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This blog has lain dormant for seven weeks.  This was not intentional—at first, anyway.  Several causes for this silence may be pinpointed.

First, I have been sick:  the flu for a week, then a sinus infection…for three more weeks and counting.  Yep, Thursday marked the start of week five.  Sigh.  (Guess who finally got smart and went to get antibiotics today?)

Second, fear and resistance have been rearing their ugly but familiar heads.  Fear that this blog (read: my writing) will suck and that anyone who reads it will know I’m a fraud and a fool.  Resistance to the habit of writing.  (But I’ve been sick!  <read in pathetic, whimpery voice>)  Resistance to Lent and the disciplines I am supposed to be imposing on myself.  Resistance even to doing things I enjoy.

Naturally, my recent reading has been kicking my ass about these two very issues.  Seth Godin’s The Icarus Deception is a unique read.  This guy…I swear to God….  In ‘part zero’ of the book, he talks about art, and the comfort zone, and change, and courage.  He says, “Sometimes, courage is the willingness to speak the truth about what you see and to own what you say […and] courage is necessary because owning our point of view brings risk” (17).  This not only speaks to some of my hesitancy about writing but also hits home concerning my job, as I will be taking on a new position in the new school year, one with a reduced teaching load and that will require me to speak all kinds of truth in humility to both my colleagues and my administrators.

And then Steven Pressfield, in The War of Art, explores Resistance, which feels like my middle name right now.  He capitalizes Resistance because Resistance is all of these things:  the enemy, the most toxic force in the universe, that which keeps us from putting our ass in the chair and writing, the barrier between the life we live and “the unlived life within us,” the root of unhappiness, the deformer of the spirit.  After investigating the nature of Resistance (because, as Pressfield says, quoting the Dalai Lama, “the enemy is a very good teacher”), he goes on to claim that the way to combat Resistance is to turn pro (as opposed to remaining an amateur).  The next part of the book draws distinctions between pro and amateur.  One gem:  “The amateur, underestimating Resistance’s cunning, permits the flu to keep him from his chapters” (80).  Yeah.  Ouch.  I guess that extends to sinus infections, too, huh?

Third, and totally related to the aforementioned issues, is that I’ve been having a blog identity crisis.  I think this blog needed a seven-week (figurative) road trip to find itself.  In conversation last weekend with my friend/writing buddy/sometime- (ok, frequent-) spiritual advisor, I was complaining about not being clear on what my bloggy purpose and identity should be.  She said, “Everywhere you go, you always meet teachers.”  She was implying we meet people who are like us, fall into conversation with them, get their email addresses and friend them on Facebook.  Well, shit.  Shit, because this is true, and shit, because this also comes back to fear and Resistance for me.  Fear, because if I go all teacher on this blog, I’ll either have to stay pseudonymous for fear of people discovering where I teach, or I’ll have to water down and distort the people and events I want to tell stories about due to privacy issues.  Resistance, because most days I’m not entirely sure I want to stay a teacher, and identifying as one and blogging about being one might be difficult given my pervasive ambivalence about this career and education system.

And yet…when she said it, it resonated.  And just because I blog about teacher-ish things doesn’t mean I’m signing a life contract to remain one.  And God knows I’ll have plenty of material to write about, given the daily exposure I have to lots of humanity (and some inhumanity, too).  And just because I talk about teachery stuff doesn’t mean I can’t still focus on the x’s, the overlaps, the crossings, the inversions, the parallels, the chiastic sorts of events and realizations that seem to crop up in life and job and reading all the time.

I guess you can just call me Teacher X.

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Christine at Abbey of the Arts always lays down the challenge—or rather issues the invitation—each year to find, select, choose (but really be chosen by) a word for the new year. I have taken this challenge for a couple of years…and been wrong about my word virtually every year. LOL. Sigh. The first year, I got ambitious and tried to hold three words. I learned fresh lessons about biting off more than I can chew, holding things with a tight fist, and small assignments. Last year I chose word I wanted it to be, like an attempt at a New Year’s resolution. It was a good word…and like most well-intentioned resolutions, it fell by the wayside almost immediately.

Each year I followed Christine’s sage advice about how to select or be selected by my word, to investigate and walk around the word and write about the word and pray about the word—but I didn’t follow all of her advice. I had never asked someone else for guidance or suggestions. I never really had someone in my life I felt I could ask, no one I wanted to be that honest with.

This year I elected to exercise a little meekness (for once) and ask my friend/writing buddy/sometime- (ok, frequent-) spiritual advisor for her thoughts. Not only did she successfully frame the outgoing year for me, but she also gave me the word I needed for the year incoming.

I journaled and semi-poeticized it this way:

Year 2012 was not about
move,
but rather about shut-up-and-listen.

For 2013, I’ve been given a word:
Forward.

A threshold presents;
I am stepping over and stepping through.
Some things go with me,
and some things start brand new.
What will I pack?
And what will I leave behind?

I will leave behind behind.
I will pack my open ears,
which really means my open heart,
my learner’s permit.

Forward means:
no regrets,
no self-inflicted lash, no
punishment for patterns past
of fail-to and didn’t-try and can’t-say-why,
no second-guessing.
Just forward.

Forward means:
not stasis,
no standing here,
no inertia,
not settling in.
I am stepping over and stepping through.

Forward means:
focusing ahead of me,
not behind;
unstuck and faithful:
paradox, for they feed one another.

Forward, too, means:
saucy and brave,
confident, brazen, and brash.
Some say I’m too much that already,
but I know my heart’s own fear,
my passing paralysis.

Forward means:
write it, babe;
engage and write;
correspond and see correspondences;
serve a short story;
be faithful to a poem or three,
stroll the iamb,
walk a meter,
take the pen for a turn
and see if a sonnet calls;
pick up fallen twigs of prose,
and weave a basket of words.

I also attempted the ever-useful acrostic exercise, which was a little more challenging than I initially (snobbily) thought it would be:

FORWARD

Face the front, not the rear.
Observe the road ahead; the rearview mirror won’t help.
Read the signposts in your heart; you already know where they point.
Waste not (time), want not (focus)—write now, write now, no fear, dear.
Ask for help; no shame in need.
Refuse to be hijacked, by forces external or within
Damn the doubts! Full speed ahead!

And then the connections. Oh, the connections.

First, the lovely Lancia Smith shared a post by Ann Voskamp, in which Ann discusses falling forward:

“So you forgot some notes! Fear and old habits and people pressure and your own interior playlist can do that — to all of us. But! When the piece started to fall apart? You fell forward, Hope. You didn’t fret about the music behind you — you focused on the next bar. …We are all going to botch it somedays. We all sometimes get the notes wrong. But the song only goes wrong when we keep thinking back to the wrong notes. …When a piece starts to fall apart — fall forward. Fall forward into the next bar. Moving forward is what makes music.”

And then today, another correspondence: I had my first singing lesson—the details of which are a matter for another post, but the fact of which is a definite move forward. During the lesson, my teacher talked several times about “forward focus,” which is a concept, having to do with tone, that I probably don’t fully grasp yet, but I about died.

And then there’s always St. Benedict’s perpetual forward-looking “Always we begin again.” That may just have to be my next tattoo.

keep-calm-and-pull-forward_crop

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“The absolute major challenge is not your schedule, organization, etc. ….  It is your FEAR,” she announces in all caps.

I catch my breath.

“In order for you to go forward, you are going to have to decide that it is okay to fail.  I’m not saying you will fail.  I’m saying that when you have a ‘Plan B’ and it’s okay to fail, then it often releases people to go forward.”

Well…yeah.

She continues, “At this point, you are afraid of what folks are going to say, but more importantly, you’re afraid they will validate all of those nasty voices in your head that are telling you that you cannot do this.”

I meet this with wry laughter.  It is all I can do.

It is so much easier to teach than to do.  I can always provide better advice than I implement—for time management, for writing, for not overvaluing the opinions of others.  I famously preach wisdom and good strategy to my high school students;  why can’t I apply it to my own life effectively?

Several weeks ago, I was talking with a student, M, a young man, who was working on his research paper and consulting with me nearly every step of the way.  He shared that he had taken my advice to chunk up the assignment in smaller segments, and then worked on one or more of them each day, rather than waiting until just before the due date to work on it and stressing out about it.  He was exultant—it had worked for him!  He was no longer the slacker student he claimed he had been in the previous three years of high school. He enjoyed the feelings of diligence and success.

I felt no small excitement for him…and no small hypocrisy of my own, as we sat in my classroom talking, my desk littered with stacks of ungraded assignments.  So much easier to tell than do.  Preach—success;  practice—fail.

At the same time, in my AP classes, my students were writing to one of my favorite prompts, about a passage by a science writer concerning mistakes.  It always leads to interesting conversation with and interesting writing from my students, and it’s also an annual reminder for me.  It hit home a little more deeply this year, in light of the conversations I’ve been having with different people over the past couple of months.

In his 1979 book The Medusa and the Snail, biologist Lewis Thomas argues that mistakes are necessary.  “We are built to make mistakes,” he writes, “coded for error.”  He notes that it’s not without reason that we talk about learning by “trial and error” and not “trial and triumph.”  He speaks of the “lucky laboratory” on a “lucky day” that a mistake is made, for “then the action can begin.”

If I run this through an overtly Christian filter, I might bristle at his celebratory application of the term “lucky” to our mistakes and note that the reason we are not perfect is our fallen nature, the taint of sin, which brings with it our separation from God.  And that is certainly nothing to celebrate.  But Thomas does not leave it there.  “The misreading is not the important error;  it opens the way.  The next step is the crucial one.  If the investigator can bring himself to say, ‘But even so, look at that!’ then the new finding, whatever it is, is ready for the snatching.  What is needed, for progress to be made, is the move based on the error.”

So it is not that we make mistakes but how we respond to them—what we do in the next crucial moments—that matters.  If we take our failures as an opportunity to beat the crap out of ourselves for failing yet again—sadly my own pattern, often—our mistakes will yield nothing of value;  no “lucky day” in that approach.  If, however, we take them as an opportunity to learn, to perceive matters from a different perspective (perhaps from the floor, possibly on our asses), they become the key to discovery.  Even Thomas Edison, the man who is said to have found over a thousand ways not to make a light bulb, said that “many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.”  So failure is not the time to walk away;  rather Lewis Thomas suggests that the real work has not begun until mistakes are made.  Mistakes are useful because they demand a reaction.

Thomas elaborates that the argument, the debate, must necessarily precede the new discovery, that “there can be no action at all if there are not the two sides.”  If we are in perfect agreement, we stop moving, stop thinking.  In this light, his final grandiose proclamation is not so farfetched:  “The hope is in the faculty of wrongness, the tendency toward error. The capacity to leap across mountains of information to land lightly on the wrong side represents the highest of human endowments.”  Even our flaws and failures can be turned to good effect.

Apparently there is nothing God cannot redeem.

*****

The implications of Thomas’s writing seem to suggest that we should not merely surround ourselves with likeminded thinkers but with those who might provide us with opposition.  This is difficult for thin-skinned perfectionists who already see the myriad problems with their work and prefer to beat you to the punch of announcing it;  it hurts less when I say it first.  Most real learning and scientific breakthroughs come of the aftermath of mistakes, error, failure. I know this.  I preach it to my students.  And yet I don’t want it to be true of myself, don’t want it to apply to me.  I was one of my AP kids, the kind who cares deeply about grades, and who blurs the concepts of learning and grade-earning (or rather, I saw them as different, but I wanted both in equal shares).  I was the child who, according to my mother, walked late…but walked perfectly—that is, I watched and waited until I was sure I could do it, and then I did it without falling.  Gah, it’s hard-wired!  I hate falling.  Falling hurts.  And it’s embarrassing as hell.  (I know this because I have fallen even as an adult, even in front of a class once.  Mortifying.)  Except I read all the books and stories that depict the time period after falling, failing, as being the most creative and fruitful times of people’s lives.  Great literature, great films, great inspirational stories are full of those good examples who overcome their fears and refuse to be governed by them, despite the risks, and also of those tragedies who remain paralyzed by fear, thereby denying themselves lives of quality.

What if I fail?  It’s really not a matter of if—it’s a matter of when.  I am human and therefore flawed;  I will fall sometimes.  St. Benedict writes in his Rule, “Always we begin again.”  This has become both my mantra (one of them) and my regular reminder.

Failing to act because of fear of failure—that would be the biggest regret-worthy failure of all.

Fear paralyzes.  I have to move.

If (when) I fail…I’ll have to pick back up and begin again.

I’ll have to remind myself that there is nothing God cannot redeem.

I guess I’ll go sit and write.

 

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