Irony

The moment I clicked on the post button last night--the moment my screen faded from my control and the wheel spun my words into a fixed space in time--I immediately wanted to change them. I wanted to pry open the page and reorganize it. I wanted to scribble "show, don't tell" beside my burst of pontification regarding the abundance of opportunities we all have to learn. I wanted to regain control of something I let go.

Instead, I read the entry to my husband, who responded with silence.

"You don't like it," I mumbled under my breath as a surge of regret spread across my gut like ink on a wet napkin.

"I'm just processing," he assured me. Then he asked to revisit the words with his eyes rather than relying merely on his ears.

"Who is the 'we'?" he asked, eyes scrunched in a moment of close pondering.

"The U.S., our society, all of us," I responded, somewhat uncertain where he was going.

"Everyone but you, right? Because you are the one doing the thinking, and engaging and searching. You are the one who is able to arrive at these conclusions, so by using 'we' you are, in some way, separating yourself from it."

I squirmed in my seat; my palms perspired. The computer sat a few inches from me. The "edit" pen at the bottom of the screen taunted me. I wanted to click it. I wanted to fix the ambiguity. I suddenly feared that my efforts would offend a whole host of people who might presume that I am an arrogant know-it-all who has set out to write in an effort to push my complete understanding of the world.

"In the first paragraph, I say I 'hope' to be able to listen, engage, search,' so my intention was to include myself in the collective 'we.' I certainly didn't mean to separate myself from my own examination," I tried to explain as I scoured my language over and over imagining all of the people out there who could possibly be offended by the fact that I elevated myself above them.

"But then you go on to share that you have everything figured out. You're strength is showing your point. When you tell people your conclusions about life, it creates a distance that isn't there when you explain what ever happened to you that made you realize whatever you realized," he offered, trying to push me.

I gazed back at the computer screen. He was right. Darn it. He was so right and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I wanted so badly to reach forward, grab my computer and pluck out my conclusions so I could replace them with a story about where they originated.

"But I had twenty minutes," I offered desperately. "Granted I took 25 minutes because I got up to get my headphones, but I had so little time to think of an idea, write about that idea and somehow make my point with that idea. I agree that it would have been better if I would have started with a story, but I started out writing to figure out what I had to say."

"I'm not trying to criticize you. Your writing is great. I'm just trying to give you feedback so you can keep it in mind for future entries."

"I want to take it down," I whispered as I considered the effect of what I tossed into the world, into eyes I may never meet. "I don't want to offend anyone. I was just trying to spread the message that we all need to slow down and accept failure. We can be so consumed with rushing and perfection that we stop learning and seeing and trying."

"I'm not going to let you take it down. I'm not going to let you quit this. Listen to your own advice," he said, reaching for my hand.

I shook, thinking about not returning to my words. It pained me to get the feedback he gave me, and not be able to use it to improve what I wrote. But then I realized that is what I do with my students. I give them feedback on papers they probably won't fix. I give them as much of my brain as my husband gave me of his, and I do it because I want them to be better next time. I want them to learn; I want them to grow. My husband wants the same for me.

It was so hard to close my computer last night, but I woke up today bursting with empathy. We can't always revise, we can't always re-live, we can't always redo. Sometimes, we just have to reflect, and then close our computer and go on.

Rise and Shine

I rose this morning, but I didn't shine. I tried to embody the spirit of "path seeking," but my eyes weren't quite wide enough to gain the full periphery. I opted for late night writing instead, hoping to spend an entire day immersed in full awareness, listening, engaging, searching.

Every day, we are inundated with opportunities to learn. Whether that learning transpires as the attainment of knowledge, or through an awareness of self, or it is embodied in some philosophical concept that suddenly presents itself through the course of various interactions--those opportunities are there if we let them strike us. On any given day, if we take the time, any one of us could ascertain some deeper meaning about what that day offered. Obviously some days present more meaning than others, but some sort of meaning would be evident if we committed ourselves to discovering it.

The problem is that we often rise and shine and run. We dart down paths with out delving into the dirt that paves them. We rush to the end point looming in the distance, and if someone asks us to explain what that point is, few of us could articulate what we are chasing. The end of the day? Friday night? January 1? The start of summer? Our wedding day? Landmark birthdays? Retirement? Our golden anniversary? Death?

Today, I spent almost every moment outside of the classroom grading. In nearly 70% of the essays I read, my students identified that their primary motivation for getting good grades is pleasing their parents and getting into a good college so they could ultimately land a good job. They fear what the news tells them: jobs are scarce and they better be pretty darn fantastic if they plan to go anywhere. While their goals seem very similar to the goals I would have identified, the desperation lining them broke my heart. The number of kids with anxiety disorders and depression seems to rise every year. While the media covers the effect of the recession on adults without jobs, I see very little about how it is affecting kids. I see very little out there encouraging them to smile and laugh and play. I see very little about the resilience of the American spirit. I see nothing telling them that they are supposed to make mistakes and learn from them. These kids are not in the category of failing students; these kids are some of the brightest kids I've ever seen.

While it is nice to rise and shine and recognize that all paths are ours to seek, sometimes we need to know that mistakes can help make us who we are. They show us what we need to learn, what we need to see, what we need to do. They inspire us. They move us. They help us appreciate our successes. That never changes. Not with a recession or a depression or a job crunch. Our failures--or at least our willingness to risk failure and grow from failure--helps us to saunter down our path at a pace where instincts can come alive, where we can bend down slowly and dip our fingers into the dirt. Where we can feel. Where we can think. Where we can actually seek.