A Call for Self-Care

A couple days after last week’s post—about asking for help, a concept I struggle with—I read a blog post by my friend, Carolyn.  She ruminates on several important topics, one of them being self-care.  Her post resonated with me on a deep level.  There is so much I would like to say in response/reaction to her post—but I won’t… yet.  I’m going to get out of her way, and thank her profusely for allowing me to re-post her words here.

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The Eyes on the Bus

by Carolyn Zaikowski

I want to know what occurs to you when you hear the term “self-care”. I want to know what happens when you hear: You exist and are real. That, therefore, you must live and take care of your container, your body.

I first heard “self-care” during my training as a rape crisis counselor. I was a feisty 21-year old with a lot of energy invested in my identity as a crusty vegan feminist. My fellow counselors discussed the importance of self-care, but I couldn’t overcome the notion that it was blasphemy to waste precious time on meditating, weekends off, and creative projects when I could be using that time to help others. How could I justify “indulging” in self-care, when so many humans and animals hardly get to live at all? Like most other things I know, I learned the hard way that in a society based on so many hierarchies placing one body above another, self-care might be amongst the most political and revolutionary ideas one can engage with.

As a rape crisis counselor and supervisor, I was working overnights on the hotline. During that time, I also founded an animal rights group and became involved with anti-war organizing leading up to the 2003 invasion of Iraq. All these issues were embedded with each other in painstaking ways I couldn’t escape. My cells and heartbeat obsessed. Every day I made new connections between the hierarchies and violences permeating the planet, from the destruction wrecked by global capitalism, to that done against individual bodies on dinner plates. The choice I made in the face of this overwhelm was to starve. How could I stop for dinner when a shift needed to be covered? When I had to facilitate a meeting? When Iraqi children were being destroyed and I had the privilege of a voice?

Since adolescence, anorexia had been my default. Yet I hesitate to indulge some grand personal narrative around this. It’s true that I’ve obsessed in a manner, to a depth, that you’d only understand if you’ve had an eating disorder. Eating disorders are a purgatorial encasement comprised of out-of-control thought-patterns that incessantly generate themselves through your body, consuming your reality like a tyrant who may or may not exist in a guard tower. Eating disorders are torture. It doesn’t matter who you are; they don’t discriminate based on intelligence, bravery, strength, or political orientation; based on whether you are made out of love or hate. Anorexia doesn’t come from personality, yet it destroys personality altogether. It comes from a place before you, and it goes beyond who you are, infiltrates you from all sides and from around every external and internal angle. It makes you it. It becomes your only story. This is why I hesitate to write about it. I want to say things that go beyond a tired individualist tale and into the realm of helpfulness.

The best I can come up with is: I’m writing this, offering it, because, if you are so alone that you cannot even find your own body, I want to remind you that you are allowed to rest and be gentle, to hold yourself back into existence. I want to tell you that you are wonderful. I suppose I could say things like: My self-destruction arose from a message I’d internalized during my personal and cultural upbringing—that my existence, my literal and metaphorical body, had time to wait. There was only so much happiness to go around, and I had to sacrifice some of mine for the sake of those who seemed to have none.

So, you? How do you hold yourself? Do you see that you exist? Me, I lost so many pounds of myself that I couldn’t get out of bed. I vomited blood, broke bones, destroyed my stomach, lost my hair, got banned from the gym, fucked up my teeth, forgot where I was, got lost on my own street. Eventually I was forced to remove myself from almost all the political and social work projects I was involved in and enter treatment. Everything became its opposite. Maybe you’ve enacted a similar story. If so, I bow to you. Eating disorders override all things life-ward and good. If you’ve been to the depths of one, you have seen hell and known hell’s profound wisdom. Tell people about what you have found there. Tell people how anorexia puts a prison inside and outside you. It makes you into a prison and it makes a prison around your prison. Oppression is a prison in which we learn to police ourselves. Tell people how we can break the prisons if we decide to see them. To see our own prison bars and to see each others’ and maybe, if we are strong enough, to even see the prisons that encompass the guards. Tell about how in order to do these things, we need each other—desperately, profoundly, in ways that we might not have even conceived of yet.

When I was in that hospital that time–it was, unfortunately, far from the only one my eating disorder landed me in—there was one political project I rationalized lingering with, for it was mobile. I’d been helping a friend with some important research and brought all my materials and books with me to the locked ward. I could only use a tiny pencil to write, and I had to sneak it in, because pens and pencils are considered dangerous in these kinds of places. Two days later, my heart almost stopped. It was my 23^rd birthday. Because I was almost dead, I do not recall this happening. I recall waking up and my roommate on the ward swinging her fists at doctors. She wouldn’t eat because she thought they were poisoning her. It was then that I was persuaded to put the books away. At night my roommate moaned and I whispered to her: I know you know yourself. You exist. Keep going. Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

For months my life was consumed by all-day eating disorder treatment. I was essentially forced to eat food that, to me—someone who’d spent most of my life considering and advocating ethical ways to eat—was unethical. It was more than a year before I was able to re-engage with the things I cared about. This might seem extreme. Yet almost all the helpers, activists, and radical dreamers I know have at some point experienced a consequential degree of preventable self-neglect. Very few have truly internalized the vital connection between oneself and others that self-care sustains, a connection that evaporates with self-destruction.

I often turn to a story Thich Naht Hahn tells about the eyes of a bus driver. We’re all on and around her bus and our lives depend on her ability to see. On her intricate awareness of the road, how to move the machine and do the job. This is literal. If the bus driver closes her eyes, gets drunk, gets dizzy, goes blind, or has a heart that stops, we’ll all be deeply harmed. This is the nature of self-care. It’s intimately tied into the well-being of everybody around us. It is the opposite of personal indulgence because the self is not just the individual. We’re all riding on each others’ bus, whether or not we want to, simply by virtue of being alive together. Without a basic awareness of what we need, how we work, what our strengths, intentions, and weakness are, and how to be present and alive, we risk causing profound harm even when we think we are being neutral or helpful.

If I’d chosen to be healthy, I’d have been able to do more, and better, work. I’d have felt happy doing it, instead of guilty, depressed, and anxiety-ridden. I wouldn’t have had to spend months unbound, eating food I advocated against and using my time and resources trying not to die. I’m positive my self-destruction, reactivity, and poor health affected others in ways I’ll never know, because I was driving the bus with my eyes closed and I crashed. I experienced this crash and so did everyone around me: my loved ones, my colleagues, my clients and those I counseled, my cat, everyone I wanted to help, the folks who wanted to help me. Many of the political systems I was trying to name and break down—patriarchy, violent food production, hatred and destruction of bodies—were actually strengthened.

But to heal from anorexia is to grow yourself back. To grow yourself back is to grow others back. I was so terrified that I almost disappeared. I healed and I appeared again. I was so terrified that I almost unfastened my heart and dropped it in a cultural garbage can. I healed and grew my heart back. I dug my heart out of the war because I do not support the war. I stopped an entire war by healing.

At first, I brushed off self-care as inherently apolitical—some kind of sneaky twist on hyper-individualistic consumerist culture. And it’s true that self-care, like everything else, often gets channeled through Western culture as little more than a brand to consume—a quick-fix tweak of diet, a brand-name exercise regime, an excuse to disconnect. A solely individualist pursuit that should come at the cost of everything and everyone else; the other extreme, the rejection of the political for the unadulterated personal. But if we are to be effective mutineers, we must be able to mindfully contend with these extremes of relating to the self. To take care of ourselves in a manner that doesn’t reject the body for the politic or the politic for the body, because the two are connected in ways that came before and go beyond both of them, and beyond words and constructions altogether. If you inhabit a body that’s in some way been deemed unacceptable— if you’re a woman, a queer person, a transgender person, a person of color, a person of the “wrong” size or shape, a trauma victim of any gender— then to insist upon your own existence is one of the most revolutionary acts you can perform.

There are so many simple, free self-care practices that we can try to commit to: eating as well as possible, getting enough sleep, mindfully building breaks into our lives. Contemplative activities like journaling, developing presence and awareness through meditation, and spending time outside can change the entire game. We can set up childcare, meal, and work shares to help each other create space for rest. Whenever possible, we can ask others to take over tasks we don’t have energy for. On the path to radical self-care, saying “no” is sometimes in everybody’s best interest. It takes patience and awareness to create new habits. We must be so gentle and creative. But even just twenty minutes a day of self-care has changed my life. For those who are worried about losing their perspective, or their identity, to self-care, I promise: I haven’t lost touch with my passions—in fact, I’m a much better, happier, and more useful version of myself now.

Just like the rest of the sentient beings, we don’t deserve to starve, and we’re part of many systems that are affected by our starvation. For better or worse, it’s impossible to opt out of the reality of not being alone in this strange existence. If we don’t have health and awareness, if we’re unnecessarily starving in a societal trash heap, we can’t have ourselves and each other. This “each other” extends from our loved ones to all beings across the world. I believe this is spiritual, dharmic and karmic, but it’s also plain old physics, biology and evolution. Our genuine well-being is nothing but magnificent. It is in our ability to create enough well-being to go around for everyone.

The thing is, control is not the same as agency. Agency is big, it is empowering; control tries to contain and dominate things. Even at my worst, I have the agency to try to turn dominance into co-operation, power-over into power-with. When I am overwhelmed by personal losses, I can look at myself and be a witness. I can say, “I see you. You are in pain. Let’s rest.” We can say that to each other. When I am overwhelmed by my perceived powerlessness in the face of issues as big as wars, rape, factory farms, and ecocide, I remember that I do not have to contribute to the fucked-ness of the world by harming myself and, by proxy, those around me.

A beautiful person I was in treatment with once said, “Eating disorders are when you are busy dying. I want to be busy being alive.” Yes. That’s just it. We’re huge and ravenous and impossible to contain; this is terrifying. Especially as a woman in this culture, it’s supposed to be. When there is pain, sometimes it feels nearly impossible to keep my eyes open. But when I can move beyond the fear, I find myself in an inexplicable wellspring of wonder and reverence. It’s the kind of wonder where I can’t breathe, like when I saw the Milky Way from that deserted West Virginia field, or when I stood in a rainbow beneath Niagara Falls, or when I touched the Mississippi River, or when I find that pink tree on my block in the spring, or when it’s firefly season. Or when I met my nephew the day he was born. And suddenly I remember why I need to start being busy being alive. Suddenly I feel the need, with a desperation as big as my heart, to beg you, all of you who are in so much unnecessary pain: Come with me, come with me, come with me…there is so much to see on the other side! It is real. To heal is real. You’ve got to believe me. Look at yourself. You have hands and knees, a face, lungs. You have pens and paper. You, yourself, are as spectacular as everything you love. Do not listen to the tyrant—take up your own space. Come with me.

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If you’d like to visit Carolyn’s blog, go here.

Asking for Help

I am terrible at this and always have been.  I am stubborn and independent to a fault. 

The current situation: Vinny’s out of town working, I had an infection in my foot that was almost gone (I’ll spare you the details of how this fun event transpired), but after the furnace went out last Monday and I was up and down stairs way too many times, and then add to that some shoveling (which I actually like doing), the infection came back in a hurry at the end of this past week.  Basically, I’ve had great difficulty walking for the last three weeks, something that in and of itself is frustrating in ways I cannot adequately convey in words. 

This is how life works.  Sometimes it comes all at once, at a time when you wish like nothing else that it would simply leave you alone.  I never expect life to be easy, but there are times when I hope it might be a “little easier,” than others.  This has been one of those times.  Instead, I have been a medicated, hobbling mess.

Thankfully, I was able to retreat this past weekend to my parents.  They stepped in and took over childcare duties, as I sat for the better part of each day with my foot elevated as the infection worsened.  I can’t imagine how much worse things would be had I continued my normal daily routine, which essentially means being on my feet most of the day caring for the kids (and in case this isn't obvious, not great for foot infections). 

Still, there is a part of me that feels as though I am putting someone else out by sitting on my bum, letting someone else help me, take care of me.  I am simultaneously relieved, grateful and frustrated for not being able to do what I need to do each day.  And I know I shouldn’t feel this way.  The kids are having a great time, my parents are happy to help.  But me?  I am having a hard time sitting still, feeling like I am not helping or contributing in any way. 

I fully admit this is a tough concept for me to embrace.  You need help?  Ask for it.  If the situation were reversed and any of my friends or family asked for help, would I do it?  Absolutely, and without thinking twice.  Why is it so hard for me to accept it works the other way in return?  That those who care about me are willing to help, if needed?

I know I am not the only one who struggles with this.  And I wonder why.  Is it pride?  Stubborness?  Independence?  A fear that others won’t be willing to help?  I feel that as a culture we have been ingrained to “do it all,” and to ask for help is a sign of weakness.  But in the long run, we’re only hurting ourselves and those around us when we don’t ask for help.  And don't we want to model this behavior for our children, so that they understand there is no shame in needing help?   

So even though I have felt like we are overstaying our welcome, we have been at my parents since Saturday morning.  The plan was to leave at some point today, even though my foot is still a disaster, and then at lunch: a migraine.  It took me a few minutes to realize what was happening.  My vision was strange, not everything was in focus, I couldn’t see everything looking straight ahead.  As soon as the ring of flashing color showed up in my right eye, I knew what was happening.  Were it not so debilitating and painful, I would welcome the experience… I find the whole thing rather fascinating (how does the brain coordinate these things?).  But that's a whole other topic.

I have been lucky(?) enough to only experience migraine headaches when I’m pregnant.  And I ain’t pregnant.  Really, really.  So this was rather devastating today, to have my first, non-pregnancy-related migraine.  I hope it’s the first and only.

So my plans of leaving faltered.  If I can’t see properly, I certainly don’t feel confident getting behind the wheel of a car, especially with children in tow. 

It took the migraine for me to fully surrender.  To say, “yup, I’m an absolute mess and I am going to continue making an imprint in that couch until tomorrow morning.”  Which is what I am going to sign off now and do.

But first: Thank you, Mom and Dad.  I’m not good at accepting help, but thanks for being here to give it.        

Sit Down. It’s Time for: The Next Big Thing

I am lucky to have met some of the most amazing people I know during my time at Naropa University.  One of them is Carolyn Zaikowski, who invited me to participate in the Next Big Thing, and whose work continuously blows me away.  She’s the real deal, people.  Please go here to read more about Carolyn’s forthcoming book, A Child is Being Killed, from Aqueous Books.

So this week I am going to take a break from writing about motherhood/parenting and do something I rarely do: talk about my writing life.  

And so I give you – The Next Big Thing: An Interview with Stacy Walsh

What is the working title of your book (or story)?
How Film Destroyed My Life

Where did the idea for the book come from?

It’s emerged from a trickle of several different ideas.  Most people don’t understand how the film industry works, or what it’s like to work on a film production.  At all.  Most people I know think we stand around and fawn over movie stars (we don’t).  Then there’s also this thing that happens when you’re working on a project, where it takes over your life because it’s all you do at least 60+ hours per week.  So the fake world you work in on a daily basis becomes your reality.  It’s a tough pill to swallow and does things to your mind that can’t be undone.  Beyond that, you occasionally see movie star or producer “tell-all” type books, about behind-the-scenes drama, but you rarely see one written by blue collar crew members.  That, and I have so many ridiculous stories about my on-set experiences, it seems a waste not to share them.   

What genre does your book fall under?

I’d say a blend of creative nonfiction, humor, and horror.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is a trick question.  If this project were adapted (and I couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind doing so… which means it probably should be), the entire cast would have to be unknowns, or even better, film crew.  Actors would ruin the entire thing.  Although, I do love Living in Oblivion, so maybe there’s hope?

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Dunno.  I’m not one for precise pitches until the product is complete.  I’m probably an agent’s worst nightmare.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

When I finally finish this beast I will submit for representation (notice how I really sold it on the previous question).

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

This is a project I have worked on in starts and stops for the last five years.  I aim to have a complete draft by the end of this year.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Well, there aren’t many.  I’m definitely inspired by authors that write humorous nonfiction (David Sedaris and Laurie Notaro come immediately to mind).  As for books that deal specifically with the film industry, I enjoyed both Julia Phillips “You’ll Never Eat Lunch in this Town Again,” and “Based on the Movie,” by Billy Taylor.  One is a vitriolic attack from a bitter producer, the other a playful tongue-in-cheek look at the trials of living your life working in film.  They both give an insiders view, though their approaches are different, much more straightforward narrative than what I’m doing.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Well, back in the day, when I was working on a film in L.A., I would frequently send these mass emails back home about the more wacky experiences I was having on set, as a way to educate, entertain, and horrify my family and friends, who tended to have these very lofty, Hollywood-esque daydreams about what my life must be like.  I enjoy shattering those misconceptions, for lots of reasons.

But out of those emails came a lot of encouragement about putting my stories down on paper.  Then during my time at Naropa University I had one instructor in particular, Andrew Wille, who thought there was much to mine creatively in these experiences.  And there is.  My struggle has been whether to stay the course with a nonfiction telling (where humor is my intention), or to dive into the uglier side of the industry and put down a fictionalized account so as not to endure the wrath of people I know.  Both projects have their allure, but for now, I’ve opted to stay the nonfiction route. 

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

Just a few key words/phrases to whet your palate: chupacabra (look it up if you aren’t familiar… good times), filming overnight with fake blood and sheep that looked like goats (also related to the chupacabra), working on a Mormon comedy, being holed up in a barber shop as to avoid a rumored drive-by (you know, cause the film was gang-funded), the threat of having one of my arms cut off, riding in a parade dressed as a Marine.  This just scratches the surface, people.   

Thanks again, Carolyn, for inviting me into the fold.  The Next Big Thing continues on...  Be sure to check out interviews with some other fantastic writers I know during the week of January 27th:

Jules Berner fills us in on her latest writing endeavor.

Chris DeWildt illuminates us on his forthcoming collection of shorts from Martian Lit.

Gina Caciolo tells us about – Stamped Your Face: handmade goods crafted with grateful hands.

The Space Between Good-Bye and Hello

I hate good-byes.  They’re the worst.  Even when you know you’ll be seeing your loved one again in say, four or five weeks, it’s still difficult. 

You’d think Vinny and I would have this down by now.  We’ve been together over thirteen years, have spent countless times apart thanks to work and/or school, and have had to participate in this song-and-dance so many times you’d think we’d barely blink an eye. 

But no.

I wasn’t even going to write this blog post until after he left because in many ways, it’s easier to get through the good-bye by simply avoiding it.  If I don’t think about the fact that he’s leaving and what that means, well, it’s almost like it’s not going to happen. 

Until it does.

It was easier before the kids.  Sure, we hated being apart but it’s not like either one of us would change drastically in four to six weeks (or three months).  And now that neither child is an infant, the changes are a bit more subtle, but they’re still present.

Now that we have two kids, I can say it was easier when it was just Eli, and he was young.  Now that he’s old enough to be fully aware of what’s happening (and Sophie is right there with him), it gets increasingly difficult with each absence.  There’s acting out, temper tantrums, moodiness… and it breaks my heart because I know where it comes from, but I never know how to assure him that Vinny will be back in a few weeks.  It’s still not a concept either of them can grasp.

In the meantime, I try to take all the changes of behavior in stride, trying my best not to get immediately frustrated and cranky, which is easy to do since I am also experiencing the after-effects of not having my partner here with me (I guess I’m not really selling the whole “come and visit us while Vinny’s gone” ploy by describing how wonderful we’ll be in his absence… oops).

I’ll say this much:  If you don’t have kids, or have never parented on your own for a minimum of several weeks, please don’t say things like: “Four weeks isn’t that long, it’ll go by in a flash,” or “I did that once for a weekend and it wasn’t so bad,” or “It’s okay, the kids won’t remember,” or “It’s good to know you can do it on your own,” or “__________________ (fill in your favorite snarky comment here).”

No, if you have a friend or loved one that is home bound in the evenings with no adult company in sight perhaps offer to stop by for an evening and partake in some adult conversation (and/or drinking), or invite said friend and kids over to dinner with your family for a change of pace, or offer to take the kids on a walk so that she might have ten minutes of silence during the day, or…  You get the idea. 

There are so many things I miss when Vinny isn’t here, but having interaction with another adult is on the top of my list.  I am lucky to have some fantastic friends that make a point of visiting when Vinny is away, or make me chocolate chip cookies, or bring me beer, or have me over, or just generally provide some much-needed distraction.  Single parenting becomes lonely, quickly. 

That’s really my point here.  Yeah, yeah, the good-bye part is always a kick in the pants.  There’s no way around it.  I dread it every time.  But the part that’s even harder is the quiet house you come back to (okay, so after the kids have gone to bed).  That’s when the loneliness tries to creep in.

So just be aware.  Do you have a friend that could use a hand?  An ear?  A beer?  I knew this was coming, so have been filling up my calendar with much-needed visits from my lovely friends.  It’ll make the space between good-bye and hello much brighter.   

Stop Looking Around

Yes, yes.  It’s the New Year (a belated Happy New Year to you, readers).  A good time to reflect on what was and what lies ahead. 

I’ll admit, looking back wasn’t much fun.  When I think about where I was a year ago: super sleep deprived, struggling to get Sophie to nurse or drink fluids of any kind, struggling in my quest to get her to sleep through the night, well, it doesn’t flood me with warm memories.  In fact, when I think about the first year-and-a-half of Sophie’s life, I realize that there are large chunks of time missing from my memory. 

For instance, I honestly don’t remember Christmas 2011.  Sure, we had just arrived in Grand Rapids from Los Angeles on December 20^th, Vinny going into his hiatus, and we had all of four days to throw Christmas together.  And we did.  But other than a trip to Target to buy our fake Christmas tree and ornaments, and a trip to Toys R Us to buy the kids a play kitchen, I don’t remember any of it (And seriously, these are the things I do remember?  Why?).

So looking back… not so fun. 

On the other hand, I cannot remember the last time I felt so excited for a New Year to begin.  I have a good feeling about 2013.  Now that I am back to maybe ¼ brain function, am sleeping a bit better, and have these fleeting moments of clarity, I feel as though some of my long-dormant creativity is anxious to escape.  Couple that with some ambitious business ideas = color me happy. 

But in the midst of this looking forward and looking back and getting caught up in all that end of the year/beginning of the next, top-ten lists of everything under the sun whirlwind, I begin to feel overloaded.  Somehow, the end of the year does that to us.  We want a recap in case we missed anything, or forgot about something that happened earlier in the year when we weren’t paying attention, or we need a preview of what’s to come, to feel assured that yes, this next year is going to kick ass all over the place.

Maybe it will.  Maybe it won’t. 

Instead of overwhelming ourselves looking in every direction, why don’t we do as Garth used to say and “Live in the now, Man!” 

Seriously.  While I like to take time to reflect on what has been and what is to come, it is a hell of a lot harder to live in the moment with any kind of regularity. 

Have you tried it?  Really tried it?  As in, not flitting about from one to-do to the next, not sticking to your schedule day in and day out, not getting it all done before taking a minute to enjoy what you have right now?  To look at your loved ones and truly see them?  To be fully present with them? 

I’ve always struggled with being fully present in the moment, long before I was a parent.  Becoming a parent only exacerbated the situation.  Now there truly are a lot of things that need to be done each day, because, well, the kids can’t take care of themselves and if we don’t do it then there will be some problems.  So I find it even more challenging to be present as I tackle the day-to-day demands of parenting.   

It seems silly.  What is my favorite moment of any day?  The moment where I sit down with the kids and interact with them, with no other expectation in mind, no lurking “this needs to be done” thought creeping in.  When I am simply with them I am happiest, and so are they. 

You’d think this would be reinforcement enough to make it a constant and easily-remembered habit, and yet it’s not.  Quite often, it takes daily reminding to stop, slow down, and be with them. 

So go ahead, reflect, plot what’s to come, get excited about the myriad possibilities that any New Year brings.  But then remember to sit down, take a deep breath, and live in the now.

P.S. This post reminds me of my favorite fortune cookie fortune: Stop looking; happiness is right in front of you.  

I Like Purple and Orange Santas

So, I have been substitute teaching.  There’s a lot I could (and probably will) say about this experience.  But for today, I’ll say this: Let’s allow our children to be the creative, curious individuals they instinctively are.

Last week I subbed in a large class with another long-term sub.  For part of the day we also had an aide (what a blessing, most classes I’m in do not have this).  I was thrilled to have the extra hands, although part-way through the day I started to witness little moments that were bothering me: condescending remarks to the kids, chastising the wrong kid when a few weren’t getting along, etc. 

But this moment stuck the longest: The kids were given a color-by-number Santa head to color.  It was boring.  There were only three colors involved, one of them being white (and might I add, the largest portion of the picture).  First off, most of the kids couldn’t read, so didn’t get the color-by-number concept anyways.  Secondly, there were only two colors for the kids to use.  Again, boring.  Not to mention there weren’t enough of these particular two colors (red and “peach”… when have you seen a peach crayon?) for each child.

So most of them began doing their own thing, coloring Santa how they saw fit.  Fair enough.  And might I add, the results were fascinating.  I didn’t interrupt the kids.  It was nearing the end of the day, they were happy and engaged… good enough for me.  I could care less if they didn’t color Santa the “right” way. 

I was alone in this opinion.  The long-term sub and aide both began to get after the kids about using the correct colors.  And when several of the kids began asking what color “peach” was, both the aide and sub would answer, “You know, skin color.”  I won’t even get started right now on that comment.

I’m torn in these areas.  I understand wanting kids to grasp a concept, to follow instructions, blah, blah, blah.  I’m just not sure how insisting that each kid color Santa the exact same way (and inside the lines, mind you) is serving a benefit.  To watch these kids color the way they want to when given the freedom is a gift itself.  So much of their young personalities spill out onto the page when given free rein.  They are all so particular in their coloring technique, their style, their strategy.  Shouldn’t this tell us something? 

What are we doing to these young imaginations by insisting they all color the exact same way?  Who wants to hang the exact same 30+ Santas on the wall outside the classroom?  Isn’t it much more interesting to have them all start from the same point and see where they end up?  Don’t you think they have much more pride and a feeling of ownership when they can quickly point out and identify, “Hey, that’s my Santa!”

It seems like a small point to fixate on, but I came home that day so discouraged.  We are so groomed to fit in, to conform, to do the “right” thing for most of our lives, and it starts young.  But let’s not take away the joy of coloring freely on a page from these abundantly creative minds.  We should all want to see what they come up with.  It’s stunning.

*  *  *  *  *

P.S.  I wanted to write a holiday-themed post, and this wasn’t my initial intention, but since this experience stuck with me (and at least had a Santa angle), I decided to share it.

That being said, I wanted to wish you all a warm Christmas with family and friends.  When the little ones you cross paths with break into those fresh boxes of crayons (as Eli and Sophie have already done) give them encouragement to express themselves however they see fit.  Don’t worry about the lines, the right colors.  I can guarantee they will show you a new way of seeing things.  One of the many gifts kids give us each and every day, if we’re paying attention.

We Don't Want to Know, News

I almost never watch the news.  As a rule. 

When I do, I am always repulsed, disturbed, or traumatized in some way.  It’s like hearing the digest version of the worst things to happen—in our city, state, country, world—in the last 24 hours.  Sure, there is the occasional lighthearted piece, the weather, sports, but… none of that outweighs the constant onslaught of terrible news.

This means I miss lots of “news.”  But there was no way to miss what happened this past Friday at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  I am grateful this news did not make itself known to me until after I was done substitute teaching in a K-2 classroom for the day.  In fact, there wasn’t a whisper of what had transpired anywhere in the teacher’s lounge, hallways, or office.  Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

But now… I can’t stop thinking about what happened.  I’ve cried a bucket of tears in the last three days.  I had a ridiculously hard time dropping Eli off at preschool today, lingering on the playground, hugging him too many times, zipping his coat a little higher, messing with his hat, asking him if he was okay (he was, of course), just not wanting to step away.

Because once again the blind faith we put out into the world when we leave our children behind has been rattled, to the core.  Because we all know what happened could happen anywhere, anytime.  Because we all know that losing a child is our worst nightmare, period. 

This tragedy brings up all manner of difficult, complex, and emotionally-charged discussions.  I could write for days about gun control.  About the need for readily available mental health care.  About the fact that we as a society are failing our children.

These are all important discussions, and they are happening all around us.  This is a start.

But I have to go back to where I started.  I don’t watch the news.  This means I gather my news from the internet.  Not that it’s any more reliable or less sensational, but at least I have some control over what I choose to read and can avoid the visual aspect traditional news brings along with it (in my mind, an added layer of trauma). 

I have been careful not to read too much about this tragedy, as it only serves to overwhelm me further.  Saturday morning as we sat around the table eating breakfast as a family, I couldn’t stop tearing up, was repeatedly overtaken by a suffocating mix of emotions: grief, anger, sadness, relief, helplessness, despair, all-encompassing love.

Still, I have been following this story, part of the incessant need to “understand” how someone could do something so unimaginable to any reasonable mind.  It’s foolish, because there is nothing that could be revealed to help me understand anything about this.

So when I clicked on the latest story I wasn’t expecting (why, I don’t know) to be met with specifics detailing how the children were killed.  And these nightmare-inducing details were just simply released out to the public, as though we are somehow owed this information.  As though we somehow want to know this information.

Another layer of trauma. 

Can we have a discussion about the role of media?  About their duty to the public and the instances where discretion might be in the best interests of the public?  I don’t care how many CSI-type shows you watch or how desensitized people have become to violence, what good is going to come of describing in great detail how these children were gunned down?

It’s not about me, though I would certainly prefer not to know these things.  I am an adult, long out of my youthful school days (though my current job finds me back in that setting).  I have accrued the wisdom, maturity and emotional strength to handle most of what the media decides to throw at me.  Children, however, are infinitely more sensitive to details such as these.  And guess what?  They’re on the internet, too. 

I can’t speak to what is being shown / talked about on television since I have avoided it, though I imagine these grim details are being played out there as well. 

What are we doing to our children?  How do we expect them to feel safe, to want to go to school, when we are so thoughtlessly painting a terrifying picture for them?  I don’t think we need to keep children in the dark, but no child needs to hear these kinds of details.  In fact, no one needs to hear these details.  It certainly brings no comfort to the poor families who have lost their children. 

No, all it does is underscore the depth of this young man’s diseased mind (I refuse to type his name—we need to stop giving these monsters their celebrity).  And the callousness of the media. 

Like I said, there are any number of difficult discussions happening around us.  In many instances I feel helpless, the what-can-I-do-to-make-it-better quandary I often find myself in.  Here’s a start:  Turn off your TV.  Stop clicking on every story about the tragedy.  I know it’s hard.  There’s an allure to this shared experience, a reassurance that you’re not the only one crying buckets of tears, not the only one who is heartbroken, or furious, or sad.  Let’s do this: Turn to your friends, neighbors and loved ones and start talking.  Start noticing the children in your life that may need a little extra love and help.  As hard as this is for us as adults, we need to make sure that our children are doing okay, too. 

I, for one, do not have the first clue how to talk to kids when it comes to tragedies like this.  But I’m (reluctantly) learning.  One of my friends posted a link if you need some help in this area, developed after the Virginia Tech shooting (thanks, Shane).  Go here for more information.  Let’s be there for each other right now, friends.