Tag Archives: education

Oct17

Losing Your Voice, Saying Yes, Making Wishes

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This week, I virtually lost my ‘voice’, but I also made wishes, and reminded myself why I have said YES to so many opportunities.

First of all, it’s been a while since I posted, because I have spent so much time lately writing school assignments, that my hands hurt and my throat is sore. I think I’m losing my voice … my writing voice, that is … ha-ha!

But seriously, I haven’t dared consider blogging for a several days, because I needed every productive hour to meet other obligations. Right now, sleep isn’t always on the agenda! I pulled at least one all-nighter this week and stayed awake until 5am completing a paper for a deadline, since I had two papers due on the same day. In the days leading up to that deadline, I’d also delivered a sermon, facilitated a women’s spirituality group, assisted with an ‘Amazing Race’ youth group activity and launched Jessie’s floating wish lanterns onto the dark Ipswich River as part of Ipswich Illuminated … all in the same few days.

Why didn’t I work on the papers and deadlines sooner, you might ask? Getting fresh, aren’t you? Well, I did prepare in advance. Pages of notes. Re-reading books to analyze them. Creating outlines. If I hadn’t done that much preparation, there wouldn’t have been any ideas to plump up and submit as finished works yesterday.

So in fact, I did prepare. But time just … well … there was just enough time, if I didn’t sleep. Phew.

After all, there’s keeping up with regular class assignments: weekly essays, whole books to read each week, and various other assignments including oral presentations, debates and even (yes, it’s true) occasional art projects.

Plus working freelance. Plus, as some of the activities above will have indicated, field education as a seminarian working at a church in Beverly.

And yes, during the week, I actually sit down with Chris and spend a few hours being a person who is married with a husband. Or I take a walk or sip tea with a pal, and behave like a person with friends.

It was the perfect storm of deadlines and other activities this past weekend. More than usual. And you know what? I loved every part of it, even though I was very tired last night!

What did I do, when I wasn’t writing? I laughed, being with teenagers on a scavenger hunt to learn about community service and social justice organizations all over downtown Beverly, then racing to be first back to their church for a prize. I held my breath, and then delivered a sermon at First Church with just an index card as an outline, and powerful stories alive in my head and heart, waiting to be shared. Read an autumnal Mary Oliver poem and lit candles with a community of women I’m just getting to know. Applauded after watching my husband Chris and other good friends perform in the 16 Elm Street historical play.

Ipswich Illuminated? That was magical. So many people work all year, and then overtime on that weekend, to make it as beautiful as it is.

Each year, I stand boot-deep in cold river water, lighting hundreds of candles and nudging origami wax paper boats filled with wishes out onto the tide (thanks, Aileen Ang, for folding those boats). Again this year, they winked like nearby stars in a night sky: a constellation  spilled down to earth. (Thanks to friends Miri and Sadie and other cohorts who helped again this year, assisting people as they chose candles, wrote notes and gathered up their dreams to set afloat on the river.) Jessie’s Floating Wish Lanterns are the one activity we perform specifically in her memory each year, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else on that night.

Two weeks ago, we had friends Mark and Lesley visiting in our home from England. For a few glorious days, I set aside reading assignments, classwork and deadlines. Put graduate school on hold for one long weekend, to be with friends that I only see every few years. In other words, time for important activities and relationships remains a priority.

Yes, my writing voice is a little tuckered out, from finishing all school papers yesterday. Yet the subjects lit fires in my brain, and sparked questions in my heart. Despite the pace and the tension, I am where I want to be.

And I am making time, regardless all these deadlines, to do what’s important. To be with those I love. And just to be. Be.

My Harvard professors, even the intellectual ones who pile on work, will always say … take care of yourself. Find a balance. Don’t read every assigned page. Pause. Meditate. Get something to eat. Take a walk. Catch a nap in a quiet corner. And talk to someone, if it’s all too much. Always take care of yourself.

So I remind myself, and now I remind you … when you get wound up tight by schedules, deadlines, appointments, and activities … and we all do … the question is whether these are commitments that you have agreed to do … said YES to … because you care about them. Because you are moved by their purpose or use of your time. Because you believe by doing them, you make a difference, and it rekindles a light inside you, or connects you to something bigger than yourself. Or simply because it feels good to do this activity or be with this person, and restores your own internal sense of balance.

Check in with yourself. Can you say YES to those questions? Pay attention to the answer.

Me? I’m tired. I’m run down. But right now, I can still say YES when I ask myself those questions.

Sep24

Home

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Yesterday I started field education. That’s an internship, so to speak, working at another church. I’ll gain valuable parish experience and perform new and familiar roles in a congregation that isn’t my home church.

The difficult part of this transition is that Chris and I spend every Sunday morning together, and we have so few chances to spend time in each other’s company, that I miss those mornings … even though we’ve only spent one Sunday apart. In addition, First Church in Ipswich is the longest I’ve ever been rooted in one faith community. We’ve belonged there for 18 years. To spend a schoolyear away from my own congregation, working elsewhere, feels as if the ground is shifting under my feet.

Along with all of the other transitions, it feels as if parts of me are being torn away.

Yes, I know intellectually, that this stretching and moving away from what’s familiar and easy, is all necessary. To work and grow in this new vocation, I must step outside my comfort zone, which in this case is my own community.

It’s what I want. That’s what I tell myself, though I miss what I must give up to be there. Even after one morning away.

So yesterday I spent my first morning in a new congregation. Spent time with both pastors, who have already welcomed me onto their staff. Met some of the congregation’s compassionate and committed lay leaders and community members. Witnessed the youth of this church presenting their summer mission trip to Maryland.

It was all quite nice. Safe. Just not my own faith community.

Finally, at the end of yesterday’s worship service, a friend of mine appeared. I hadn’t expected to see her there. She belongs to this new church where I’m working (I didn’t realize it). One of the ministers is her daughter (I didn’t know that either).

This friend of mine used to be on staff at Winthrop Elementary years ago, where both Sarah and Jessie attended school. She was especially instrumental in Jessie’s successful interludes at school. We all shared an intense journey together each time Jessie made the re-entry to Winthrop classrooms and culture. Her office was often a retreat, when Jessie needed a safe sanctuary to collect herself. They developed a special friendship independent of my connection to this woman. She represents, even now, some of the most wonderful and tempestuous experiences in our long journey with childhood cancer.

So when she appeared unexpectedly in front of me, at the new church, we leaned across the pew and hugged each other. I think I yelped with happiness.

Then I burst into tears. Held onto her much longer than the embrace of friends exchanging greetings. Hung on as if she was holding me up.

I think a knot of emotions all rose to the surface. Every loss and transition I’ve experienced in the last few weeks and months. And maybe ever years.

So much has changed. So much has fallen away. Jessie is gone. Sarah is off at school. I’m starting college again. Chris and I are struggling to find times to maintain connection. And I’m spending a lot of time away from my entire community, including the church which sustained us through everything.

My friend received that grief with a hug. And then I was laughing, overjoyed that I know someone in this new place, this new congregation with whom I’ll sojourn for the next two semesters. Growing. Reaching outside myself for something more. Connecting with something greater. Trying to remain rooted in what continues to be important to me: family and community.

When my friend greeted me in that new house of worship, suddenly I felt as if this new church could also become home.

Can you be at home in two places? Or even more places? Of course you can.

I have many homes. My house on North Main street in Ipswich is intimately familiar, though rather empty now. Ipswich is where I feel connected. First Church’s congregation has been our extended family for years. Already the Harvard graduate school campus feels comfortable.

And now this new church? When I first sat through the worship service, it felt just a little off-kilter and strange. As if I was trying to transpose my former surroundings — the place and feelings of worship among old friends — onto a new and different congregation. Perhaps I was. I * want * to feel comfortable and connected there. But as we all know, as I must remind myself, that comes with time and experience.

Then my friend reached over the pew, and held onto me while I acknowledged everything I’d lost. And everything I’m trying to reclaim. Suddenly, it began to feel more like a new home. Another circle of belonging.

Sep17

Partings

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Today Sarah joins her college classmates and sets off by plane for Greece. She’ll study nursing in Thessaloniki for three months. Probably visit other cities, and even other countries, while she’s there. She’s considering more travel around Europe after the semester ends.

Why not? She’s young. Relatively footloose and commitment-free. When is there a better time?

And what can substitute for life experience, when it comes to education? Books and professors are great. They give us context. Theories. Even practical ideas that we can apply in the real world.

Yet lessons often come the other way, too. Firsthand. In person. As realities that we handle and experience. Eventually, to make space in our minds and hearts for greater understanding, we must touch, see, think about and feel events, cultures, people and ideas for ourselves. We cannot fully appreciate the similarities and differences that make the world so complex — sometimes beautifully so, other times tragically so — unless we take the chance to engage it.

She’s traveling to the second-largest city in Greece, steeped in history of many cultures, ethnicities and faiths. For instance, some of its inhabitants appear in the sacred text of the New Testament in letters from the Apostle Paul; she’ll walk some of the sacred sites I’m studying in books. She’ll reside in and explore ancient ground that was holy, thousands of years before Christianity was ever born, populated by Greek deities and temples. She will live in the multicultural realities of a city that was once a bustling part of the Byzantine empire, became a sanctuary for Jews outcast from Spain for a period of about 400 years. It joined the Greek nation in the early 20th century, burned in 1917, was largely rebuilt, and was home to thousands of refugees in the wake of a ‘population exchange treaty’ between Greece and Turkey in 1923. It remains a vibrant and diversely-populated place. For more detailed information, visit www.greecetravel.com/thessaloniki/introduction.html

We’ll stay here in Boston. Say good-bye and watch her walk across a threshold. It’s a coming of age moment, as she launches herself into the world, to learn lessons from her college classrooms and other lessons on the streets or in the cafes, shops, and other hangouts around the city.

I expect, as we say good-bye, that she will continue to experience her own partings. She’s leaving behind her high school self. Her friends are all already on their college campuses. Or finding jobs and moving away from home. Or serving in the military. Beginning the next phase of their young adult lives. Sarah, too, will let go of childhood and start anew.

When she walks through the security gate and later through customs, she will be walking into a new world. And a new part of her life.

And here? Though we aren’t flying away, but staying home, we’re also beginning the “next step” in our family life. Whatever that might mean … whatever shape it takes … big house, empty rooms, long work or school days, late nights, early mornings … two of us trying to make chances to connect. Finding purpose in our adult lives, now that we have started Sarah on the path to her own life apart from us. And always, the way parents do, thinking about both of our daughters.

Somewhere, Jessie fits into this transition. We’ve said good-bye before. Farewell to Jessie was different. This day, as Sarah waves and joins her classmates, this is the good-bye you’re supposed to say to a child. It means you’re doing what you should, helping your child take steps toward adulthood and independence.

After all, it’s not permanent. It’s not forever.

Yet we also realize … the young woman who comes home again after her adventures… she will be Sarah. But she will be a new, changed, more mature and experienced Sarah.

Sure, I thought I was ready to let her go. Stoic. I knew, cognitively, what this separation meant. I talked myself through it. Rallied around its importance and symbolism. Believe it’s good and right for her to do. But there’s a difference between knowing something and feeling it. It’s easy to know something with your head, but much tougher to live through it with your heart.

So I thought it would be easy enough to get ready and say farewell, because this departure has been happening in stages for several months. Years, even.

Yet we’re all on edge. Trying to be gentle with each other, but equally prickly and moody and temperamental. Right now, we often say or do the wrong thing, as often as we make the right choices, to help each other through this good-bye.

My husband I will be different, too. All of us – humans — change. Nobody is static, fixed to one moment in time and space, unable to transition. Life and consciousness itself is a response to stimuli. All humans, even when we feel stuck, are somehow in flux, moving, transforming.

We’ll all get through it. And blossom on the other side of the transition. Yet that doesn’t make the moment of parting any easier. In order to hold the love, you must also hold the pain.

Sep13

Stress: The Good Kind

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I’m so busy I almost can’t breathe. I’ve added every deadline, book, project or homework assignment, class time, phone call, advisory meeting, and other school task to my calendar to keep up with it all. Getting home at midnight one day a week, and between 8-9 pm the other nights. On campus in Cambridge all day, either in classrooms, library or quiet work spaces.

And then there’s family life; that’s being “scheduled,” too, so that I can grab some time with Sarah while she’s home again before going off to her semester abroad in four more days. (I saw her Monday night between 10pm-midnight, when we picked her up at the airport, so far.) Or to make a date with my husband Chris while we’re both awake. Mostly I maintain contact with them via texts. * sigh *

Work life fits tidily into chunks of the day when I can plug in my computer. Sometimes on the train, or in the library. As emails exchanged between classes. Or on the weekdays when I’m staying on the North Shore.

Field education hasn’t started yet. That starts next week. (I’ve already had the interviews). I’ll be apprenticed or interning, so to speak, at a UCC church on the North Shore to gain professional experience in a parish other than my own home faith community. This works both as part of the educational experience at Harvard, but also toward my “discernment” process for ordination by my denomination (UCC/Congregational).

All in all, it’s a whirlwind time. I dream about school. I’m reading books about Christianity and Islam and pastoral counseling and philosophy and language, instead of suspense and science fiction novels. I pack a lunch and dinner. Carry a to-go mug for hot coffee, as well as a water bottle. Have external pockets with  easily accessible student ID, T-passes and commuter rail ticket. Wear sensible walking shoes for the hike from train station to subway station, from subway to classroom, class to library.

In a way, this rhythm is familiar. I used to make the commute in and out of Boston to an office. Rise and go before the sun came up. Come home after it set. Rarely saw the sky, except through the office windows of executives in the buildings of the large financial corporation where I once worked. Made well-intentioned goals to get outside for lunch, walk instead of eat, but usually found that I needed every work hour to complete a project, so that I could make it home to pick up children from extended hours at daycare.

Even further back, I used to work full time, then attend classes at night. Took two courses a semester, for several years, to earn a Bachelors degree with Honors from UMass / Boston. Chris was deep in studies to pass his exams for licensing as an architect. So I’d work on my thesis until 2am, and walk home across the Boston Common at odd hours of the night, to our apartment in the city.

It seems like I’ve always been juggling a lot. All of us have been.

It’s happening to Chris now. He rises at 3-4am to start his work day. Volunteers, works, and makes time for his family when we can be here to connect. Fits in a bike ride now and then.

It’s happening to our daughter Sarah as she juggles saying good-bye to the few friends who haven’t left for college already, or makes trips to see them on campus in Boston. Then packs for her own adventures through Northeastern University’s international program next week.

Yes, it’s stressful. But I want to acknowledge that this is stress we choose, and in which we willingly participate. It leads to something more. Opportunity. Open doors. Education. Vocational shift. Personal transformation. Survival. Hope. Healing. Tangible change. Something we want. There’s incentive to take on this busy schedule, instead of remaining within the status quo.

This form of stress contrasts with situations that are out of our control. Circumstances that cause stress to which we also respond, not because we want to, but because we must. I have lived inside that pressure cooker, too.

In fact, I don’t have to describe much of it to you. Many of you knew us during those times.

Living inside a hospital as the levels of acuity increased over time. First, a shared hospital room with other cancer patients and their parents. Having roommates for weeks at a time throughout the cancer journey. Transfer into private rooms on the oncology unit, which might sound like a privilege, but was too often a bad sign. It was usually due to severity of infection, contagious complications, or more life-threatening conditions (beyond cancer, as if that wasn’t enough). Later, months of life on the transplant unit, inside a single room with changeable mood lights in the ceiling as a second-best attempt at environmental stimulation instead of being allowed to live in the larger world. Life reduced to one room, inside a HEPA-filtered unit with its own air and water circulation, and airlocks to control the environment and separate it from the rest of the hospital (though strangely, you could escape to the Prouty Garden if you traveled …  you couldn’t share the elevator, wore a mask through the halls, and didn’t touch anything).

Finally, the most critical level of care. ICU. Where they have two medical rounds a day, and I woke up for each shift of consultations, regardless of the time of day or night, because events moved so quickly that even 24 hours wasn’t enough time to assess things; we only slept about 2 hours a night. Where the lights are always on, and the number of tubes and machines attached to the patients multiplies.

Through it all, Jessie just stymied everyone. If you looked at the reams of paper, she shouldn’t have appeared as perky as she did. She shouldn’t have transitioned once off the ventilator, sat up within hours to play Hangman with her primary nurses on the ICU team, and lured us all once more into hopefulness. But hey, that’s how she lived through every hour she was allowed to be awake. And even consciousness was taken away, at the end, because she needed to be sedated to stay on a ventilator. But she broke through the drugs from time to time, to try to whisper to us, to kick her feet, to squeeze our hands, to cry, to listen to books, to be part of this world and connect with us.

We have endured that other kind of stress. It escalated inexorably for years. Then months. Then weeks. Then hours. Final moments.

That accumulated stress seeped deep into muscles, bones, minds and spirits. It took years to work its way to the surface, and be released again. We’re still letting go of it, I’m sure.

So I acknowledge that these stressful circumstances may be different in every family, caused by different issues, but that many of us live with them. Unemployment. Mental health issues. Diagnoses of chronic or terminal conditions. Economic instability. Uncertainty about shelter or food: basic necessities. Lack of access to other resources. Addiction. Violence. Crime. Death or endings of many kinds. Loss. Isolation from community. Caregiving for a loved one with an extreme condition.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m seeking this vocation: pastoral care. Stress is a universal experience. With many causes. We all share it at some time or another, in one form or another.

And I believe — I hope — we all have chances to experience a different kind of stress. The “good kind.”

Although my calendar is busy —  my phone vibrates often, my computer pings with reminders and alerts and alarms to keep my use of time focused, my backpack is quite hefty with gear and books, and I’m always moving —  I don’t mind. There are other sorts of alarms and appointments, meetings and conferences, phone calls and consultations, that lead to different outcomes.

Right now, this stress leads to transformation. So I celebrate it.

Aug29

Note to Self

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Today at one of the orientation sessions for graduate school, incoming first-year students (that’s me) were asked to write notes to our “future” second-semester selves. We jotted down reflections about our hopes and expectations. Also, our worries and challenges.

Then we sealed them in envelopes. No one will read them … except each student opening and re-reading his or her own note. Next year.

Yes, these notes will be mailed out to us next March. They will serve as a check-in about where we find ourselves toward the end of our first academic year.

We’ll read our notes to ourselves, and gain some perspective.

  • Have we each accomplished or experienced what we hoped?
  • Have we resolved the issues that concerned us?
  • Have we found balance?
  • How are we doing?
  • What’s going on during the spring semester?

It’s a good idea to check in with yourself from time to time. Reflect. Recap.  Take a step back, and remember there’s a “big idea” to many of the decisions we each make in life. Ideally, we’re not just reacting … not just getting by. Optimally we have made some focused, goal-driven, value-laden choices that provide meaning and context to our  home, relationships, career, education, community, health, and other commitments.

Many of us are in some form of transition. Moving. Changing relationship status. Working toward sobriety. Seeking treatment for better health. Entering or hunting for a new job. Taking up new pastimes. Giving time to special causes. Going to school.

Whatever the reason for change … and whatever the nature of such a transition, it’s easy to worry about details, and forget about the new chances that await us. (This presumes that we can view the cause or result of transformation as an opportunity, which may not always be the case.)

In times of flux, we may lose perspective. In my case, I’m sometimes overwhelmed by a litany of anxiety about juggling loan payments, train tickets, textbook purchases, work projects, class schedules, commuting times, registration info, family time, community service commitments, and many other logistics.

Instead, today I literally wrote a note to myself. Months from now, I’ll open up that envelope and read it as a reminder about why I’m back in school. My reasons include personal growth, vocational development, and the integration of professional and spiritual experiences.

You have your own reasons for whatever changes you’re making.

We can each care for ourselves, metaphorically, by checking in from time to time. Maybe you, too, will write yourself a note and open it sometime in the future, like a time capsule. Or you could flip open your calendar and make an appointment with  your “future” yourself … to pause and take stock. Or make it a diary entry. Or a prayer.

However you do it … take the time to reflect. To appreciate. To observe.

And hopefully, if circumstances permit, to celebrate.

Aug22

Listen for the Music

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This past weekend I finished 25 hours of training in order to teach or facilitate OWL (Our Whole Lives) curriculum for either middle school or high school students. It’s an intense, honest and complex program to present information with the core values of self worth, sexual health, responsibility, justice & inclusivity. It was created as an non-religious approach to this subject by UUA / Unitarian and UCC / Congregational denominations so that it can be used in secular settings; companion books available from UUA or UCC denominations discuss the role of faith in this context.

I attended the training for several reasons. It’s a balanced curriculum that has been taught by many organizations, including my church, and is used nationally by thousands of churches, health programs, schools and military facilities. I wish it had been available to my own children in our town; we had to provide this information through other resources. (Our children need factual and comprehensive information on this topic, but that’s a different conversation, and may be uncomfortable for many families from different faith backgrounds or traditions, yet I cannot apologize for my beliefs, many based on personal experience, around this topic.) At some point I’ll probably be a facilitator for this program in my own faith community. Additionally, the information seems invaluable in the context of graduate classes about hands-on care for different constituents such as teens or trauma victims.

Yet one of the best messages I brought home from the training wasn’t about the content of the curriculum itself. It was about working in teams, respecting different backgrounds and viewpoints, and finding ways to honor each other’s talents, strengths and approaches to facilitation. Especially within this message and value-laden context, we worked to accept variations in “body part” terminology, for instance, in order to appreciate the intention of what we were discussing together.

At the beginning of this long weekend of training, we all wrote up a covenant about how we’d work together. And one of the debates we held was about the use of language … could people use “street words” or “common discourse” for body parts in a class that deals with human sexuality, or should we stick to medical terms? For example, should we avoid “boobs” and only use “breasts?” (There were more colorful examples, but my point here isn’t about shock-value, it’s about getting past shock-value.)  We wondered aloud.

Some people find the more casual or common terms to be vulgar or offensive in origin. Others habitually use them, and it’s hard to talk about those topics or body parts without slipping into vernacular language.

Of course, part of what we discussed was the necessity to be aware of our language. The words we use convey values and messages. On the other hand, we wanted people to speak freely.

In the end, though, we decided that if the words were used to refer respectfully to a body part, and weren’t used in a name-calling connotation, that people should use the words they most comfortably choose. Within this context, for the purposes of our classroom discussions, “boobs” are as okay as “breasts.”

(Note: Please understand that there is a whole educational unit about language, the categories it falls into, and when and where to use it, what’s negative, what’s neutral, what’s positive. We do want facilitators and students to consider their language for its own role conveying cultural and personal messages.)

The final agreement, when we discussed this use of language, was to “listen for the music” of the experience. This idea comes from curriculum around peace-making for younger children. (I want to give full attribution but don’t know the author of this curriculum … it’s used in some UUA / Unitarian and UCC / Congregational churches.)

The metaphor is that many notes, chords, stanzas and instruments comprise music. We don’t all have experience with specific types of music: classical, for instance. Or we’re not experts in it. If we attend such a concert, we don’t always remember all the intricacies within a song, just the sense of the music. We can’t analyze every run of chords, every interplay of wind and string, every nuance and bridge. We have to let it all stir together and form an overall impression. We have to “listen for the music” and what it means to us, what it says to us.

When we remember a classical song later, if we’re lacking an expert’s lexicon to discuss it, we recall the music’s overall impression. We discuss or consider the emotion that comes with the experience. We’re appreciating its intentions.

This also applies to conversations fraught with language and discussions about human sexuality, relationships, etc. We wanted the same level of listening within our classroom conversations.

We sought a similar tolerance and appreciation. We might not remember every word. Or be able to agree with every statement.

We wanted to get past the use of the specific terminology to the larger conversation we’re all trying to hold together, and the information we’re sharing.  We got there, but only after much discussion and agreement to use the standard of “listen for the music.” We spent a whole weekend, preparing presentations on many different units of information, organized and presented by lay teachers from all over the country, with many different professional and personal backgrounds. We all learned from each other. And it stopped being about colloquial uses of specific words, and became all about how to present and share this information so that everyone could safely talk about it and explore it and learn from it. We “listened for the music.” And we heard it.

Jul25

Teachers and Students

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In the past 24 hours, the following teachers have been part of my life.

  • Started my day under the guidance of kundalini yoga instructor Ingrid.
  • Talked to one of my spiritual mentors over tea.
  • Checked in with writing buddy Miriam and discussed some techniques.
  • Received editorial feedback from colleague Lisa.
  • Communicated with two professional mentors, Rebecca and Jan, about next steps in the process of becoming a pastoral candidate through the UCC (demonination which will ordain me after I earn a degree)
  • Followed up with another freelancer, Camille, who swaps design tips with me about specific web-building projects.
  • Got a ping (quick note) from Jenny, our family friend and my daughters’ dance teacher, from her location in Colorado, where she’s teaching aerial and modern dance to older students.
  • Observed that my longtime kickboxing teacher, Tashi Mark, is opening his dojo in downtown Ipswich.
  • Remembered in a lively conversation, Jessie’s teachers Mrs. Lampros and Mrs. Falabella, and so many other staff members from Winthrop Elementary.
  • Caught an update on Facebook about JT Turner’s latest theatrical production, and reflected on his mentoring role among youth who love the performing arts, including both of my girls. And many other kids in this town.
  • Listened to Chris working on his latest piano lesson, as assigned by his teacher Vianna.
  • Got some cooking and dessert-making tips from foodie friends Meryl, Dana and Linda.
  • Talked to a young man at the Greek consulate about the process of securing Sarah’s student visa to Greece, where she’ll study nursing this fall, as part of an international program through Northeastern University.
  • Spoke to a financial aid officer about completing the process of payments for school.
  • Read the wise words of an author that I admire.

Think about it. In most of those situations, I have been a student, learning something new. A skill. A step. An insight. A lesson of some kind.

Yesterday I also poked fun at class titles and descriptions, while registering for graduate courses. Yet I’ll reiterate that I’m extremely privileged to start school in September. While it promises to be a lot of hard work, I’m enrolled for positive reasons. It is my choice; no one is making me go back to school. I want to do it, because it’s exciting and motivating, even though it’s also intimidating and overwhelming.

The response to my grad school decision, among friends and peers, has been varied. A few people … not too many, luckily, or it might be daunting … think I’m crazy. After all, I’ll be 50 years old by the time I earn my degree. (If everything goes smoothly.) Others say I’m brave, to start over now. In either case, that response is triggered by my “advanced years.” From some points of view, I’m o-o-o-o-o-l-l-l-l-l-d-d-d-d-d to go back now.

Chuckle.

Let’s put this into perspective. Age and challenge, I mean.

  1. My mom completed two graduate degrees after the age of 50, both of them in the aftermath of catastrophic injuries, including brain trauma, in the wake of a severe car accident and subsequent complications. She had to audio record lectures, transcribe notes twice for every class hour, then type them, and read materials over and over, in order to complete every course, because of memory impairment and information-processing deficits caused by the coma and brain injury. Yet she persisted, and earned two Masters degrees.
  2. Meanwhile Dr. William Tan (our friend) earned his doctoral degree, a medical degree and two post-doc degrees from Harvard and Oxford Universities, while challenged by the complexities of life after polio, living as a paraplegic with a wheelchair. He also competed in world-class athletic events while finishing his studies, setting world records all over the globe. He completed marathons on every continent, in a wheelchair, including in arctic conditions. Plus he assisted during heart surgeries and delivered babies.
  3. When I attended college in Boston, one of my classmates was in her 70s, just getting her first undergrad degree in literature.

We all know people like these. Inspirations. Reminders that we’re never too anything — too young, too old, too impaired, too obligated — to do what we’re inspired and moved to do. Compared to those examples above, returning to school with all of my faculties intact, even at age 47, isn’t such a big deal.

Many other members of my community recognize enrollment in graduate school as a solution to a spiritual or vocational restlessness that they have also experienced. This itchiness … this impetus to go in different directions, to ask difficult questions and find new answers, new situations, new vistas … seems to be common in people between 30-60 years old.

I’ve been asked, often, what sparked this idea to return to school? To shift focus to a whole new path, a spiritual journey, that’s quite different from my background? What inspired me to try school again? How do I know this is what I want to do? What will I do when I get my degree? How do I feel about going back to school? How does my family respond to this decision?

The common theme, behind many of those questions, is that familiar, internal restlessness. The urge to change, to move, to do something different, seems to happen inside the hearts and minds of many friends and peers. I’ve been told several firsthand accounts about men or women who are not satisfied by their own careers or choices anymore. Usually the words that surface are, “I need a do something different with my life.”

In our middle years, now that we have grown up (hah), started or raised our families, accumulated decades of work experience, and checked a few items off our “life lists,” I guess many of us are re-assessing. (Not all of us. But a lot of people.) We realize, maybe because we feel an uncomfortable, this-doesn’t-fit-anymore sensation, that we want something else. More. Different. Meaningful. Fulfilling. Interesting.

The solution may vary for each of us. Sometimes it might need a thoughtful plan of action. Or require an impulsive decision.

Perhaps it leads to a change in jobs. Or a long-term break and retreat. Travel. Sabbatical. Taking up special causes or humanitarian service; joining a club or a church or service project. Adding new layers of extracurricular activity to lives that have been narrowly focused. Learning a new sport, skill or pastime. Exercising. Maybe returning, like me, to post-graduate studies to earn certification or earn another degree. Relocation of home or work.

Maybe it’s letting go. Maybe it’s doing something new in addition to what’s already part of your life.

My husband Chris would tell you, that my decision was a long time coming. That this choice seemed inevitable, from his perspective. Obvious to some who know me well. Yet it caught me by surprise and seemed like a fully-formed idea by the time I realized that I wanted to go back to school and seek a new vocational path. Maybe it’s been growing inside for a long time, but it blossomed into vivid detail by the time I felt and saw it.

Meanwhile, why did I write that list of teachers at the start of this post? Because you don’t have to go to graduate school to find teachers. They’re all around us.

Once you start paying attention, you’ll be amazed by how many mentors, coaches, instructors and guides cross your path on any given day. How many lessons have been offered.

Inevitably, you have also been a mentor and role model for someone else in the past day. We all have the opportunity to be students in this life. And we all have the chance, the privilege, to be teachers, too.

Jul24

Ten Dollar Words, or When to Use ‘Em

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Ever heard of a “ten dollar word?” That’s a multi-syllabic, lots-of-consonants-and-vowels, extra-alphabet-flaunting, does-the-same-job-as-a-much-shorter-word kind of word.

Why use a “ten dollar word” when a simpler one will do? Our old friend Roland, a master carpenter from Rockport, used to ask that question. It’s a good question.

As a writer, I usually aim for more accessible language. Okay, admittedly, I’m long-winded. Verbose. I use a lot of words, often too many. But I still try to choose words that make my meaning clear and relevant to as many people as possible.

Here’s one of my favorite examples of a “ten dollar word.” Certain professionals are very fond of the term “utilize.” Yet it means the same thing as “use.” Whenever I catch someone dropping the word “utilize” in the sentence, and I’m editing, I usually change it to “use.” Easier to read. Means the same thing.

Imagine filling paragraphs with fancy words instead of straightforward ones. Check out a legal contract of some kind, and betcha you’ll find plenty of similar examples. Utilize.

Yes, there’s a time and place for beautiful or precise language. For flowery or more specific terms. English, and many other languages, are richer because of their complexity, their subtlety, their nuances.

Plus I love words. I collect them the way some people collect stones or coins. I like to understand them, even if I don’t have a daily use for them. So I sympathize with the tendency to play with them and apply them.

Yet I also appreciate the power of direct, to-the-point speech.

Which brings me to my next example. I’m registering for classes at Harvard. And my new word for the day? Straight out of course descriptions at Harvard.

Praxis.

(Note: to be grammatically correct, foreign words are shown in italics. Hence the italics here. It’s not for emphasis, just clarity. Hmmm, if I applied the editorial guideline correctly.)

Back to praxis. Okay, maybe some of you professionals, such as attorneys and doctors out there, make common use of this word. I’m sure it has usefulness. Just as I’m sure my vocabulary will soon be peppered with  Greek and Latin terms that didn’t seem relevant three days ago.

Praxis. What is this word? Well, I wanted to know, because I found it in several course descriptions, during pre-registration. But I couldn’t make sense of it.

Praxis. Maybe if I say it, or write it, enough times, it will sink in.

Praxis. Praxis. Praxis. Not yet.

So I’ve Googled it. That’s officially a verb, by the way. Googled. (Hah, yeah, I used “googled” in a sentence.)

And yes, this journal includes a confession from a soon-to-be graduate student about my current lack of academic rigor. I looked up the definition of “praxis” online. Praxis.

Below is an unauthorized description of its meaning, straight from Wikipedia. (In some realms of academia, at least, Wikipedia is considered a somewhat terrible — not authoritatively authenticated — source of information, since anyone can put up anything, and spread misinformation as well as information.) By the way, you can’t refer to Wikipedia in academic papers, for instance. And soon I’ll be at school, restricted to citing primary sources and doing my research through formal databases in the library. (Phew, thank goodness for places like EBSCO, which is a database publisher in my own hometown of Ipswich.)

Now, in this blog, I confess that I lazily clicked on praxis links provided by Google. Leading to Wikipedia, that reprehensible network of collaboratively-collected information (which I love, by the way, as a jumping-off point for research). Wikipedia says, “Praxis is the process by which a theory, lesson, or skill is enacted, practiced, embodied, or realized. It may also refer to the act of engaging, applying, exercising, realizing, or practizing ideas …”

There’s more. Wikipedia continues, “Aristotle held that there were three basic activities of man: theoria, poiesis and praxis … corresponded to … three types of knowledge: theoretical, to which the end goal was truth; poietical, to which the end goal was production; and practical, to which the end goal was action.”

Well, okay. Praxis seems to be the implementation of ideas. Putting concepts into practice.

Praxis. Practice.

Got it. I think … I hope …  Er.

Praxis. So, that’s one word in several course descriptions that I can now interpret. Just a few dozen more to go, and I may be able to make an educated decision about which classes to take.

Another confession: I’m exaggerating. Teasing. Most of the class titles are very engaging. Only a few are off-putting and so out-there that I can’t understand them. Many titles are short and straightforward.

Some are even attention-getting. They entice me. Even if you don’t know what these classes are about, you want to find out more. To be honest, in order to be somewhat risqué, I selected a small subset from among many mundane, workable academic class titles available at Harvard. So this is a misrepresentation, but it makes the point:

  • The Shock of the New
  • Prophecy, Ecstasy, and Dreams in Early Christian History
  • Crusades, Plagues and Hospitals
  • Body and Flesh
  • The Body and its Moral Cultivation
  • The Deep: Purity, Danger, and Metamorphosis
  • Eye Contact, Ethics and Interbeing
  • Ritualization, Play, and Transitional Phenomena

Some professors know how to make the study of religions sound appealing, even sexy, or at least alarming and different. And once you dig deeper, the content of the classes sounds challenging, but accessible.

Another confession: I’m not signed up for any of the classes above. The ones that excited me were … more provocative? More chaste? Or simply going in a different direction? Hmmm, I’ll never tell.

On the other hand, some of those Harvard professors want me to work for it. Their course titles are difficult to parse. Layered with slippery words. Hard to understand. And no, I won’t put up a list of the more inaccessible titles. Too scary. (Again, teasing here.)

Undaunted, I click on the course description, and try to interpret what the class might be teaching, by reading its context. But that’s not so easy, either. A few instructors write so circuitously, going in circles around the subject, that I only understand some of what’s being said. The main themes elude me. My brain gets tired, just trying to decipher what I might be studying, if I was persuaded to enroll, if only I could interpret the description.

Yikes. Um.

For instance, try this word: complementarity. (This time, I italicized for dramatic emphasis, not for editorial clarity.)

It’s part of a class description that sounds tantalizing, if I could just translate the gist of the class description. I think the course covers sexual identity, maybe in the context of religious history and concepts of self, but I’m not entirely sure.

Back to Google, back to Wikipedia. (Naughty me.) Maybe this entry helps us. “The complementarity principle states that some objects have multiple properties that appear to be contradictory. Sometimes it is possible to switch back and forth between different views of an object to observe these properties, but in principle, it is impossible to view both at the same time, despite their simultaneous coexistence in reality.”

Okay, Wikipedia’s examples of complementarity are physics-based: electrons perceived as either wave or particle. But you get the idea. Complementarity, as applied to gender, might mean man/woman. Both? Neither? Transgender? Bisexual? Variations in gender identity or roles. Something along those lines.

Well, that’s two new words in one day, just from reading class overviews. I cannot figure out how to casually drop either “praxis” or “complementarity” into my daily conversations, but maybe I’ll find a way.

Imagine what a whole semester will do to my brain! Every sentence will be filled with “ten dollar words.”

To me as an incoming student, it seems that when a professor assembles a course description and title, she or he is attempting to market or appeal to students. Inviting me into the professor’s slice of the universe, to become engaged by very specific areas of passion and expertise.

And maybe some students are immersed in the same linguistic ocean as the professor, swimming in adjectives and nouns and verbs that aren’t typical of the everyday reality, but some of us are coming from a more “street smart” sort of background.

Of course, I’m going to Harvard to learn about and dive into ideas and thoughts and knowledge not available for free (yet) on the corner of Main and High. But on the other hand, I’d like the street signage, the course titles and descriptions, to get me there. Give me good directions, so I know what my destination is. Maybe even act like a neon sign and lure me in?

Will I eventually arrive at the intersection of “Praxis Lane” and “Complementarity Avenue”? Can’t tell yet.

(Aside: The subject of accessible, affordable education for more people is a whole different topic for another day. Don’t get me started. Ew, that reminds me, time to call the financial aid office again today.)

I’m looking forward to classes. To new ideas. To new languages, even. Part of my challenge will even be to minor in a different religion, in addition to becoming more knowledgeable about the scholarship and practices within my own faith tradition. All of this is very exciting!

Some of my favorite “ten dollar words” were a gift in high school. I  remember the slogan that my American History teacher Mr. Davis, posted on his wall. It was ironic, as you’ll see.

Mr. Davis’s high school poster: Eschew Obfuscation.

Wordle: eschew_obfuscationWhat?

If you’re a vocabulary geek like me, you may already be chuckling. If you don’t know those words, you can learn two more vocabulary terms today.

  • Eschew is a verb that essentially means: avoid, forgo or prevent.
  • Obfuscation is a noun or state of being: perplex, muddle, or confuse.

Basically, Mr. Davis’s poster uses “ten dollar words”  to tell us to “prevent confusion.” Or to accomplish its alternative. “Seek clarity.”

Though I try not to remember too much about those years in Ohio, Mr. Davis and his poster stuck with me. A few of my soon-to-be professors might want to read that high school wisdom: eschew obfuscation. But then again, if they did, they might be teaching at Zanesville High School in Ohio instead of Harvard University in Massachusetts.

I’m putting that pair of “ten dollar words” in my pocket, and bringing them along to Harvard this fall. Eschew obfuscation. Seek clarity.

Jul20

Molting

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I started this journal by admitting that I’d woven feathers into my hair. At the time, it was a celebration of taking chances and investing in the next step toward personal and professional development.

The day I got feathers, I’d just returned from taking the GRE (graduate school exam), a necessary precursor to my application for admission to Harvard. It was a big risk. I’d studied. Crammed.

Ultimately, I performed reasonably well on the language portion, but although I tried to catch up on math concepts that I hadn’t used for about 30 years, only 14% of all Americans who took the GRE did worse than me. (Did you follow that sentence, and its bit of math … tricky, huh?) Luckily, I’m not pursuing a degree that relies heavily on numbers, phew!

Anyway, the GRE wasn’t the most important part of my application. Essays and recommendations were probably more important. But taking a standardized test for the first time was a big deal (to me). Sweat. Performance anxiety. Sleepless nights. Hours of study. It meant I was serious about this whole process. And I was being measured against a lot of other people who also have graduate school dreams and vocational aspirations … you get the idea.

So I’ve had these feathers since December. And for those who are curious, but haven’t had the chance to ask, you can shampoo feathers. You can brush and style them, if you want. When you get your hair cut, the feathers come out, and after the cut, they’re knotted back into place. They’re attached by a knot, but they basically stay in for a lo-o-o-o-o-o-nnnngggg time.

See, I had about 12 or so feathers when I started out. All kinds of colors. Over the course of several months (seven, but who’s counting?), they fell out a little at a time.

The last one drifted to the ground, and I didn’t even see it happen. I washed my hair this morning, and didn’t find any more plumes. Sigh. The feathers are gone. This phase is over, it seems.

The feathers were … what, a symbolic act? An external recognition of an exciting accomplishment (surviving hours in a cubicle answering questions on a computer, knowing I was bombing on the math, because my 16-digit answers didn’t fit into the 2-digit blank answer box)? A sheer giddy indulgence?

All of the above.

Their slow shedding has been, in a way, a metaphorical measurement of the many steps that have passed since I sat down to take the GRE. 43 drafts of an essay later, I completed the entire application process. Filed it online. Waited until mid-March for acceptance. Waited longer, through rounds of debate about how we’d pay for graduate school and Sarah’s college at the same time, to decide if I’d accept a spot in the 3-year, full-time MDIV program at Harvard’s Divinity School. Stayed below the radar screen a lot of the time, because this summer and this autumn are so focused on Sarah’s transition to Northeastern to study nursing, that I often forget that I have my own forms to complete, loans to secure, classes to choose and many other administrative steps to finish, also.

The final feather disappeared on the same day that I opened my new student email account, submitted my bio and picture, and looked at the list of classes available for registration. I’m still bad at math, by the way. But I can count to zero (no feathers).

Now my head is a blank canvas again; it awaits a new cut, and perhaps more decoration. Maybe I’ll re-plume. Maybe not.

Meanwhile, the first burst of feathers fulfilled its role … it served as a talisman, while I dared to dive into the unknown depths of a new adventure.

How do we outwardly mark milestones? With jewelry like class rings or engagement diamonds, perhaps. With a tattoo, permanent or temporary. A piercing. A badge or pin. A uniform or new type of clothing. Head gear. A name tag. Some grooming of hair, nails or skin, such as a haircut, mani/pedi, facial or other makeover.  A change in external style.

Other landmarks are never visible. We often don’t wear insignia to show where we have been, what we have endured and overcome, where we are going next.

Ultimately, you can’t look at a person and read their entire story based only on an outward appearance. But sometimes, it’s fun to provide a clue about what’s going on inside.

Feathers, for instance.

 

 

 

Jul14

Not About Me, Not About You

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When you watch someone begin a journey that you have also enjoyed or endured, it can be either exhilarating or heartbreaking. It’s tempting … easy, really … to identify with what you’re witnessing. To believe you understand another person’s path … to predict what’s coming next, or assume you can imagine what they’re feeling and thinking. To personalize and color your perception of someone else’s experience with your own recollections and reactions.

That’s human. It’s what gives us empathy for each other. It often helps us connect.

Other times, it can get in the way of supporting someone in a journey that is completely new and specific to that person. As one wise mother reminded other parents of new college students yesterday at the Northeastern University orientation, “It may feel like it’s happening to you, but it’s not. It’s happening to them.”

  • I watched my daughter Sarah disappear among the crowd of other incoming college freshmen on Friday. Before she left, she handed off her new black NU Huskies sweatshirt and other extra “stuff” to us, stepping away with a lightened load. Freeing her hands, heart and mind to receive new resources and experiences during her two-day experience at Northeastern.

    We carried away the bulkiness of her one-too-many layers and some extra papers, bringing them home. To hold for her. She’ll be back to retrieve them.To clarify, Sarah’s participating in an international study experience for her first semester, so the orientation is a pre-departure workshop to cover travel and transitional logistics for families and students. Her overnight departure with other students brought a shared grin and head nod with my husband Chris.

    Yay! We want her to immerse herself in every step of this launch into her future. She’s taking flight, wing beat by wing beat, milestone by milestone. That’s the natural course of events. It’s new to us as parents, but we remember being new college students.

    We each recall our own paths of leaving home and entering undergraduate programs. Both of us had transformative experiences in college, and we believe Sarah will, too. I remember the long car ride to school, arguments with my siblings along the way, my mother’s reluctance to leave me, my eagerness to unpack and decorate my room and spend time with my new roommate. I remember phone calls home, with the wish list of things I’d forgotten and desperately needed on campus, in order to feel settled. I remember holding on and letting go. I remember.

    I think I can relate to my daughter. Imagine the emotions and thoughts going on inside her 18-year old skin. I think so. But it’s not my job to assume that I know what she feels or thinks.

    I remind myself what the speaker coached us to keep in mind. “It’s not happening to you. They’re the ones sleeping in a new bed for the first time, in a new country, at a new school, maybe speaking a new language.”

    It’s my role to give her space. To listen. To ask questions and be interested. But to let her tell us about what’s going on. What’s important. What’s meaningful.

    She’ll speak up if she has any anxieties. She’ll also share her enthusiasm. (The NU staff told us, over and over, that if a student has concerns, she’ll usually turn first to parents.)

    And as we were also reminded, it’s natural to be stressed and worried about change (both us, as parents, and Sarah as a student abroad). To find that things are different and uncomfortable. It’s how we grow as individuals. How we mature and prepare for life.

    She will be okay. She really will. Even if some parts of the journey ahead are tough.

    Much as we want to protect our children, we can’t absorb all of the difficult moments that await. She has to live through them herself. Learn and grow from them.

    So yes, I can empathize. I’m her mom. I’m connected to her. Maybe I can even predict some parts that will be hard for her to handle, and some parts that she’ll love the most.

    Yet it’s my daughter’s life. Her path. Her adventure. She’ll let me know how it’s all going.

    I will ask questions. Listen. And let her tell the story.

  • Reading the words of Jane, a mother of twins, whose little daughter was just diagnosed with leukemia, and is being treated at Children’s Floating Hospital in Boston? My throat aches. My fists clench.

    I remember diagnosis and transition into the hospital. Flashes so vivid, every sensory response rises to the surface all over again. Adrenaline. Quickened heartbeat. Numbness. Rush of feelings. Whirl of confusion. Unable to process everything at once. Requiring words and phrases to be repeated. Wanting immediate answers, and learning that much of treatment is about waiting and seeing, looking backward across weeks and months at patterns to find answers.This mother has heard the same speech. It’s like being inducted into a cult. Brain-washed, in a kind way, so you have a new framework for measuring the world and evaluating what’s good or bad. “She has the best kind of cancer. The best of the best. You’re lucky. She’s lucky.”

    Mind you, this woman — this new cancer mom — is a stranger to me. Connected as a friend of a friend, her experiences made accessible by her willingness to publicly blog and post Facebook entries about what’s going on.

    I also feel as if I know Jane, because of what we now share. The childhood cancer journey. But do I know her? No. Not really.

    We sent her family a care package of books and resources a few days after their diagnosis. Over a week ago. Oh, God. So early in the process, and so much yet to come.

    We provided them with the leading reference guide for childhood leukemia by Nancy Keene. Other books to read with your young child about mood swings and feelings and bodies. Some bed-safe activities for a little girl who doesn’t feel good. And a sister who needs love and attention, too.

    Again, I remind myself what the mother at the Northeastern University orientation said. “It’s not happening to you. It’s happening to them. It’s their experience.”

    Trust me, every other parent of a child diagnosed with cancer probably has words of wisdom for Jane. It’s like a pregnant woman hearing everyone else’s labor and delivery and new-mom stories. We all feel compelled to share and impart our wisdom. Unasked for.

    Yet some of us are also silenced … a little … by our own memories and anxieties. By what else we know about this journey, that no one ever wants to hear or learn. Knowing what I know about the cancer journey? Imagining where my family has gone?

    Some of my feedback wouldn’t help a mother and child, a father and daughter, just starting out on the cancer journey. They need hope. Support.

    So we edit ourselves. Provide words of encouragement. Keep quiet about the other stuff.

    Jane will become the expert in advocacy for her newly-diagnosed child and for her well child, too. They will have their own scary times and detours, their own dark places and ah-hah moments. Years of treatment ahead. Their own journey.

    My role, as a stranger, is self-appointed. They didn’t ask for my help, and they probably don’t need it.

    Yet I choose to do this, for Jane and her family, as a mom who has walked a similar, but different, path. To cheer. To believe … along with them … in the best possible outcome for their little girl. Occasionally to give Jane and her family some positive reflections and energy, or send some more useful resources.

    It’s not about me. This is their journey. They will write their own story.

Yes, I’m filled with emotions in response to what I’m privileged to share. To vigil, from afar, with a family living with cancer. To watch the unfurled wings and unfolding steps of my grown, surviving daughter’s transition to college abroad.

I have gut reactions. Twisted stomach. Fluttering pulse. Closed throat. Furrowed brow. Wide smile. Clenched fists. Open palms.

I also have a compulsion to fill silence with sound. To talk. To share. To comment. Give advice. Narrate.

My other first reaction is to act. To offer help, whether it’s been requested or not. To rescue, in some small way. To ease the hard parts for someone else. Yet that’s not my role. Nor is it something I’m able to do in these scenarios.

Instead, the lesson for me is to be quiet. To listen. To watch. To ask a few specific questions, and maybe offer specific forms of support, when those are identified and within my capability.

We are connected by the human ability to have empathy for what someone else is experiencing. In both cases, though, it’s not about me. It’s not about what I already know, what I would say or do. Instead, it’s happening to Jane. To her family. To my daughter Sarah.

As many of you once did for our family, I now bear witness to the paths that other people walk. Their stories are just beginning.