The best of all possible worlds

When I was in high school, I had an extraordinary French teacher. His name was Mr. Timms, and instead of having the class painfully memorize lists of vocabulary words and conversational responses, he had us reading and analyzing French literature. Some of these classics would have been dry enough in English, but in French, many students would have been willing to forgo their Foreign language requirements just to get out of reading them. Mr. Timms, however, was undeterred: he instilled an interest in the subject matter that went far beyond translation and recitation for an exam. Mr. Timms found that by acting out many of these works by Voltaire, Hugo, Balzac, de Maupassant and others, his students would better remember the stories, and therefore, the lessons. As with most wonderful teachers, his method of student involvement and empowerment was key. I still remember the books I read in his class, in French, far better than others I read in a somewhat duller English course.

The story that most resonated with me at 16, and now again in my early 40's, is Voltaire's "Candide". Mr. Timms acted out the entire book for us. He alone portrayed all the characters, including one memorable incident in which one character threw a shoe at another, and Mr. Timms magically appeared to have been in two places at once, as both "throwee' and recipient. The amazing satire of Voltaire, like that of Oscar Wilde, and others, brings together great story telling with a philosophical, political and "opposing norms" point of view. Authors were able to push the envelope of accepted literature by poking fun at contemporary society in a make believe world. In Candide, the simple nephew of a nobleman, takes a heroic quest journey, and brings with him the tutelage of his mentor, Dr. Pangloss. Pangloss is a firm believer in optimism at all costs. Despite being evicted from the Eden like paradise of his home, Candide attempts to maintain Pangloss' unfailing, unaltered and unbridled passion for life as being "all for the best in the best of all possible worlds". Even when he becomes disfigured, tortured, abandoned and suffers misfortune, the character of Pangloss continues with his mantra of optimism, regardless of circumstances.


Although Pangloss is meant to be a satirical character, and to be poked fun at literally, I have never forgotten his words of impassioned optimism about life, regardless of the dreadful twists of fate his own life took. There are days in which everything seems to just go wrong. It's as if circumstances beyond any one's control wreak havoc on our orderly lives. The car breaks down and needs thousands of dollars in repair. The computer crashes, with a clunking sound that makes me anticipate an explosion. The dishwasher overflows moments before guests arrive or the furnace conks out on the coldest day of winter. There are traffic problems when I'm already behind schedule. None of these things are life threatening, and I don't find myself crippled in the way that Pangloss suffered, and yet, I find my anger coming out by smacking the steering wheel of the car or kicking the broken dryer. At moments when my orderly, well intentioned existence goes haywire, I am not thinking that "all is for the best and that I'm living in the best of all possible worlds". I'm thinking that I'm cursed and being tormented by gremlins.


I've recently been accepted into, and have begun, a theology course. It's a four year program designed to help me delve deeper into faith, into intellect and into knowledge. The first assignment (along with reading the first five books of the Bible, and two commentaries on them) is to write my spiritual autobiography. What are the touch points of my beliefs? Why does my faith become stronger or weaker? When did I feel the call to deepen my awareness of the world around me? How do I see my faith alive in the world? Who helped me along the way with my journey? These are all questions I need to ask myself before I begin to write this paper. As I began thinking about this assignment, and writing down preliminary notes for the presentation, I immediately was brought back to my 11th grade French class and Mr. Timms. Although I hadn't remembered that course vividly for two decades, his passion for this subject was quite similar to faith. In addition, the fun poked at Pangloss, in "Candide", really has become my own thought of the faith journey I would like to take. Despite the setbacks, despite hardships, despite illness or angst or grief, I would truly like to believe that I do live in the best of all possible worlds. I would like to understand that no matter what happens, I am richly blessed....by being alive at this very moment, in this very instant in time. I hope that, in time, I can look at the world with eyes filled with joy and feel the same contentment on a good day, as on a bad one. I also hope that I will be able to remove my own distinctions between "good" and "bad" days completely, and to be completely solidly, and immovably, optimistic in that "all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds."

While I am certain that this sounds hopelessly sentimental, it truly is not. I believe that, when looking at the world as a big, bad place that is constantly out to get us, we will bring negative emotions into our lives. These tend to feed on each other and ruin our outlook. When we foster positive feelings, and radiate an inner joy, good things will come to us. We will attract good people to our lives, and the negative ones will get fed up with our unadulterated happiness and move on. The world we live *can* be the best of all possible worlds, but only if we choose to view it in that way.


Now, I just have to learn not to scream out the window when an idiot cuts me off in traffic.


In the long run the pessimist may be proved right, but the optimist has a better time on the trip. ~Daniel L. Reardon

Miscommunication

"I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that you what you heard is not what I meant." Robert McCloskey

The quote above was written by one of my favorite children's book authors, Robert McCloskey. Mr. McCloskey was born in 1914, and spent much of his life not far from where I currently live on the Maine coast. He won numerous Caldecott Awards for his work, and was celebrated in both the Midwest, and his adopted home of New England."One Morning in Maine", "Blueberries for Sal", "Time of Wonder", and of course, "Make Way for Ducklings" were books that I treasured in my childhood. I was even more excited to share these books with my children. Yet, it's the quote above, that Mr. McCloskey said in the late 1970's, that has resonated with me in my adult life. Despite my memories of happy, peaceful scenes, and my beloved rocky shore, the sad fact is that every day I seem to find more and more miscommunication. People with whom I speak seem to have a completely different understanding than my own. My children believe I've said one thing, when I'm quite sure I've said another. My husband and I completely miss each other's points on serious issues. My friends and I find ourselves wondering if our feelings should be hurt, or if we have simply misread a situation or a particular comment. In short, Robert McCloskey's humorous take on miscommunication appears to be entirely appropriate for most of us, much of the time.

There are two sides to any misunderstanding: the misunderstood and the "misunderstander". As a constant talker, I find myself on both sides of this dilemma far too often. When my comments are misconstrued, I feel frustrated. I try to remember if I made my point with validity and clarity. I gauge if the receiver was simply not paying attention to my point, or if she had her own agenda. Finally, I simply retrace the steps of the conversation, word by word, as best as I can, to figure out where my own words were unclear. If I firmly believe that my intent was effectively communicated, I have to wonder where my listener could have gone astray. Was it my fault? Should I have asked if she 'got it' or is that condescending? It's a tough call, because as we communicate with another person, we want to respect their intelligence and abilities. We certainly don't want to treat our contemporaries like kindergartners of whom we require a detailed recitation of the directions.

In the same way, I have greatly misunderstood the comments, context, insinuations and ideas of others. Just as I cannot expect everyone to fully grasp my ideas, I have learned that I have much progress that needs to be made in my own understanding. Too often, I take a remark personally, that isn't meant to be hurtful. Or, I will believe a project is of lesser (or greater) importance on a team, misunderstanding the
urgency of it, or lack thereof. Without truly comprehending the point, I will make my own conclusions, which, inevitably, are wrong. This can be incredibly embarrassing. I would like to be seen by others as trustworthy, helpful, insightful and cooperative. But, when I am clearly not comprehending a situation, I can appear disorganized, lazy, unobservant and useless...simply by not clarifying a task, a comment or a goal.

What can we do to ensure better communication? I believe this question is the best beginning: by acknowledging any uncertainty and by asking questions. I would rather be asked a dozen questions, than to have my words taken out of context, or have a project veer off in the wrong direction. I would rather risk embarrassment of seeming uncertain than follow instructions that are incorrect. It's sometimes difficult to know when we're on the wrong path...on the wrong train of thought or following a misguided lead. If my instinct is starting to tickle my conscience, I make sure to slow down, try to ask myself if my own priorities are interfering with a solution, and then retrace back to the core of the problem. Better communication can also come with increased communication. Keeping team members abreast of developments, double checking facts before using them and keeping all parties informed can save a great deal of time (and trouble).

Of course, there are times in which we wish we misunderstood a person. Having had a remark directed at me, recently, that was incredibly rude and unkind, I know that there are instances in which better communication, or level of understanding, will do little to alleviate the sting. Yet, by asking a question to the ill mannered person, you also have the advantage and requiring her to explain herself. "What makes you feel that way?", "How did you draw that conclusion?", or even just "Really?", said with a big smile, can throw your opponent completely off balance. Rephrasing their question to you, or their comment to you, in the same words they used can be another way to insist upon clarification, rather than just allowing the rudeness to remain unchecked. This way, you are not standing for the nonconstructive drivel, but are placing the onus on the speaker to explain themselves...and all in the name of better communication.

I am only a novice on the path of good communication. I have put my foot in my mouth up to my ankle. I have gone running with a work project in completely the wrong direction. I have gone to meetings on the wrong day, but the correct time. I have missed appointments. I have shown up when I was not expected. In truth, my own journey towards better communication will be a lifelong one. I hope by asking better questions, by listening carefully the answers, by considering all sides to a disagreement, and by basing my own answers on thoughtful facts, I can improve the way that I understand others....as well as saving myself from the painful foot from mouth extraction in the future.

Tradition

"Who must know the way to make a proper home,A quiet home, a kosher home?Who must raise the family and run the home,So Papa's free to read the holy books? The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!" --From "Fiddler on the Roof"

I'm a Broadway fanatic. I inherited this trait from my mother, who took me to see "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" and "Hair" before I was five years old. I came out singing and dancing, and completely in love with musical theater. Before I would return to school each year, first as a young girl, then as a prep school student, and finally as a college student, Mom and I would go to New York and have a two day Broadway Buffet: we'd fit in as many shows as we could. Between matinees and evening performances, we'd try to do some last minute shopping, and to try a couple of new restaurants. But, the goal of our trip was always the theater. If it was Labor Day, then Mom and I would be in the audience of the St. James, the Gershwin, the Majestic, the Minskoff or any one of a number of auditoriums that sound like a litany when said altogether. Going to the theater, for my mother and me, was our tradition. It was something that never changed, that always could be counted upon and that felt safe and right.

The first time I saw "Fiddler on the Roof", I knew it would be different from other performances I'd been to. For one thing, my mother already knew all the songs, and I had seen the movie version. More than these foretastes of the show, I was also aware that, in many ways, "Fiddler" told my own family's story. This was not just a fantastical voyage come to life; this was a recounting of my own ancestry, and that of many people like me. "Fiddler" wasn't a fairy tale come to life. It was my own sense of learning about where I came from, who my people were, how they did their very best in oppressive conditions, and finally, why they left. I grew up with wonderful parents in a loving, intellectually stimulating home. However, our sense of belonging was very much rooted in the present. I had long had a fascination with the past. "Fiddler on the Roof" gave me that clue to who I was, not in this very moment, but from where I had come. Because my family was not religious, I knew very little about the faith based traditions of our people. And yet, seeing the small actions in the theater characters, little comments they made to each other and telling bits of dialogue, I felt completely at home in the small Russian town portrayed on stage. The quips made between the women of the theater family could easily have been made by my grandmother, cousins and mother. It was as if someone had written down our own family's traditions, placed them back in time, added in religion and voila! My family!

One thing continued to bother me: why didn't we have the exact same traditions as the family in "Fiddler on the Roof"? My parents were simply not interested in religion. My father, a very wise man and a very pragmatic one, said that religion did more to divide than it did to heal. My mother was very comfortable in her cultural, and secular, form of Judaism. I felt sad to be left out of such rich traditions. And yet, as I grew older, I began to see that traditions don't just include lighting candles on Friday nights: they include the small, special ways we relate to one another and the rituals we developed over the years. Our family had a lobster bake with our closest friends at a nearby beach each June and we always watched the fireworks from the boat on the 4th of July. As we decorated our Christmas tree, my mother and I would laugh when one of us would pull out a ratty pompom duck ornament (that I still have). My grandmother and I would wrap up the same tambourine elaborately every year, and give it to one another...each time trying to disguise the packaging a bit more, so that the other would not suspect a thing. While my father would not admit to laughing about this tradition, we would absolutely lose one hard boiled, colored Easter egg, each holiday, someplace in the yard, and would discover it months later. These were all traditions...secular, yes, but meaningful, also yes. The rituals were not written down, nor were they in any way dogmatic. But, they created a connection from one year to the next for us.

The arm of Yoga that I teach is Ashtanga Yoga. Some yoginis feel that this is a very rigid discipline because Ashtanga tends to have a set routine and follows the same plan, roughly, from week to week. I take great comfort in this sense of continuity. I believe my students are pleased to anticipate what asanas are coming next in our series. This doesn't mean that I never challenge my students with new asanas, or encourage them to move more deeply into a familiar one. This also doesn't include room for self-expression. However, as we begin class in the familiar way, we move through our exercises, always knowing what will follow, and end class in our customary manner, my students are able to focus more on their own practice, and less on trying to figure out what I'm doing. Having attended many classes in which the instructor shakes up the dynamic from day to day, I have come to value the tradition of my own class: in which my students can breathe, move and explore, without constantly looking up to discover a completely random, and unfamiliar, asana. By keeping our 'new poses' to a minimum, and by keeping them in the same spot in our routine, I'm able to run an efficient, informed class. We have developed our own traditions.

Traditions don't have to be positive. There have been numerous human rights violations that have been done in the name of 'tradition'. Yet, when respecting the sanctity of human dignity, traditions, whether long held or newly formed, can create a meaningful framework for people. Many of us like to know what to expect; we enjoy remember our days in a string that connects them. If a tradition has meaning, if it makes one happy and it creates its own magic, I believe it's worth holding onto....and that's why I still have the unbearably raggedy duck ornament. When my daughter and I hang it up each year, we say the same silly words I did with my mother, and I know the circle is complete. I just hope he lasts long enough to make it to Caroline's tree in her own home someday.

Year of Wonders

Is it possible to remain in a spirit of affirmation and appreciation in the midst of unspeakable loss? Having just finished Geraldine Brooks' wonderful novel, "Year of Wonders", I was awestruck at how the author managed to convey a sense of beauty, purpose and meaning about a novel about the plague in 17th century England. In this extraordinary debut fiction work by an experienced journalist, I had expected a sad, but interesting novel. Yet, what I discovered during my year long journey with Anna, the protagonist, was not just the shock and horror. Ms. Brooks was able to create a character so resilient that Anna continues to grow, thrive, seek further knowledge and continue in her desire to help others. Based on a real life case of plague in the village of Eyam, Derbyshire, the author takes the actual events, and weaves them into a story of both inspiration and fear, growth and regression, life and death. The village's story, marked by a simple stone indicator in the present day, shows the heroic efforts of the people in trying to hold the spread of the Plague to their very town. These residents did not leave, with the exception of the wealthiest land holder. They requested supplies from neighboring villages, and asked that these be left outside the town markers. Instead of nailing individual families inside their homes, to die alone and in fear, the entire village chose to remain in sanctuary, tending to their own, living and dying together, as a village. It has been noted that the efforts of Eyam were both remarkable and unusual, as Plague was spread often by people fleeing...and bringing the contagion with them.

The village of Eyam chose to sacrifice themselves so that others may live. When the townspeople receive news that the disease had spread to no other village in their shire, they were convicted that they had taken the correct course of action. This was not without a great deal of disagreement. Their minister, Michael Monpellion, preaches of Jesus' words "That there is no greater love than this: that a man should lay down his life for his friends." Reverend Monpellion asks the villagers to take this piece of the gospel quite literally, as the town lost more than 2/3 of their population. There were insurrections, rebellion, grave digger's wanting to rob victims and those who preyed upon false superstition. But, in the end, the village was victorious. They buried far more people than remained alive. They did this not even knowing, as we do today, the way in which Plague is transmitted: from fleas in over 90% of the cases. Without even being aware of this knowledge, the residents of Eyam knew that contagion grew worse if people left. And so, they created boundaries and lived, or died, within them. Despite this novel being a work of fiction, the character development is so brilliant that I feel as if I've met the real people who lived, worked, tended, died and survived in this real life village.

Interestingly, the Pandemic of the Spanish Flu (from 1918 to 1920) not only killed more people than World War I combat, that was also claiming lives concurrently, but than the Plague had centuries earlier. In Thomas Mullen's novel, "The Last Town on Earth", I read a very different story than that of "The Year of Miracles". Mullen's novel focuses on Pacific Northwest towns cutting themselves off from the rest of civilization: but to protect others...only to protect themselves from the outside world. Interestingly, like Geraldine Brooks' novel, the country was at war (her novel takes place during the civil War in England) and yet, war is only in the background of both books."The Last Town on Earth" takes the opposite approach in stemming any tide of illness: they post armed guards at the entrances to their village of Commonwealth, Washington. When an injured, starving stranger appears at the gates, this town has three choices: to allow this man to die outside their parameters of exposure or infirmities, to shoot him themselves to prevent him from gaining access, or to allow him inside and render aid. While I read this novel more than two years ago, I found memories of it working their way to the uppermost part of my consciousness as the story of another quarantined town made itself known.

The question remains: is this the same story? Why, or why not? While I do find these two excellent novels, based on actual historical events, to contain many parallels, I do not believe it's the same premise. While both the Black Death and the Spanish Influenza brought with them widespread hysteria and unthinkable masses of dead, the reaction in Brooks' novel is one of self-sacrificial hope. The message in Mullen's novel is that of insular, fear driven selfishness. There are both "good" and "bad" characters in both novels, and each have their share of moments struggling with terror overriding rational decision making. However, whereas one novel chooses to keep their own illness to themselves, to prevent spreading it to neighboring towns (where family and friends might reside), the other chooses to ignore their neighbors' (and the rest of the world's) cry for assistance. "The Year of Miracles" continually speaks of faith. "The Last Town on Earth" speaks of prejudice. When taken together, it's a terrifying picture of real pandemics, and how they have effected civilization, socially, ethically and practically. In this age of Bird Flu, H1N1 virus, and other virulent forms of illness, these novels present a serious look at what has happened in the past.

Where would I have stood on this issue? It's always impossible to gauge unless one has been faced with the reality of a situation. That being said, my hope is that I would take a stand for honor, wherever that lies. There is very little honor in refusing aid to others, even if it means putting yourself at risk. Having been hospitalized in intensive care, exactly 2 years ago, I do not know how I would have survived had I not been treated by a brave, fabulous team headed up by an Infectious Disease specialist and pulmonologist, as well as countless wonderful nurses. Did they turn and run away from me? They did not. They solved my mystery, they were able to treat me, and while it was not an easy road to recovery, I was blessed to have medical attention for a dreadful, unexpected infection. What if I'd been tossed out the hospital door and said, "Sorry. You're out of luck. We don't want you infecting anyone"? I have been treated with dignity, with conviction and with bravery. I believe I'd be a sorry survivor to maintain the lifeboat theory from here on out: "I'm fine here. You're on your own." Therefore, I believe it is my duty to help out wherever I can, in whatever way is necessary. I may not be able to cure a disease, but I can bring comfort to those who need respite.

One of the lines I find most life affirming in Geraldine Brooks' novel is the true naming of the Plague year of 1666: Annis mirabalis: the Year of Wonders. John Druyden, an exceptional poet of the day, was living and writing at the time. Many religious leaders had predicted that 1666 would be the 'year of the beast', based on the 666 from the Book of Revelation. They weren't far off the mark: London's Great Fire, the English Navy's total defeat in battle at Sea, the Plague and other unfathomable disasters. Yet, Druyden chose to interpret the time as "The Year of Miracles" in his poem of the same name. It was his decision to choose to see the events as blessings, rather than curses, as so many people did. Druyden decided to view the events as facts and occurrences, rather than the end of the world. I admire his resolve, during this very difficult time. I would rather stand with the the John Druydens, the Isaac Newtons and the characters like Anna, in this world, than lock myself away in fear and exclusivity.

What would you do?

Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten. ~ John Druyden

Beyond Our Abilities

A pessimist is one who makes difficulties of his opportunities and an optimist is one who makes opportunities of his difficulties. ~Harry Truman

There are times it's especially easy to be an optimist. It's as if the entire order of the universe just seems to flow directly into our train of needs and thoughts. We pull into a crowded parking lot, and a space appears before us. We find out that the bank made an accounting error: in our favor. We didn't have time to study for an exam, and yet the material on the test is the information we knew well. We investigate a vacation, and find the hotel of our dreams is within our budget. We run into an old friend within moments of thinking of her. We find out we're having a much wanted baby, or that our child has been accepted into the school of her choice, with an academic scholarship. It rains for a week before our wedding, and then clears up to be the most beautiful day of the year. There can be large strokes of luck....such as falling in love with the person of our dreams. There can be small ones, like finding just what you wanted on sale. These are the days in which it's very easy to say "Life is wonderful! I'm incredible blessed!". When life gives us unexpected, unanticipated or much desired results, we praise the highest heavens at our good fortune. We feel as if we're destined for all good things to come and that nothing can ever, or will ever, change these circumstances of bounty. Optimism at these times is a simple process: we expect good to come, as it has already done so.


Yet, all of us, at one time or another, have experience the depths of despair. We are passed over for a position we wanted very much. We find ourselves in financial hardship. We learn of a close friend's betrayal. We are diagnosed with life threatening, mysterious illness. We lose a much wanted baby. We watch a parent succumb to death. We find that even daily life become difficult. All the household appliances seem to break down at once. The furnace fails on the coldest day of winter. Our car slides off the road in icy conditions. Our children's hearts are broken, and there is nothing we can do about it. It's during these times that we wonder if we are cursed, rather than blessed. We feel as if we're blighted. It's during these times that it's very difficult to remember our benefits. We are so caught up in the wretched feeling of "What can possibly go wrong next?" that we fail to see the small boons that do come our way. It feels as if the universe is, in short, out of get us.


Friends, I have been through every single one of these experiences. I've enjoyed the joys of magnificent blessing. I've felt the sting of fear and heartache more times than I'd like to count. There are days I want to pinch myself that my life is real, that good things are always to come. There are other times in which I wonder why on earth I'm being tested to the point of breaking my spirit. Life is often like a roller coaster: there are exceptional highs in which I've felt on top of the world, and lows so terrifying, I wasn't sure I'd make it back up again. Still, when time marches forward, I learn my lessons, I get out of my own disappointed thoughts, and I do my best to to remain content along any of life's paths. I've often admired the words of St. Paul from the 4th chapter of Philippians, "for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. " I have not yet achieved his enlightened perspective on this subject. But, I'm working on it....every day is a new step towards optimism in all circumstances.


The most challenging aspect of this is, of course, that most of these challenges are beyond our control. We have no way to prevent horrible things from happening. We can be careful, we can be mindful and we can think out all ramifications. And yet, disaster can strike us at any time. That being said, we can choose to live two ways, according to Albert Einstein...."You can choose to live as nothing is a miracle, or, you can choose to live as if everything is a miracle." Just as we do not choose to pick our hardships, we also do not choose our miracles. They choose us. When difficult times arise, we can begin to look back and wonder "What can I gain from this situation?". I have found that, in my darkest hours, it's nearly impossible to see the sun. But, when the day dawns again, I begin to notice the preciousness of life, the fragility of love, the dearness of those precious to me and the blessings in every day comforts. We can take for granted all the wonderful, everyday occurrences far too easily. When life is bleak, however, we can look at the magnificence of the trees in Autumn, we can hear the laughter of a toddler and we can smell the aroma of freshly baked banana bread. These, too, can be counted as miracles.

In my yoga classes, I always try to include one especially challenging pose. Many of my students balk and and tell me that they just "can't" even attempt to try it. They are understandably afraid: a headstand, or other physically demanding asana, can be just as terrifying emotionally. Their fears keep them from even wanting to explore this pose against the wall for support. I have been told valid reasons for not wanting to try: neck injuries, light headedness, spinal pain. Still, for those who want to try to work beyond their uncertainty, the empowerment achieved is amazing. I have one elderly student who expressed great reasons for trepidation in her lack of zeal to do headstand. I explained that she certainly did not *need* to do this pose, and I offered her a much gentler alternative. Yet, when she saw the grins of a few others in the class, just TRYING, she asked if I could help her. Using blocks, blankets, and other yoga props, I aided her in achieving a supported version of headstand. "Elsa" was overwhelmed with joy. On her way out of class, she hugged me and said, "I didn't believe I could do it, but you believed I could. Thank you for believing in me."

Sometimes, in life, what we need is not a winning lottery ticket or sun on a rainy day. What we need is someone else to believe in us. We need another human being to say "I know it's hard and I am here for you, but I have faith you can do it!". That is the best gift we can share with another: the gift of optimism, on their behalf, when something is out of their control. It's my hope that we can find methods to achieve this for ourselves, also.

New Beginnings

You can teach a student a lesson for a day; but if you can teach him to learn by creating curiosity, he will continue the learning process as long as he lives. ~Clay P. Bedford


There is something about the first day of school that feels like a holiday! The new backpacks, new lunchboxes, new notebooks, new back to school outfit, and new teachers in a new grade are all cause for anticipation and celebration. The excitement of being a year older, a year wiser and a year more prepared, mix in with the feelings of the sense of freshness to the school year ahead. There is an essence of anything being possible, when you start a new school year. I remember coming back to school, after summers away, and seeing how my classmates had reinvented their styles over the summer, or had grown a foot in height or had become far more (or less) serious about their schoolwork. I also recall being the new kid at school, far too many times, and having butterlies in my stomach the size of pterodactyls, wondering if I'd be accepted by the 'ruling establishment'. With that sense of excited expectation also comes that sense of dreaded horrors that just might lie in wait; a bitter teacher, a vicious clique or a principal hell bent on 'sending a message'. There is the wonder of a new school year, but there is also the fear of the unknown dangers, both academic and social, that lie ahead.


I have been both fortunate, and deeply unfortunate, in my teachers over the years. I have had those teachers who inspired me to be the woman I was destined to become. These men and women encouraged me in my strengths, and helped me to shore up my weaknesses. Unfortunately, I also had those who ruled their classrooms like Himler ruled the SS. These teachers accused students of being unprepared, insisted on catching us off guard and wanted to entrap us with adding material on tests not included in class or regular readings. They did, however, inform their "favorite" students of these surprise elements. These teachers inspired a lack of trust amongst the children in the classroom, as well as damaging a great deal of my self-esteem that took years to overcome. The fascinating point to me, now, is how dramatically the despicable teachers affected me, and seemed to have longer lasting effects than the good teachers did. Even during my yoga teacher training, I had a bizarre mixture of beautifully giving, methodical, intentional instructors and nasty, self-absorbed ones. It amazed me that anyone teaching yoga would be not only hurtfully critical, but downright mean. Why is that? Why do we still bear the scars of poor teaching more than we appreciate the inspiration of good teaching?



Having been on both sides of this issue, as a classroom teacher, a Director of Education, and now a yoga instructor, I can fully understand the demands placed on teachers, as well as the uncertainties faced by students. One of the wonderful aspects to working in yoga is the concept of being a lifelong learner. The classes I teach each week are not my only classes. I also take class, as a student, at least once a week, from a master teacher. I see my job as a teacher as that of individual facilitator. I do have lessons to teach that I have prepared for the entire class. But, I also see that I need to learn from my students; I need to learn what their needs are, how I can best assist them and how I can become a better teacher for their understanding. As a student myself, I appreciate that I do not "know it all". No matter how long I have been studying, there are always new ideas, new steps, and even new beginnings. My job, as a student, is to listen, to ask questions, to try and to keep coming back for more instruction. Teaching and learning are not as different as many people believe. The best teachers are those who continue to strive for inspiration in their own lives, and that the best students are those who are willing to ask questions to help their own learning process.

As my own children begin their senior and sophomore years in high school, it's my goal to be their advocate in the learning process. They are now old enough to be empowered in their educational experience, and yet, there are times they may both need a cheerleader, an interceder or an impartial view on a subject. I hope to instill in them a desire to learn...and a method of achieving that, even from teachers with whom they may not connect. I want to teach them the balance between school work and real life educations. I also want to show them that, even at my vast age, I never stop engaging in the learning process. The first day of school can be a tremendous boost to overcoming bad habits or to help begin positive traits. As for our family, it's my hope that each one of us can keep that first day excitement alive until June.

I just wish they would let me dress them in matching outfits to take their picture. Some life experiences are just outgrown.

Losing my voice

From Webster's Dictionary: Definition of voice: an expressed wish, choice, opinion or verbal utterance.

Have you ever had one of those mornings in which you wake up, just knowing that Murphy's law will prevail? In addition to a series of unfortunate mishaps, complications and life frustrations, I discovered that I had lost my voice completely, thanks to a rougher than average allergy season. The sounds I can make sound vaguely like squirrels quarreling in a nearby tree. Either that or my squeaks resemble a person repeatedly stepping on a mouse. My rodent verbal qualities have led my dogs to turn their heads sideways to try to understand my commands. This experience has made me wish I had taught the dogs hand signals. "Sit" and "stay" simply do not carry the same power when my Donald Duck voice is giving the order. Above all, losing my voice just hurts. My throat is very painful, and I have been living on hot tea, Chicken Soup and Chloroseptic spray. Unfortunately, none of these remedies have made it easier for me to communicate with my family and friends, as well as my pets. I have been gesturing passionately (and only understood about half the time) and using a big, yellow legal pad to write out my comments.


The sad fact is: I'm a talker. I can speak until I'm almost asleep, and as my husband can attest, I can even continue to talk once my eyes are closed if I'm really motivated on a subject. Being able to express myself has never been an issue for me. Learning to know when to keep quiet has been a much more difficult skill for me to master. Tact, listening and mindfulness are all part of my journey in becoming a true 'adult'. My father used to tease me that I couldn't eat without talking. We had experiments night after night in which I had to try to learn to keep peacefully quiet. I failed miserably.


That being said, not being able to speak has proven to be quiet different than having a self-regulated time of not communicating. I have had to learn what it is truly important. Since none of us know Sign Language in my family, I've had to save my painful squeaks for truly urgent comments, and other than that, I've had to decide if what I want to say is really worth writing down....or playing Charades...to get my message across. I've discovered that most of my chit-chat is ridiculously meaningless, and if I can hold on to my thought a little longer, I may not need to use half a sheet of lined paper to express every sentiment that enters my train of thought. While I can't say that this has been a "Road to Emmaus" experience, I am learning that most of what I say doesn't need to be said. It's a sad and harsh realization, but it's certainly been eye opening for me.


Not having a voice has also given me more time to contemplate communication. Since I can't communicate directly, losing my voice has proven an invaluable metaphor for what I know happens to millions of women around the world every day. Many women do not have the same kinds of freedoms that we have here in the western world. They are silenced and beaten into submission. Their voices, even ones that can speak articulately and from a well educated perspective, aren't valued. The poorer women simply face death on a daily basis by not having a voice that is heard at all. Their thoughts, their feelings, their very lives are considered valueless. One of my favorite authors, Khaled Hosseini, was greatly celebrated for his book, "The Kite Runner", which was later made into an extraordinary, award winning movie. But, his second book, "The Thousand Splendid Sons" relates the plight of interrelated women, and the struggles they share. They unite to find a common voice, but being heard doesn't come without grave consequences. This vitally relevant fictional story, of life under Taliban rule in Afghanistan, taught me to never lose sight of the valuable gift in having a voice that can be heard...even for things that are inconsequential. A woman not having a voice is a dreadful thing for society. The U.N. has issued study after study about nations living in poverty. The studies find that, where women are educated and heard, society prospers. The converse is also true.


Fairy tales, like Hans Christian Anderson's "The Little Mermaid, relate stories about women freely giving up their "voice". In Anderson's tale, Arielle literally gives away her power of speech to try to capture 'the handsome prince'. Yet, fairy tales are rife with women releasing their inner power, their gifts and their strengths in order to gain favor with the men whose attention they hope to capture. I don't believe that fairy tales are bad for children. They do help stimulate creative thought and imagination writing. However, I also believe it's vitally important that we equip our children, boys and girls, with the understanding of respecting the voices of all...men and women, rich and poor, from all corners of the globe. We must instruct them and encourage them to never allow their own voices to be given away to someone else. We must all remember that our opinions, our nature, our beliefs and our ideals are what make each of us unique and valued.

While I have not enjoyed my experience with the loss of my physical voice, I do appreciate the opportunity it has given me to be silent and reflect upon the voices of others. I'm only sorry that it has taken my own yammering to cease to 'hear' them.