Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

Musings about overcoming and appreciating anxiety and learning to love myself.

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Lessons from the Lake

Yesterday, it was 75 degrees and sunny here.  The weather was gorgeous, so we decided to put the new boat in the water.  It wasn’t our maiden voyage, but it was only the second time we’d taken her out on the lake.  Because the water is still too cold for tubing, the kids weren’t interested.  So we invited another couple to join us, and the kids stayed home.  

We definitely lucked out.  Not just with the weather, but also with the launch and the boat itself and all of it.  There’s a lot of preparation involved, but also a good bit of luck.  And some necessary humility.  Boating teaches you lessons you didn’t know you had to learn.  

There are so many things that can go wrong when you’re boating.  That’s especially true when you’re new to the sport or if your vessel is new to you.  You’re still getting used to the processes and the quirks.  Anyone who has ever had to back up a trailer knows that it doesn’t go smoothly the first time.  Or the first 20 times, for that matter.  

Brene Brown talks about FFTs- Freaking First Times- as a source of excitement and as a source of stress.  Anticipation is both a positive and a negative, and first times are a hurdle for all of us, at different levels. 

The first time launching a boat is an unforgettable FFT.  It starts with backing up the trailer.  Some boat launches are friendlier than others.  Some give you plenty of room to swing your truck around and back straight into the water (which is still a lot harder than you would think).  Others are narrow and angled and unforgiving.   Backing up a trailer is counter-intuitive to everything you think you know about driving.  So you have to re-learn and reset.  I advise significant practice in a large parking lot before you try to do this for real.  And for goodness sake, don’t rush.  It will only make things worse. 

Lesson #1:  You’ll get better with practice. Just keep trying. And take all the time you need. 

Then there are the people.  On a lake, there are generally only one or two ways in and out of the water with your boat.  So there is usually a line.  When you’re launching, you have to pay attention to the boats coming in, as well as the boats going out.  There are people on jet skis.  There are kayakers and people fishing from the shoreline and families feeding the ducks.  And whether it’s true or not, it feels like they’re ALL watching you.  

Chances are, most of these people are not first-timers.  And they may or may not remember what it is like to BE a first-timer.  So as you navigate this complicated first time task, you will likely have an audience judging your performance and finding it to be less than exceptional.  No pressure. 

Just before you actually put the boat into the water, there is a mental checklist to be completed.  There are plugs and pumps, wires and chains, pulleys and keys to think about.  It’s not that complicated once you’re familiar with it and you have a routine.  But your first time out?  Having just embarrassed yourself with 6 attempts to back the trailer into the water?  With all of those eyes on you?  Well, that’s when you’re most likely to forget a step.  

Lesson #2:  Don’t let embarrassment distract you from your goals. 

If you’re lucky, someone in the audience will remember what that FFT was like.  They will offer a smile or a word of encouragement or a suggestion.  They might remind you to unplug your trailer lights or give a tip on the best parking spot for your truck.  And when you’re in the middle of an FFT, that small gesture can feel like a lifeline.  

We’ve been doing this a while now, and launching isn’t as stressful anymore.  Jack is excellent at backing up the trailer (and I’m getting better, myself). But a new boat means a new routine.  So, while reversing the trailer has become old hat, there are still different pulleys and levers to check. We’re still working out the kinks.  

Even once you’ve mastered the launch, you have to become an expert in the quirks of your particular vessel. 

Our first boat was held together with duct tape and prayers.  We bought it for $2,000 and I couldn’t have been happier.  The deck had a few noticeable soft spots; you had to be careful where you stepped.  The engine was a little unreliable, despite all of Jack’s tweaks and tune-ups.  He kept a tool kit on the boat, and more than once, the kids swam and I threw down an anchor while Jack worked his magic with a wrench and some elbow grease.  

Also, the fuel gauge didn’t work.  We found that out the hard way.  As we were cruising, the boat stuttered to a stop.  At first, we thought it was that unreliable engine, and Jack broke out the tools.  No amount of tinkering would get it started, though.  The lake was too deep for our anchor, and we were floating toward the rocky shoreline.  I started to panic a bit, but Jack kept his cool.  He broke out the paddles, and we were able to keep ourselves from crashing. 

Another family of boaters was out tubing, too.  They saw we were in trouble and came over to offer assistance.  With an improvised rope-towing system, they pulled us back to the boat launch. It was embarrassing, and a hassle, but ultimately, everything was fine because a few good people were willing to help us out.  

Lesson 3:  There are good people out there.  Let them help you.

In addition to the quirks of your boat, you have to know the body of water you’re in.  There are likely hazards; shallow water or weedy areas or rocks just under the surface.   One lake we went to regularly had a rock wall just under the water line near the boat launch.  It wasn’t marked; we were lucky enough to have someone point it out to us early on, and we tried to return the favor to others who seemed unaware.  

Lesson 4: Learn from those who’ve gone before you.  Teach those who follow.

We were on a new lake yesterday, and we hit a bump.  Literally.  We weren’t too close to shore.  We were putting around, slowly, admiring the houses on the shoreline.  An unfamiliar alarm began to beep.  Jack thought the engine was overheating.  He kicked the boat into neutral just as we hit a sandbar about 18 inches deep.  We were beached.  

I tend to overreact in these situations.  That’s why Jack is the captain, and I’m just the first mate.  I wanted to jump off the boat and push us off the sandbar.  But I have learned this lesson the hard way:  Do NOT jump off the boat without the Captain’s permission.  Even if you think you’re being helpful.  Because then he’ll have to worry about the problem AND worry about hitting you with the boat, which is always LESS helpful than you intended it to be.  

Lesson #5: It never helps to panic.

So I waited.  I listened to Jack.  I eventually did end up in the lake, but not in a frantic panic.  I calmly stepped off the bow into about a foot of water.  It was cold but not frigid.  The boat was lodged but not totally stuck.  I pushed.  Jack put the engine in reverse.  We got ourselves unstuck.  That part was lucky.  But what was even luckier was that I managed to step up the front ladder, grab the hand of a friend, and haul my butt back into the boat without falling backwards into the water or flopping forward into the boat like a dead fish.  I remained upright and dry.  It was an actual miracle.  

Given all of the potential boating pitfalls, you’d think my anxiety would be through the roof on these excursions… and it would be, if it weren’t for my husband.   He’s in his element on the water.  His time in the Navy serves him well at the helm.  When we’re on the boat, there’s nothing that I need to be in charge of.  I do what I’m asked, and I’m often pretty helpful.  But I’m not in charge, and there’s an amazing relief in letting go of that.  When I have no choice but to trust my husband, I’m reminded of how capable and calm and smart he is.  I am so grateful to have that kind of partner in life.  

Lesson #6:  Find a great partner.  Learn to trust them deeply.  

Before today, we’d never been boating without the kids. Don’t get me wrong; I love the swimming and the tubing and the loud, animated laughter when there are children on the boat.  But boating with only adults was just…. Well, it was heavenly. We admired the homes on the shoreline.  We paid attention to nature, and we watched a bald eagle soar overhead.  We joked and laughed and talked and ate and drank and enjoyed each others’ company.  It was relaxing and rejuvenating and refreshing.  It was a beautiful day, and it hinted at a whole lot of beautiful days ahead.  I’m looking forward to our summer on the boat… with adults.  With kids.  With anyone who’s up for an adventure and a few life lessons.  

Lesson #7: Rest.  Relax.  And enjoy the people you’re with. 

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Inspired

I haven’t written lately.  I’ve been waiting for some sort of inspiration.  Well… maybe inspiration isn’t the right word.  An idea?  A worthy thought?  

When I write, it’s not always because I’m feeling inspired.  More often, I’m having some sort of internal debate.  Or I’m obsessing about something and I need to get it out.  Usually, when I sit down at my computer, I at least have an IDEA.  Sometimes, it’s a fully-fleshed out blog post in my head and I just have to get it on paper.  Often, it’s just a topic; an observation or a rant … and I’m not quite sure where the writing will take me.  

But sometimes, there is no idea.  Sometimes it’s just been too long and I feel the words building up inside of me.  Journaling helps.  But it doesn’t always do the trick. Because if I’m really honest, it’s much more rewarding to write something that other people might read.  

I had a writing teacher in middle school who once told me, “If you can’t think of an idea, just write, ‘I don’t know what to write’ over and over again.  Something will come to you.  And at least you’re writing!”  At the time, I thought it was stupid.  But I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten better advice.  

Now, instead of ‘I don’t know what to write,’ I’ll start by describing my surroundings.  Maybe I’ll add in a stream of consciousness.  It might not even be complete thoughts.  I’ll jot down words and phrases.  I’ll write terrible sentences, knowing they’ll never be read.  But I have to start.  Sometimes it turns in to something presentable.  More often, it becomes part of the collection of half-written musings in my ‘draft’ folder.  

That’s the kind of day that today is.  I don’t have an idea or a topic.  I certainly don’t have a fully formed blog in my brain.  Today I just have a cup of coffee and a few extra minutes and a desire to put words into sentences.  

I’m not sure if these feelings point to typical writer’s block, or if they’re a symptom of a more pervasive, societal lethargy.  Everyone I talk to is just… tired.  I don’t have to tell you.  You know.  We’re tired of homeschooling and social distancing and wearing masks and missing our family and our friends.  We’re just TIRED.  

And there’s something deflating about a SECOND Easter without.  Without church.  Without tradition.  Without family gathering.  Without the fanfare and celebration. 

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I’ve always loved Holy Week.  As we conclude the Lenten season, we’re reflective and aware of ourselves as being flawed and human and capable of better. And Holy Week gives us permission to slow down and really sit with ALL of our emotions.  We don’t gloss over the hard parts.  We study them.  We FEEL them.  Betrayed. Persecuted. Forsaken.  Crucified. But to get to the end of this journey, it is our responsibility to move through all of it.  If we skip from the parade celebration of Palm Sunday right to the joy of Easter, we’re missing the point.  

Holy Week starts with the anticipation and enthusiasm of Palm Sunday.  It moves to the uncertainty and confusion of Maundy Thursday.  The sanctity and sacrament of the last supper.  Then we feel the deep, heavy, tragedy of Good Friday.  And finally, the joy of Resurrection Sunday.  

But what about that Saturday?  TODAY is that in-between day that we don’t know what to do with.  This Holy Saturday isn’t marked by a church service.  It’s not celebrated with a liturgy.  Today is the day after the tragedy but before the joy. We cannot deny that there has been great suffering.  We can see to tomorrow; we know that joy will be upon us soon.  But today? Today we can only feel our feelings and wait.  

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Yeah.  Holy Week has a different meaning this year.  We have spent the last year moving through the hard parts.  The fear, the confusion, the uncertainty.  The grief, the sadness, the frustration.  

And this spring? This spring is the Saturday before Easter.  

We can’t celebrate yet, but we can see it.  The mood is changing.  The air is shifting.  There is hope.  There is optimism.  Tomorrow, there will be joy.  

Hallelujah. 

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Back to School

In my first year teaching, I arrived at school with a terrible misconception.  I thought I would be handed a schedule of classes and groups to teach.  As a new teacher, I wasn’t prepared for the reality at all.  I spent several afternoons crying and sorting through piles of paperwork, trying to figure out how to fit 8 hours of instruction into a 6 hour day.  Ultimately, I failed.  It took a mentor, a partner, and two administrators several days to help me work out the kinks before I could actually start teaching.  It required creativity.  We had to do things like group two different grades together.  We had to divide 45 minutes of service into three 15 minute blocks.  We had to eliminate all of my supervision duties, which earned me resentment from my new colleagues.  It was awful. 

And I’ve had to do it every year since.  

You see, Special Educators aren’t given a schedule.  They’re given a caseload and a pile of IEPs (Individual Education Programs) that outline what services need to be provided to the students.  And it is up to us to make it happen.  We’re flexible.  We’re creative.  We’re resilient.  We work together.   And almost every year, we’re able to make it work.  Sometimes we have to hire another part time person to help with the load.  Sometimes we have to team up to tackle a problem.  But we usually wind up with a complicated, creative schedule that meets the needs of our students.  

This gets easier with experience.  You learn what classes are required and which ones aren’t.  You learn who is the most flexible of your colleagues.  You figure out how to teach two lessons at the same time.  You break kids into groups.  You partner them creatively.  You plan multiple lessons so that kids still have quality instruction when they are working independently.  You advocate for the best possible paraprofessional staff because those are the people who hold it all together when it feels impossible.  

But, despite knowing all of this, even seasoned Special Educators often begin the year thinking, this is never going to work.

In a typical year, we spend hours upon hours in May and June placing kids in specific groups and teams so that we can provide all of the services that they require.  

This year, all of that work was done… but it’s being complicated by the fact that all of these kids aren’t guaranteed to be in the same cohort.  They could be moving through their classes on opposite days, doubling the time that we have to spend teaching that group.  Some of them are choosing to stay home and participate in entirely remote schooling.  To complicate things further, kids on IEPs might receive different amounts of in-school instruction.  While their peers could be in school two days a week, some students will be in-person for four days of instruction.  They’ll attend classes for two days, and then receive specialized support and instruction on the alternate days.  

We’re still trying to figure out how that will work.  Will they complete remote assignments?  Something different?  Can we change their class times?  Add staff?  If I’m teaching an English class in my room, where will the other group be?  Who will teach them? The unanswered questions make my head spin.  

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I have to pause and say that I have been incredibly impressed with the administrative team in the district where I work.  They have created thoughtful plans, working with educators and stakeholders to ensure that we are prioritizing the safety and health of our staff and students.  I am glad to be working in my current district; I’ve worked in several school systems where educators were dismissed and mistreated.  I’ve worked in places where the union and the school administration functioned as adversaries.  I’ve worked in places where the bottom line was always the most important consideration.  I’ve worked in places where teachers were dispensable, especially as they became more experienced and more expensive.  

So, as my anxiety builds coming into this crazy new teaching experiment, I am reassured by our administrators.  My concerned and questioning emails always receive a reply.  Sometimes the answers are clear.  Sometimes the answer is, “We’re working on it.”  Sometimes the reply is, “Thanks for bringing that to our attention.” Our administration is responsive and collegial and supportive.  I have faith that we’ll figure out all of the complicated scheduling details together.  But that’s only the first step. 

In addition to complex scheduling, we’ll also be dealing with substantial changes to the WAY we teach. 

Tried and true methods will need to be revised.  

One of the most essential and evasive things that new teachers need to learn is classroom management.  To some, this comes naturally.  To many, it’s a hard-earned skill.  But it is also highly personal.  Everyone approaches it differently.  Here are a few things that teachers do:

-Use proximity.  Sometimes standing next to a student is all it takes to change off-task behavior.   Teachers in many schools are now being instructed to stand at the front of the room, without moving during class. 

-Call kids by name.  They pay more attention and they respond more quickly.  Teachers recording lessons are being asked NOT to use names for privacy reasons. 

-Use nonverbal cues.  Instead of calling out a kid’s behavior, most of us shoot a warning look across the room.  Or we tap the desk.  Or we simply take away a distraction (toys or phones) while continuing to teach.  Masks and distancing rules make many of these strategies ineffective. 

-Make it interesting.  Don’t sit at your desk.  Don’t lecture.  Instruction should be creative and engaging.  Use project-based learning.  Do experiments.  Play games.  Get the kids up and moving.  Many of the things that we’ve come to accept as best practice simply won’t be possible under new guidelines.

-Provide unobtrusive support.  When a student with executive functioning concerns can’t find his paper, silently hand him another one.  When a student with ADHD is daydreaming, tap on her desk to help her refocus. When a dyslexic student is struggling with a word, show him where the syllables break.  So many of these strategies require shared materials and close proximity.  What is safe?  What will be allowed?  Under what circumstances? 

-Group students for the task at hand.  Sometimes, we want all of the strong students in one group, so we can provide them with a more challenging task.  Sometimes we want to vary the levels of ability in the group, so that they can learn from and teach each other, because teaching is one of the best ways to learn something new.  Sometimes we want them to be with their friends.  Sometimes we want them to practice negotiating with difficult peers.  Contact tracing means that kids will be working with or near the same peers for much of their day.  IF group work can even happen, it won’t be flexible. 

-Differentiate instruction.  Students (especially those on IEPs) have different needs.  They don’t all move at the same pace.  So there are discreet ways to meet each student where they are.  Maybe they have a math worksheet. All of the even numbered problems are the same, so we go over those together.  The odd numbered questions might be review, or simplified, or challenge problems.  Kids don’t all have the same sheet, but they don’t know it.  Maybe we’re taking notes.  Some students have an outline to fill in.  Some have a mostly completed outline with a few blanks to fill in.  Some students have a complete outline and they need to highlight or add definitions.  In middle school, there’s almost always more than one version of the test.  Maybe there’s one with simplified language for kids who are learning English.  Maybe there’s one with fewer problems for kids who test slowly.  Maybe there’s an audio version for kids with dyslexia.  I recently realized that, while nearly ALL teachers do this to some extent, many families and parents don’t realize that it’s happening.  That’s how it works if we do it well.  If we eliminate or reduce paper, or stop sharing headphones, or stop walking around the classroom, we will have to change the way we differentiate.  It will require commitment and creativity.

I’m sure my colleagues could add infinitely to this list.  We’re having to re-imagine education.  We’re adjusting and innovating and modifiying. We’re teaming up to tackle problems that many parents are entirely unaware of.  

But the thing is… we will do it.  We always do.  That’s what I’ve learned in two decades of teaching.  Every year, I’ve come to the table thinking, this is never going to work.  

And every year, I find myself surrounded by passionate, creative, enthusiastic, professional educators.  I am consistently impressed by their commitment and grit and teamwork.  Every year, we do whatever it takes.  We buy materials and write grants.  We purchase curriculum and create what we can’t find.  We scope ‘Teachers Pay Teachers’ to find quality materials that our colleagues have already created.  We connect with students and parents.  We form relationships.  We get to know our students. We anticipate needs.  We modify what doesn’t work and expand on what does.  We share ideas and we learn from each other. 

Teachers are professionals.  We do what we do because we love it and because we’re good at it.  Problem solving is just one of our superpowers.  

But this year, more than any other, our jobs will be made so much easier if we could all extend each other a little grace.  Let’s adopt a few basic beliefs… for both parents AND teachers.  

We are all learning. 

We would love to go back to ‘normal.’

There will be bumps… but we are doing our very best.  

Teachers can try to be understanding… When your teen oversleeps on his remote learning day.  Or your first grader couldn’t find her crayons at home.  Or your internet went down on the day of the big presentation. 

Parents can try to be understanding… When the online assignment doesn’t load.  When the grading takes longer than usual.  When your child complains about restrictions at school.  

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How many times have we heard, “We’re all in this together?”  Well, the thing is… for educators and parents, that’s nothing new.  We’ve always been in this together. 

We’re all in the job of trying to do what’s best for kids.  To help them grow and develop into functional, kind, educated, capable citizens.  And while COVID has changed so many things, that still remains.  Teachers, administrators, and parents are all in this crazy, scary, unprecedented thing together.  

For now, we can take a beat.  We can sit for a moment with the fear that this is never going to work.  But we can’t stay there.  Pretty soon, we’re all going to buck up a bit.  We’re going to put on our big kid pants and figure it out.  We’re going to make it work, because that’s what teachers (and parents) do best. 

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Go in Peace

I’m sitting in my living room, watching the remnants of a tropical storm pass by my picture window.  The rain and the wind are both violent and cathartic.  There’s something beautiful that happens when the weather matches your mood. 

The wind calms.  The rain keeps coming.  My neighbor is standing on his porch, holding his baby girl.  I am intrigued.  At first I worry.  Is something wrong? After a moment, I realize that they are dancing in the rain.  Did I ever do that with my children?  No.  Why didn’t I ever dance in the rain with my babies? 

My babies aren’t babies anymore and there’s a pandemic that’s shifting everything I thought I knew. I’m simultaneously learning all there is to know about myself and understanding less and less about the world around me.  

Is this just midlife? 

Is it midlife during a pandemic? 

The rain gusts.  The wind shakes the house.  And then… nothing.  The sun is shining again.  All is calm.  What is happening?  Why can’t we have just one thing at a time? 

Huh.  I guess the weather matches my mood more than I realized. 

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At some point, I’ll gather my thoughts coherently enough to write a post about returning to teaching during a pandemic.  As those decisions swirl in my brain and around my community, I’m trying to put them aside to focus on a few things that I can actually control.  

Well, really just one thing.  Because there is only one thing I can ever control.  

Me.  

That’s it.  The rest is just illusion and nonsense.  

I can control my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions, my habits, my reactions. 

Nothing more.  

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Since March, I’ve taken the time to focus on developing better habits.  I’m sleeping more.  I’m writing more.  I’m eating better and moving more.  I’m being deliberate about friendships and connections.  I’m trying to be more intentional and attentive with my kids.  I’m reducing stress and focusing on joy and doing a whole bunch of really cool stuff.  I’m setting better boundaries.  My yesses are more enthusiastic and my nos are firmer.  I’m trying new things.  I’m stretching myself in ways that I can control.  Life is stretching me in ways that I cannot.  

I don’t think it’s just me.  Didn’t everyone start this whole quarantine thing baking bread and planting seeds and slowing down a little?  Didn’t we all get rocked by a newfound awareness of injustice?  Didn’t we all have to find some meaning in it?  Aren’t we all trying to be better people?  

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I read a book recently that was written by an Anglican priest.  Having grown up in the Episcopal Church, I was pulled into nostalgia by her references to traditions and prayers from my youth. 

At the end of Sunday worship, the final line was always, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I hear those words and my heart settles.  But the author pointed out our tendency to think of our love and service in terms of big ideas and lofty ideals.  As a child, I know I did.  I thought that meant to volunteer and feed the hungry and build homes for the homeless. 

Now in adulthood, the writer reminded me, that love and service winds up looking a lot like the mundane bits of time that compose a life.  Does that make it any less valuable?  Can I love and serve the Lord by washing dishes?  Can I love and serve the Lord when I’m checking my email or driving to the doctor or pulling my kids off screens yet again?  Of course I can.  

And I’ve begun to use this as a mantra.  Go in peace.  Breathe.  You are loved.  You are not alone.  Peace be with you.  Go in peace to love.  Love your kids.  Love everyone’s kids. Love your neighbors.  Love protesters.  Love police.  Love sinners and saints and love people you don’t understand.  Go in peace to love and serve.  Serve your friends and your family.  Your elders.  Those in need.  Those who don’t seem to be in need.  The lonely.  The marginalized.  The weary.  The joyful.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  

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All of these lessons are crashing in on me.  Does it even matter if I’m becoming better as the world around me is falling apart? 

The rain comes down in sheets again.  The wind whips through the trees.  It’s terrifying and exhilarating.   

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It’s such a cliché.  Dancing in the rain, I mean.  But as a metaphor, it works… obviously.  That’s how we get clichés, after all. 

We don’t have the power to control the storm.  But peace doesn’t come from control.  Control is a tempting illusion.  Real peace comes from faith.  Faith in whatever form speaks to you.  Faith in yourself.  In your relationships.  In your community.  Faith in God or the Holy Spirit or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in.  So believe in something.  Inhale grace. Go in peace.  And if you still can, dance in the rain with your babies.  You won’t regret it. 

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I’m bored

I’m bored.  

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did.  I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk…. 

I’m bored.  

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated.  All these toys?  This pool you’ve got?  These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods?  Stop complaining.  Go find something to do.  

I’m bored.  

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside.  I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.  

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My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation.  Only boring people get bored.  Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions.  More and more often, I have this nagging unrest.  Unease.  Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working.  Much of it is COVID related.  And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom. 

And I rail against it. 

I’ve painted and redecorated.  Cleaned.  Sorted.  We’ve done fire pits and puzzles.  Swimming and reading.  Writing.   Cooking.  Hiking.  Socially distanced visits.  Takeout.  Zoom cooking class.  Spa day.  Gardening.  Repeat.  

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do.  I have plenty to DO.  The cooking and cleaning are endless.  We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with.  There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.  

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty.  I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing.  And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.  

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying.  I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making.  I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas.  I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries… 

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.  

I miss my friends. 

I miss my book club. 

I miss church.

I miss concerts.  

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom. 

I miss camping.  

Restaurants. 

Carnivals.

Festivals.  

Movie theaters. 

Arcades. 

Museums. 

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks.  I sign up for online classes.  I take the kids on outdoor excursions.  I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family. 

I write.  And as I write this, something is dawning on me.  Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  Maybe it’s grief.  

Not the soul-wrenching kind.  Not the life-shattering kind.  Simply a vague sense of loss.  Unmet expectations.  Disappointment.  

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety.  I know we’ve got it good.  So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity.  I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.  

I’m bored.  

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable.  Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.  

But the disappointment?  That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with. 

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling.  All of them, not just the pleasant ones.  Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget.  I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health. 

So I’m going to feel the disappointment.  I’m going to stop calling it boredom.  

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.  

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails.  I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow.  Because the busy-ness will start again.  When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.  

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Handling It

When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with Billy Joel and determined to learn all the words to We Didn’t Start the Fire. I sat down on my bedroom floor with the CD insert in my hand.  I’d read a line over and over again.  Close my eyes.  Repeat it.  Sing it with the CD.  Repeat ad infinitum.  I managed it.  I learned all the words.  But it was like learning a foreign language.  I didn’t know these names.  I didn’t understand these references.  As a pre-teen, I didn’t realize how much meaning I was missing. I just liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue. 

Now I’m in my 40s, observing world events and personal tragedies that press into my chest and leave me searching for, well… something.  Answers? Peace? Breath?  My friends and I sometimes ask each other, Has it always been this awful?  Were we just unaware in our youth? Maybe this is just middle age.  Maybe the torch is finally being passed and we weren’t anticipating the weight of it.  

I remember being excited to drive.  To vote.  To teach.  To worship.  To become a parent.  Now each of these privileges has become a responsibility with substantial heft and urgency.  I feel burdened in a way that is new to me.  I am heavy with the weight of adulthood.  

We’re all still steeped in this pandemic.  We’re trying to find some joy and normalcy and negotiate new rules and norms and expectations.  If that were all of it, it would be stressful.  But lately, it seems like there’s so much more.  

There are personal tragedies.  Too many of them … and they just keep coming.   A friend was in crisis recently.  I called her mother.  Even though I knew it was unreasonable, I wanted this mom to give me the answers. I wanted to be a child again, leaning on an adult who would just tell me what to do.  

But that’s a silly dream. Because nobody really knows how to do any of it.   

I don’t know how to comfort a friend who has lost a child.  

I don’t know how to counsel a friend through her mania. 

I don’t know how to parent during a pandemic. 

I don’t know how to teach remotely.  

I don’t know how to fight systemic racism. 

I don’t know how to protect LGBTQ kids. 

I don’t know how to fix the foster care system.  

Or the government. 

Or the church.

Or the schools.  

I don’t know.  

I don’t know.  

I. 

Don’t. 

Know.  

I don’t know how to do any of this.

I’m looking around for the adults.  There is only my reflection.  There is no one to tell me the answers.  There is no one to carry this burden for me.  

********

I wrote all of that yesterday.  Shortly thereafter, my foster daughter told me that she’s moving out when she turns 18 next week. There’s so much trauma there.  A lot of mistrust.  Some ‘shopping’ for the perfect family that doesn’t exist. I asked her some pointed questions about her plans.  Where would she live?  How would she pay her bills?  How would she handle all of that change during her Senior year? When she first told me, it felt like one more thing I didn’t know how to handle.  But I didn’t overreact.  I didn’t panic.  We talked.  For hours.  And ultimately, she decided to stay.  I handled it.

This morning, as I walked the dog, I noticed she was stopping a lot.  I took a closer look and realized that she wasn’t peeing.  She was bleeding.  Not a little blood in her urine.  Like, pure blood.  I called the vet.  We’re heading there today.  I don’t know what will happen.  She could need antibiotics or she could need chemo.  It will be expensive.  It might be scary.  It might be sad.  But I know I will handle it. 

And then I think about my friend who lost her child.  I mailed a card.  I prayed.  I sent money.  And I will be there for her as she slowly climbs up out of this hellish grief.  She will handle it, too.  She will get through, moment by moment.  She will love her daughter and cry for her loss and she will handle it.  

And maybe being an adult isn’t about knowing the solutions.  Maybe it’s not about fixing everything.  Maybe it’s about understanding that we can’t fix it all. 

But we can handle it.  We can handle our shit.  One challenge at a time. One child.  One lesson.  One moment.  One tragedy.  One reform.  One foot in front of the other.  Together.  Holding each other through the celebrations and the grief. 

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Bad Days

It’s been three days like this.  That’s unusual for me.  Of course I have bad days, like everyone does.  But not usually three in a row.  And not when it’s sunny out.  That’s when I can typically rally.  

Signs that I’m not okay:

– I can’t find my motivation.  I don’t want to tackle a project or play a family game or cook a fancy meal.  

–  I tell myself to stop the mindless scrolling.  And before I know it, I’m looking at the same memes again. 

–  Netflix asks if I’m still watching.  

–  I’m eating another meal… and I’m not sure which one it is. 

–  The zoom happy hours and family board games and good books… they can’t touch this.  They don’t help. 

– Tears.  Happy tears.  Sad tears.  Tired tears.  Overwhelmed tears.  

The first day, I sat with it.  It was Friday.  I still did my work and I sat outside a little and I went for a walk.  But I was sad.  And I let myself feel it. I ordered pizza for dinner instead of cooking.  I read my book and watched TV and I didn’t force any family fun.  I met with my friends on zoom, and I even rallied for a little bit. 

But on the next day, when I woke up in a foul mood again, I decided to fight it.  Another sad day felt self-indulgent.  And unhealthy.  Plus, the sun was shining and there were jobs to be done.  I rallied the family.  We filled an entire dumpster with crap from the garage and the shed.  There was an impromptu water fight with the hose.  But once we were all sweaty and tired, I let our little group disband without a fight.  They went back to their rooms for some peace and screen time.  I set up for an online cooking class with some friends.  My brother in law taught us to make soufflé, and it was a really good time.  I drank wine and cooked and then called each of my friends to de-brief and drink more wine.  It was actually quite lovely. 

So why was I still sad the next morning?  I cried through virtual church.  I had a couple of online meetings and then I forced myself to go to buy dog food.  And that was all I could do.  I watched some inspiring videos and cried.  I watched some bad TV and cried.  I read a little bit and cried.  I found out some sad news and cried some more.  Bea got me to rally.  She started making a full-on meal and needed my help.  We made spring rolls and fried wontons and wonton soup and rice and sautéed broccoli for dinner.  She pulled me out of my funk for a little while, and I’m grateful for that. 

But today had a similar, melancholy feel.  I had work to do, so I did it.  But I was lethargic about the whole thing.  I saw my colleagues online at a staff meeting, and it just made me sad.  I dropped the recycling off and I picked up a prescription.   The things that have brought a sense of normalcy didn’t help. They just made me sadder. 

I’m sitting at my desk, noticing the buds and the flowers that have begun to appear on the tree outside my window.  I have two thoughts.  “How beautiful.”  And “I don’t want this to be my Spring.”  

I’m not sure how to spend this evening.  I could melt into this lethargy.  I could have the kids make their own sandwiches for dinner and binge the rest of Schitt’s Creek and maybe read a little.  

I could rise to the occasion and help Bea with her history homework and actually check Cal’s reading log and look over Lee’s Social Studies project.  I could vacuum (again) and finally clean the bathroom and cook a real dinner.  

But maybe I’ll opt for something in-between.  Maybe I’ll call my mom back and toss a salad and grill some paninis.  Maybe I’ll settle into a Scrabble game with my husband and have one of the kids run the vacuum.  

I’ve lost my balance.  I had it for a little while.  I was juggling work and homeschooling and long walks.  I was painting and cleaning and cooking and reading.  I was resting by the fire pit and laughing on zoom with my family and friends.  

Now that I wrote that, it doesn’t look like balance.  It looks like perpetual motion.  Maybe that’s what feels good to me when I’m overwhelmed.  It feels good to be DOING.  That’s my default.  Maybe I have to get better at SITTING.  And FEELING. 

That’s why I write.  It slows me down.  It helps me notice.  It helps me to process and reflect.  So tonight, I’m going to slow it down a notch without slamming the brakes.  I’m going to try to sit and feel and notice a little more.  I’m going to try to breathe and pray.  

I’m going to play some Scrabble and ignore the dirty bathroom.  Wish me luck.  

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Lessons Learned

Lessons I’ve learned during quarantine:

1.  I don’t hate walking.  I hate walking unruly dogs.  These are two entirely different endeavors.  Walking alone, listening to a podcast or chatting with a friend, is entirely enjoyable.  Walking with my husband or my son is equally pleasant.  Walking with my entire family or any combination of dogs is distinctly unenjoyable.  Having learned this lesson, I now look forward to frequent, low-intensity exercise. 

2.  Trying on clothes is highly overrated.  Browsing Amazon and trusting the reviews of hundreds of other people who are approximately my size yields tremendous results.  Also, returns are not as difficult as I always told myself. Having learned this lesson, I now own three of the exact same pair of flattering yoga pants and four comfy, cute tunic tops that also cover my butt.  Win-Win.  

3.  Birds are significantly more interesting than I originally thought.

4.  I have underestimated my ability to grow things.  In the past, I always thought I had a black thumb.  In actuality, I just had a high failure to attempt ratio.  Having increased the sheer number of attempts, I have thus increased my confidence.  This has led to recently planted herbs and tomatoes.  I will be sure to report the results.  

5. Zoom is an app that exists.  It is both a lifesaver and a burden.

6. Two glasses of wine is exactly the right number. Unless the circumstances call for five.  It’s entirely your call.  

7.  Crocs are underrated.  For my whole life, I have resided distinctly in the “You-will-never-see-me-with-those-ugly-things-on-my-feet” camp.  Plantar fasciitis, flimsy slippers, and rare chances to leave the house combined with my daughter’s commitment to this ugly footwear spurred me to give them a shot.  I will never wear slippers again. I haven’t converted so much that plan to leave the house in them, though. 

8.  Too much work makes everyone miserable.  

9.  Too much forced fun makes everyone miserable. 

10.  Each member of my family has a natural rhythm.  I am slowly learning to trust their rhythms and listen to my own.  For sure, we sometimes spend too much time watching Netflix or playing video games.  But each and every one of us tires of inactivity.  This threshold is different for every one of us.  But even left to their own devices, each child will emerge from his or her bedroom, seeking connection, or nature, or activity in their own way.  My daughter bakes and calls friends and washes her car.  My eldest son draws and plays with his pets and curls up next to me for a late night movie marathon.  The youngest builds and destroys and pulls out the board games.  Perhaps this has been the hardest lesson of all.  I don’t need to exert control nearly as much as I thought.  I don’t need to manufacture family fun or constantly cajole in order for my family to make healthy choices.  The relief in this realization is palpable.  

That’s the short list, for now.  What lessons have you learned (or re-learned) during this quarantine? I’d love to hear from you!  

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Settling

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard.  The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches.  But the birds are active.  I don’t know birds, really.  I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee.  But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning.  I never would have taken the time to notice before. 

**********

We have settled in to a strange new normal.  It mostly looks like this: 

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something.  Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean. 

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others.  Some days, we feel more connected.  Some days, we’re in our own little worlds.  Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day.  Some days feel manageable.  Some days are full of tears.  

Today, I went to the grocery store.  I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different.  This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away.  I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores.  I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves.  I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor.  I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.  

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted.  Everyone wore masks.  Nearly everyone wore gloves, too.  It was eerily silent.  

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me.  Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger.  Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air.  People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space.  People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?  

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping.  Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car.  And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable.  I had already exposed myself.  I had already exposed others to me.  If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.  

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster.  On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone.  I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been.  The kids have been creative.  I’ve been working on my personal goals.  I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things.  I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do.  On Tuesday, I was feeling good.  

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good.  I’m noticing some positive changes within my family.  Our time together is less forced.  There’s more room to explore our interests.  I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock.  With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.  

Of course, there are things that are hard.  Online teaching and learning are super stressful.  I cried twice last week about work.  I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it.  I worry about my family and friends who are struggling.  Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge.  Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family. 

**********

I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon.  But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain.  They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather.  I sit and watch a particular droplet.  I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates.  I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below.  I never would have taken the time to notice before.  

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Back to Work

I went back to work today.  Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment. 

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?”  Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”  

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas.  We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.  

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home?  What would the schedule look like?  What about kids without access?  Struggling learners?  We had so many questions, and not enough answers.  Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.” 

 Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials.  Teachers signed up for time slots.  No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home.  We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.  

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.”  I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly. 

It did not.  

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather.  I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up.  I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned).  I thought I was ready for the task. 

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom.  The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board.  Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected.  My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant.  This space got frozen in such an optimistic time.  We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.  

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions.  The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class.  The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them.  The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.  

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat.  I cried.  

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost.  A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.  

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder.  Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little.  And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format.  Because that’s what we do.  

We’re teachers.  We make it work.