10, plus a dividend. Never having achieved “enlightenment,” I can’t really speak to that particular goal, but in general it has been my experience that accomplishing a goal—be it weight loss or being happy or whatever—does not always mean keeping its product, nor will we necessarily be satisfied even if we do. the achievement or accomplishment often feels hollow, and we’re left asking, “Is this all there is?”
My dad took early retirement from the school district that employed him as a teacher. He loved teaching (and to this day I run into former students of his who tell me how significant he was in their academic lives), but found himself at odds with out-of-touch administrators and foolish policies; retiring was a matter of principle, and Dad was always a man of principle. He retired without a qualm and didn’t look back, but for a while after, things looked a little iffy. One of the smartest men I’ve ever known, but he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with himself. He had achieved a milestone, but didn’t know where to go after. Eventually, he decided to serve the public in elected office (water board), and all was well.
That’s the trouble with goals as we usually think of them: they mark the end of striving, and it’s the striving itself—the journey, rather than the destination—that fulfills us. The outcome and the action taken to achieve it are inextricably linked for us; when we stop acting, the outcome recedes from us.
Almost accidentally, I’ve found an answer to this quandary. Instead of framing my ambitions in terms of accomplishments, I articulate them as practices: actions and consequent outcomes as a series of ongoing disciplines or journeys, not as actions that end when the goal is achieved. “Losing 10 pounds” becomes “living healthy,” “wanting to be happy” becomes “living a happy life,” and “achieving enlightenment” becomes “always seeking greater enlightenment.”
I’m discovering that the best way to be happy is to “do” happy: to always be doing what makes me happy, to always be choosing what makes me happy, to always be seeking greater and richer and deeper happiness.
There’s no end to a practice, and that’s a good thing; it reduces the pressure to “get it,” and makes it easier to celebrate progress. After all, it’s in growing toward the sun that a tree becomes a tree; it’s the journey that makes the hero, and not the journey’s end.
Only what if you actually achieve them? What happens after you lose 10 pounds or achieve enlightenment? What do you do if you actually succeed?
If you’ve ever dieted to “lose 10 pounds,” you know what happens after you succeed. Usually, you gain back the 10, plus a dividend. Never having achieved “enlightenment,” I can’t really speak to that particular goal, but in general it has been my experience that accomplishing a goal—be it weight loss or being happy or whatever—does not always mean keeping its product, nor will we necessarily be satisfied even if we do. the achievement or accomplishment often feels hollow, and we’re left asking, “Is this all there is?”
My dad took early retirement from the school district that employed him as a teacher. He loved teaching (and to this day I run into former students of his who tell me how significant he was in their academic lives), but found himself at odds with out-of-touch administrators and foolish policies; retiring was a matter of principle, and Dad was always a man of principle. He retired without a qualm and didn’t look back, but for a while after, things looked a little iffy. One of the smartest men I’ve ever known, but he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with himself. He had achieved a milestone, but didn’t know where to go after. Eventually, he decided to serve the public in elected office (water board), and all was well.
That’s the trouble with goals as we usually think of them: they mark the end of striving, and it’s the striving itself—the journey, rather than the destination—that fulfills us. The outcome and the action taken to achieve it are inextricably linked for us; when we stop acting, the outcome recedes from us.
Almost accidentally, I’ve found an answer to this quandary. Instead of framing my ambitions in terms of accomplishments, I articulate them as practices: actions and consequent outcomes as a series of ongoing disciplines or journeys, not as actions that end when the goal is achieved. “Losing 10 pounds” becomes “living healthy,” “wanting to be happy” becomes “living a happy life,” and “achieving enlightenment” becomes “always seeking greater enlightenment.”
I’m discovering that the best way to be happy is to “do” happy: to always be doing what makes me happy, to always be choosing what makes me happy, to always be seeking greater and richer and deeper happiness.
There’s no end to a practice, and that’s a good thing; it reduces the pressure to “get it,” and makes it easier to celebrate progress. After all, it’s in growing toward the sun that a tree becomes a tree; it’s the journey that makes the hero, and not the journey’s end.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Sacred Space
Last Wednesday I wrote Loneliness as a kind of “sunshine” process whereby I exposed some festering frustrations left unresolved after my transformation (chronicled in Maui Summer of Love 2013). Writing Loneliness proved cathartic: it and subsequent conversations began releasing me from unconscious resentment that was beginning to sour my disposition, and in fact put me in the path of my next big epiphany.
Back in August, one of the things that pushed me past the “tipping point” was the “Law of Attraction” as expounded in the book The Vortex: Where the Law of Attraction Assembles All Cooperative Relationships by Esther and Jerry Hicks. I found the assertion—that by changing what we think about or dwell on (and thereby changing our “vibration”) we also change what we attract—powerful, and as I began to try to apply it, my experience of life began to change in almost every aspect. As I strove to focus on the hoped-for rather than the absent, the hoped-for increasingly appeared in my life, with one glaring exception.
That exception is what I wrote about in Loneliness. Over nine months, I rationalized that my issues with loneliness demonstrated a reasonable limitation to the Law of Attraction, to whit: when what I hope for involves others, they (properly) have a choice, and my hope or expectation cannot and should not be expected to coerce their choice.
I think, though, that a part of me knew that I was missing something. Of course my “vibrations” cannot and should not coerce another, but why didn’t my “vibrations” attract those who were humming the same tune?
Well, they were. In this one area, my hopes were:
The day after I wrote Loneliness, I had an epiphany (these things just keep coming!). I found a metaphor that works for me—that expresses my longing without being too specific, that makes room in my life for what I seek, that identifies something for which I am grateful—and like so many epiphanies in the last nine months, this one has transformed my (perception of the) world.
After all that buildup, it better be good, hadn’t it? Well, it’s good to me, anyway; your mileage may vary.
It’s simply this: the (currently) unoccupied “spaces” in my life—where the things I long for “fit"—are sacred because they reserve room for what’s to come, because they represent my longings without defining them too specifically, and because they have sufficient reality (like "negative space” in art and architecture) that they are “things” for which I can legitimately be grateful.
One way I think of it is like the nursery expectant parents might prepare in advance of a child’s birth, especially if they haven’t determined the child’s sex in advance. It’s an empty (but sacred) space, no matter that it’s been painted and decorated and furnished, until baby arrives, yet how much love is lavished on that empty room? It is an investment of the heart in an undetermined future, endowed with bright expectancy.
Likewise, I prepare sacred spaces in my heart. I endow them with bright but indeterminate expectancy and lavish them with love. I furnish and decorate them based on what I think might occupy those spaces, but I know I might get it wrong and I am prepared to repaint and refurnish and redecorate when the time comes. In the meantime, it is a present pleasure just to have that space available.
That’s how I’m approaching a show-less summer, too. I’m confident of the personal wisdom of my decision (although I love theatre and my theatre ʻohana and I know I’ll miss the camaraderie and excitement of being a part of the living, growing organism that is a theatrical production), and while that “show space” in my life feels all echoey and strange right now, I intuit that by leaving that sacred space empty for a time, other sacred spaces—spaces I may in the past have neglected by my devotion to Dionysus—will benefit.
I trust that what will fill my sacred spaces is already part of the world. I believe that whatever comes is perfect in itself and for me. I am grateful for the sacred spaces in my life and in my heart, beautiful both as they are and as they may be when occupied.
I think I’ll paint the nursery ochre.
Back in August, one of the things that pushed me past the “tipping point” was the “Law of Attraction” as expounded in the book The Vortex: Where the Law of Attraction Assembles All Cooperative Relationships by Esther and Jerry Hicks. I found the assertion—that by changing what we think about or dwell on (and thereby changing our “vibration”) we also change what we attract—powerful, and as I began to try to apply it, my experience of life began to change in almost every aspect. As I strove to focus on the hoped-for rather than the absent, the hoped-for increasingly appeared in my life, with one glaring exception.
That exception is what I wrote about in Loneliness. Over nine months, I rationalized that my issues with loneliness demonstrated a reasonable limitation to the Law of Attraction, to whit: when what I hope for involves others, they (properly) have a choice, and my hope or expectation cannot and should not be expected to coerce their choice.
I think, though, that a part of me knew that I was missing something. Of course my “vibrations” cannot and should not coerce another, but why didn’t my “vibrations” attract those who were humming the same tune?
Well, they were. In this one area, my hopes were:
- too specific
- focused on what was lacking
- utterly bereft of gratitude
The day after I wrote Loneliness, I had an epiphany (these things just keep coming!). I found a metaphor that works for me—that expresses my longing without being too specific, that makes room in my life for what I seek, that identifies something for which I am grateful—and like so many epiphanies in the last nine months, this one has transformed my (perception of the) world.
After all that buildup, it better be good, hadn’t it? Well, it’s good to me, anyway; your mileage may vary.
It’s simply this: the (currently) unoccupied “spaces” in my life—where the things I long for “fit"—are sacred because they reserve room for what’s to come, because they represent my longings without defining them too specifically, and because they have sufficient reality (like "negative space” in art and architecture) that they are “things” for which I can legitimately be grateful.
One way I think of it is like the nursery expectant parents might prepare in advance of a child’s birth, especially if they haven’t determined the child’s sex in advance. It’s an empty (but sacred) space, no matter that it’s been painted and decorated and furnished, until baby arrives, yet how much love is lavished on that empty room? It is an investment of the heart in an undetermined future, endowed with bright expectancy.
Likewise, I prepare sacred spaces in my heart. I endow them with bright but indeterminate expectancy and lavish them with love. I furnish and decorate them based on what I think might occupy those spaces, but I know I might get it wrong and I am prepared to repaint and refurnish and redecorate when the time comes. In the meantime, it is a present pleasure just to have that space available.
That’s how I’m approaching a show-less summer, too. I’m confident of the personal wisdom of my decision (although I love theatre and my theatre ʻohana and I know I’ll miss the camaraderie and excitement of being a part of the living, growing organism that is a theatrical production), and while that “show space” in my life feels all echoey and strange right now, I intuit that by leaving that sacred space empty for a time, other sacred spaces—spaces I may in the past have neglected by my devotion to Dionysus—will benefit.
I trust that what will fill my sacred spaces is already part of the world. I believe that whatever comes is perfect in itself and for me. I am grateful for the sacred spaces in my life and in my heart, beautiful both as they are and as they may be when occupied.
I think I’ll paint the nursery ochre.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Loneliness
For as lonely as I feel, you’d think I’d avoid solitude.
The truth is that I don’t hate being “alone”—sometimes it’s exactly what I need, and generally it’s at least restful—but I don’t enjoy “loneliness.”
Loneliness is different from solitude. Loneliness is a feeling, one that can be experienced even when in good company. In my experience, it’s feeling separated, standing apart. It has relatively little to do with others’ actions and a great deal to do with my actions and perceptions. That suggests that I can change it—can choose not to be lonely, since it’s my actions and perceptions that shape that sense of loneliness—but I have not yet learned how.
It’s tempting to blame my loneliness on others, to say:
What happens is that I don’t let others know I’d like to be included and I don’t initiate conversations. It’s true there are reasons I don’t do those things, just like there are reasons I tend to keep to myself in social situations and reasons I tend to leave early, but those reasons aren’t justifications to blame others for my loneliness.
I don’t want to heap blame upon myself, either. I’ll take responsibility, but like I said, there are reasons I behave the way I do. Accepting responsibility for my actions is a shift in perception; I once believed that “No one thinks to include me,” “Nobody talks to me,” and “Nobody loves me!” Now I don’t project motives like I once did, and that counts as growth. :-)
Why, then, don’t I let people know I’d like to be included? Why don’t I initiate conversations with others? Why do I keep to myself and leave social situations early?
My initial answer—the one that is my conscious justification for my actions—is that I don’t like to impose or intrude. It’s true, as far as it goes; I wouldn’t want anyone to feel obligated to include me, so I make myself small and take pains not to presume a welcome in the absence of an explicit invitation. Additionally, I am shy, and keeping to myself is a manifestation of that shyness. If you’ve ever read any of the internet articles purporting to describe introverts, you may recognize that many of the traits attributed to introverts are mine.
Upon reflection I realize that (of course!) there’s more going on. There’s the habit of avoidance formed by ancient fear of rejection or hurt, the habit of “playing small” so others can have the spotlight, the habit of playing it safe (when the last thing I want is safety)…old habits formed in the crucible of self-loathing and tempered in the quenching bath of doubt. That crucible is cold, that quenching bath long dry, but the habits persist.
Still, I crave social interaction, deeply desire a sense of belonging, and really love that sense of connection with another human being. It’s one of the things (not by any means the only thing) I love about doing theatre: as long as I’m in a show, I’m part of an ‘ohana and I belong.
My decision recently to not compete for a role in the Maui on Stage production of Legally Blonde: the Musical was a difficult one for just this reason. It’s the first time since my third month on Maui that I haven’t been in a show, and without school in June and July, neither of my customary social settings will pertain. It was difficult to opt out, and although I think I did the “right thing” for me, I am uneasy about a summer without a show.
The other option was to compete for a role not because the role interested me or offered a meaningful acting “stretch,” but just because I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from my friends over the summer. I’ve done that before, many times, and it would have been easy to do that again. This time I believe I’m strong enough to stand on my own, but I’m not certain of it; hence my uneasiness.
And all this is just part of my loneliness. The lack (for almost my entire adult life) of a romantic relationship leaves a sharper taste in my mouth. All the same issues apply but the stakes are even higher, and I have less of a track record in romantic endeavors than in just about anything. I’ve had more broken toes than romantic relationships (even counting high school and church camp romances).
That’s particularly bittersweet since I’ve come to understand how wonderful I really am. When I thought poorly of myself, it seemed only reasonable that I wasn’t anyone’s romantic partner. Now, knowing myself to be good and worthy (and damn good-looking), it stings. I was always good and worthy (and damn good-looking), but without the self-confidence I have now, I sabotaged every attempt ever made to rescue me from myself. And timing is everything…
I’m lonely. I don’t intend to stay lonely, but I don’t think I’m owed companionship, either. If I don’t learn to reshape my actions and perceptions, loneliness may remain my “albatross.” Yet even if I do reshape my actions and perceptions, nothing is certain. No one is (or should ever be) obligated to include someone for any reason, and there is no guarantee that a change in me will produce a change in my circumstances. Although I don’t believe in “destiny,” I might be destined to be alone. “It is what it is,” as the saying goes.
And it’s all good. I remain hopeful (if not exactly optimistic), and I continue to seek and to grow. If in the end, solitude is my lot—my choice in the eyes of some—I am now and will be happy.
And sad… sometimes, they go together. :-)
The truth is that I don’t hate being “alone”—sometimes it’s exactly what I need, and generally it’s at least restful—but I don’t enjoy “loneliness.”
Loneliness is different from solitude. Loneliness is a feeling, one that can be experienced even when in good company. In my experience, it’s feeling separated, standing apart. It has relatively little to do with others’ actions and a great deal to do with my actions and perceptions. That suggests that I can change it—can choose not to be lonely, since it’s my actions and perceptions that shape that sense of loneliness—but I have not yet learned how.
It’s tempting to blame my loneliness on others, to say:
- “Nobody thinks to include me!”
- “Nobody talks to me!”
- “Nobody loves me!”
What happens is that I don’t let others know I’d like to be included and I don’t initiate conversations. It’s true there are reasons I don’t do those things, just like there are reasons I tend to keep to myself in social situations and reasons I tend to leave early, but those reasons aren’t justifications to blame others for my loneliness.
I don’t want to heap blame upon myself, either. I’ll take responsibility, but like I said, there are reasons I behave the way I do. Accepting responsibility for my actions is a shift in perception; I once believed that “No one thinks to include me,” “Nobody talks to me,” and “Nobody loves me!” Now I don’t project motives like I once did, and that counts as growth. :-)
Why, then, don’t I let people know I’d like to be included? Why don’t I initiate conversations with others? Why do I keep to myself and leave social situations early?
My initial answer—the one that is my conscious justification for my actions—is that I don’t like to impose or intrude. It’s true, as far as it goes; I wouldn’t want anyone to feel obligated to include me, so I make myself small and take pains not to presume a welcome in the absence of an explicit invitation. Additionally, I am shy, and keeping to myself is a manifestation of that shyness. If you’ve ever read any of the internet articles purporting to describe introverts, you may recognize that many of the traits attributed to introverts are mine.
Upon reflection I realize that (of course!) there’s more going on. There’s the habit of avoidance formed by ancient fear of rejection or hurt, the habit of “playing small” so others can have the spotlight, the habit of playing it safe (when the last thing I want is safety)…old habits formed in the crucible of self-loathing and tempered in the quenching bath of doubt. That crucible is cold, that quenching bath long dry, but the habits persist.
Still, I crave social interaction, deeply desire a sense of belonging, and really love that sense of connection with another human being. It’s one of the things (not by any means the only thing) I love about doing theatre: as long as I’m in a show, I’m part of an ‘ohana and I belong.
My decision recently to not compete for a role in the Maui on Stage production of Legally Blonde: the Musical was a difficult one for just this reason. It’s the first time since my third month on Maui that I haven’t been in a show, and without school in June and July, neither of my customary social settings will pertain. It was difficult to opt out, and although I think I did the “right thing” for me, I am uneasy about a summer without a show.
The other option was to compete for a role not because the role interested me or offered a meaningful acting “stretch,” but just because I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from my friends over the summer. I’ve done that before, many times, and it would have been easy to do that again. This time I believe I’m strong enough to stand on my own, but I’m not certain of it; hence my uneasiness.
And all this is just part of my loneliness. The lack (for almost my entire adult life) of a romantic relationship leaves a sharper taste in my mouth. All the same issues apply but the stakes are even higher, and I have less of a track record in romantic endeavors than in just about anything. I’ve had more broken toes than romantic relationships (even counting high school and church camp romances).
That’s particularly bittersweet since I’ve come to understand how wonderful I really am. When I thought poorly of myself, it seemed only reasonable that I wasn’t anyone’s romantic partner. Now, knowing myself to be good and worthy (and damn good-looking), it stings. I was always good and worthy (and damn good-looking), but without the self-confidence I have now, I sabotaged every attempt ever made to rescue me from myself. And timing is everything…
I’m lonely. I don’t intend to stay lonely, but I don’t think I’m owed companionship, either. If I don’t learn to reshape my actions and perceptions, loneliness may remain my “albatross.” Yet even if I do reshape my actions and perceptions, nothing is certain. No one is (or should ever be) obligated to include someone for any reason, and there is no guarantee that a change in me will produce a change in my circumstances. Although I don’t believe in “destiny,” I might be destined to be alone. “It is what it is,” as the saying goes.
And it’s all good. I remain hopeful (if not exactly optimistic), and I continue to seek and to grow. If in the end, solitude is my lot—my choice in the eyes of some—I am now and will be happy.
And sad… sometimes, they go together. :-)
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Endowment
Of late, I’ve found myself thinking in aphorisms (and posting them to twitter: follow draagen if you are so inclined), and this morning’s begged more extensive treatment, in part because it morphed as I wrote it into a much bigger idea than I started with.
Here’s what started me on this journey:
It has generally been my habit to endow trivial things with disproportionate weight and then work myself into a state of acute anxiety over what, viewed objectively, is no big deal. I have typically made mountains of molehills on a daily basis and then talked myself out of climbing what was in fact a trivial slope. I limited my opportunities because I gave extraordinary weight to an ordinary moment, making a big deal out of no big deal. Not awesome.
There is, however, another totally awesome side to this coin. There’s this opportunity give to ordinary moments an extraordinary positive weight and make them sacred. I’ve been learning to do this without even realizing it: learning to make everyday circumstances holy by appreciating them, by loving them, by being fully present in them.
That, I think, is the real power of endowment; to make what others think ordinary extraordinary and seeing the magic in the mundane.
And that’s cool...
Here’s what started me on this journey:
“When we endow an ordinary moment with extraordinary weight, it is transformed. This is sometimes awesome and sometimes not.”I was trying to express the second part—how sometimes we give ordinary things extraordinary weight and thereby make them a much bigger deal than they ought to be—but I found the first part compelling and evocative. Bringing this truth to my conscious mind feels important.
It has generally been my habit to endow trivial things with disproportionate weight and then work myself into a state of acute anxiety over what, viewed objectively, is no big deal. I have typically made mountains of molehills on a daily basis and then talked myself out of climbing what was in fact a trivial slope. I limited my opportunities because I gave extraordinary weight to an ordinary moment, making a big deal out of no big deal. Not awesome.
There is, however, another totally awesome side to this coin. There’s this opportunity give to ordinary moments an extraordinary positive weight and make them sacred. I’ve been learning to do this without even realizing it: learning to make everyday circumstances holy by appreciating them, by loving them, by being fully present in them.
That, I think, is the real power of endowment; to make what others think ordinary extraordinary and seeing the magic in the mundane.
And that’s cool...
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Just As I Am
Like most folk, for most of my life I accepted the judgment of “the world” regarding certain of my character traits—ranging from introversion and shyness to my particular attractions and interests—and strove to change them. When I didn’t conform to the norms of the culture I grew up in, I received the message loud and clear—“There’s something wrong with you; you don’t belong”—and I took that message to heart; I accepted it as the truth.
And I hungered for belonging… My craving for belonging drove my drinking, my drug use, my materialism, and the many masks I wore in an attempt to hide my strangeness and fit in. Yet nothing I did gave me satisfaction; when I was a part of the “in” crowd, I knew I was a fake and I feared getting caught pretending. I ingested enormous pain with the constant thought that the “real me” was a misfit, belonging nowhere, and with the pressure of maintaining the facade that I believed was the only answer to loneliness.
Eventually I tired of trying to maintain the artifice; it was too much work keeping up appearances, and all my efforts to change those character traits amounted to nothing more than abiding frustration. I still believed society’s judgments and therefore considered myself broken; I resigned myself to the rubbish heap where the broken repose. I wasn’t happy, but I made peace with things as I thought them to be.
But that was then.
Now is another story, a better story. Now, I know that “the world” has got it wrong. Now, I know that I’m perfect just as I am; that I don’t need fixing, that forcing myself to conform is denial of the awesomeness that is me, that I am worthy and lovable and loved just as I am by those who belong in my life (and to whom I belong).
I’m done trying to “overcome” introversion and shyness, I’m done apologizing for who I like and what attracts me! I’m done regretting my age and past follies and the things I cannot (and need not) change. I am what I am, and what I am is glorious, as are those who embrace me as I am and appreciate my quirks and idiosyncrasies (those who don’t—who can’t—are glorious, too, but I don’t owe them any more than anyone owes me).
All that I long for is mine already, and the timing is perfect. I’m not—I’ll never be—“too old” or “too shy” or “too weird”; I’m me, and that’s amazing.
And best of all, the same is true of you.
Be awesome, my friends…be awesome.
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