Learning from Sadness

“A lot of your blog posts are really sad.”  That’s what I’ve been told.  Lots of times. 

Fair enough.  I write about sad things sometimes because in a lot of ways, the sad times mark a shift in thinking.  Happy times confirm that you’re doing something right; sad times make you want to change something.  Right?  In that way, sad stuff can offer clarity.

Like how I learned to ask for stories—from a woman I barely knew.

Ten years ago, I went on a trip to Denver for a professional conference.  I traveled with a group of eight colleagues, a sassy and fun clump of administrators who didn’t work together very closely, but shared a mutual respect—and a shared deliriousness at the idea of fleeing Ohio in exchange for the mountains of Colorado.  It was February, and Ohio was at its most miserable:  the snow had turned slushy and gray; the clouds were a disgusting, depressing mass; and the cold was the type that was making our joints hurt. 

The beginning of the trip was unremarkable, because, as is the case with these types of conferences, the halls of a nondescript convention center swallowed us up.  We dutifully went to all of the professional sessions; each night at dinner, we talked about what we’d learned and how to put it into practice back home.  All the while, though, our eye was always on the prize; we had planned to stay an extra day to go skiing in Vail. 

Vail!  Me!  Skiing in Vail!  I felt fancy just thinking about it. 

We rented a black Dodge Caravan, and all eight of us stuffed inside.  We were in that giddy, the-conference-is-over-now-we-can-have-fun place.  We left right after breakfast, headed west, and were on the slopes before noon. 

The skiing was really not something that allows description.  The mountains!  The soft snow!  The mind-blowing heights!  The clean air!  Oh, oh, oh—the skies! 

And the skiing.  Oh, my. 

I’d skied for several years by then and had grown into a confident and ballsy skier.  But my confidence had been built on slopes in Ohio.   It took about 4.5 seconds after getting off the first lift in Colorado to take a look down and decide my breath might stop.

I fell a lot at first, but eventually got some passable ski legs on.  I stuck to the green runs—most of us did.  We were challenged but held our own.  We did all right.  And it unfolded into a lovely, lovely day.  The kind of day where everything seems just right.  We took a break from skiing at one point to gorge on enormous bowls of hot chili and buttery chunks of cornbread; then we drank the clichéd hot chocolate with mounds of whipped cream frothing over the edge of our mugs.

When the sun went down and the lodge closed, we folded our exhausted bodies back into the van.  Driving east back to Denver, a snowstorm blew in like nothing I’d seen before.  We considered pulling over, but we all had early flights and feared we would get stuck for hours.  “I’ve got this,” Lenore said, taking over the wheel and scrunching down in calm, focused concentration.  In the back, we didn’t talk; we let her study the black air and invisible road as thick, cottony snowflakes whirled and hurled around us.  In the front seat with Lenore was her friend and work-wife, Linda, a woman I hadn’t known well, but had grown to know and respect over the four days we’d spent together.  She was funny and smart and kind.  Gentle.  Frugal with her words.  But as the van crept slowly eastbound through the mountains, Linda murmured nonstop to Lenore—a soft and encouraging sound that somehow reassured all of us.

The snow lightened as we neared Denver, but by then, a 2-hour drive had turned into a 5-hour ordeal.  When Lenore pulled the van back into our Holiday Inn Express, we were almost tearful with relief.  We hugged and thanked Lenore; she stretched her neck and arms from being clenched and clamped by worry.  We went straight to the hotel bar.

 “I’ll take a Shiraz, please,” Linda asked the bartender.  She folded her hands elegantly over one another.  Her lips barely moved as she ordered: Shiraz.  

She saw me watching her.  “What?” she asked, smiling.

“I just decided love that word,” I said.  “It’s very sophisticated.” 

“Shiraz?”

I nodded.

“My daughter loves that word, too,” she said.  “Actually, it’s a little embarrassing because her teachers tell me that she says ‘Shiraz’ all day long, over and over, while she’s at her job.”  She laughed—but the sound mixed up happiness with melancholy.  “I wish she’d pick a different repetition word.” 

And I thought:  There is a story there.  About her daughter.

And I thought:  I want to know it.

And I thought:  I want to ask.  Can I ask?  I don’t know how to ask. 

So I smiled and looked away.   

And here’s where the sad comes in.

Two years later, Linda was gone.  Not long after our trip, she found a lump in her breast and, in spite of fighting back like hell—complete with tired smiles, beautiful wigs, and a valiant work ethic that overshadowed her weak days— she lost the fight. 

And now, years later:  Although I barely knew Linda, I think of her a lot.   Every time someone orders Shiraz, sure, but also when I meet a person who seems to have a story to tell. 

Because now I ask.

“Tell me more about that,” I’ll say.

“It sounds like there is a story there.  I’d love to know it,” I’ll say.

“Is it too bold of me to ask you to tell me more?” I’ll say.

I want to hear all the stories.  All of them.  And what I learned that day in Denver with Linda:  If you lose the chance to hear someone’s story, you might not get it back.

Reflection or Blame?

In education, we’re constantly talking about the need to reflect upon our work.  The reflection, we know, will make us consider what we could do differently; lead us to make necessary changes; and come out, the next time, better than before. 

But reflection can easily begin—and end—with assigning blame.  Which doesn’t help anything.

It doesn’t reflect.  It deflects. 

Let’s say I’m running a staff meeting that quickly devolves into a mess.  It’s disorganized and cluttered and disjointed.  Not knowing what else to do, I stutter and stumble through.  Later, back in my office, I admit to myself, “Wow.  That didn’t go well… at all.” I might think to myself:

• The people in the back weren’t paying attention.
• They didn’t even bring the agenda I sent them.
• We have GOT to re-configure the space in the room.
• They don’t realize that this stuff I’m telling them is important.
• They show zero respect for me, as their leader.

But these things?  These are not reflection.  Instead, they just assign blame to the things that led to a crappy meeting.

So how could I ask some questions that would lead to genuine change?  Simply twisting the questions to include the word “I” might help:

• What could I do to engage the people in the back of the room?
• The agendas I create aren’t valued.  What is their value?  Should I re-think why and how I create them?
• Am I utilizing the space well? 
• Why do I feel I am not respected?  What action steps could I put into place to work through this?

Problems are never solved well with a pointed finger… unless the finger is pointed directly, squarely, and aggressively right to our own chests.  Just like looking in a mirror shows us ourselves, that’s what we should see when we try to work through challenges.  That,  (said the mirror), is real reflection.

I'm Old Here

A few weeks back, I was reminded of something:  How easy it is, when we think we’ve planned for everything and everyone, to forget someone or something really important.

It was the first week of school, and I was doing what I always do—I scheduled a visit with every classroom to read a book.  This year, it was I’m New Here by Anne Sibley O’Brien.  It tells the individual story of three students who are new to their school—and, also, new to the English language.  Each of the three children feels lonely and confused at the beginning; finally, though, the language begins to make sense and the kindness of others makes them feel part of their school community.

It was the perfect book for me to read aloud, because we have a lot of new students this year.  We did some re-drawing of our elementary school lines, and to summarize a long and complicated story, we’ve got over 100 new little people added to our community. 

From the very beginning—last winter, even, when we learned who our new students would be—we were so careful, so thoughtful, so focused on making sure our new students felt welcome.  We did everything we could think of.  We hosted a Welcome Night.  We posted FAQ’s on our website.  We met, one by one by one, with anxious parents and students.  We sent letters and emails and gave a gift to each new student.  We bet over backwards to make sure each new student felt part of our community. 

Our hard work paid off.  Everything went beautifully.  

So I was proud and confident each time I went to visit a classroom with my copy of I’m New Here.  I always started the same way.  “As you know, we have lots and lots of new student this year,” I would say, opening the book.   “That’s why I’m reading this book.  Let me ask:  Who is new here?”  

A handful of students would raise their hands. 

But one time, when I asked this question, I heard a little boy sigh.  I looked at him.  “What is it?”

“I’m not new,” he said.  “Actually, I’m old here.”

His eyes were downcast.

Oh, my.

For months, all we’ve been talking about?  The new kids.  We’d been making them feel welcome.  We’d been smiling extra-wide; wiping tears before they sprung; connecting, empathizing, and whooping it up. 

And in all that whooping, we hadn’t thought enough about the “veterans.”  The kids who had been enrolled with us all along.  Because in a lot of ways, those kids were still new—they had a new teacher, new year, new class, new friends they needed to make.  They were having a new experience and felt vulnerable, too.

Once again, I was reminded of the truth of leadership:  It’s so easy to over-plan, making sure we meet every single need of a certain group.  But in doing so, we sometimes forget others.  Looking back, I wish we had celebrated the students who weren’t new just as much.  I don’t think there was harm done, but it’s an important lesson.  In overplanning for one group, we might be underplanning for another.

Just something to keep in mind.    

How to Name a Cat

Yeah.  We got a kitten.

This was never in the plans.  Despite being a cat lover as a child, I came home from college with, inexplicably, a wild allergy to cats.  If I touched a cat, I would spend the rest of the day clawing and scratching at my eyes and face, tears streaming from ducts I didn’t know I had, and red, blotchy streaks across my cheeks. 

So.  No more cats for me.

When I started dating my now-husband, he had two great cats.  Gary and Newman.  He loved those cats, too, but if I were within ten feet of either one, I’d transform into a blowfish.  When we decided to get married, my poor fiancé said goodbye to his beloved cats; we found homes for the two and proceeded with our cat-free life.

And then.

About six weeks ago, my Dad stumbled across an abandoned baby kitten in his barn.   She was alone, and so very young:  Her skin was still translucent.  She looked more like a mouse than a cat.  Her siblings—almost certainly, there had been siblings—had been eaten up by a raccoon or dog or something, and her mama had fled the scene.  All that was left was this tiny thing, nestled in some straw way back in the dark corners of the barn.  Half dead, she was, with little hope of making it to cat hood.

But my father wanted to try.  You have to, really.  Because everything deserves a fighting chance.

So.  Assisted by my nieces and nephews, he made her a safe little home out of a cardboard box and checked in on her hourly.  He fed her with a medicine dropper.  He fed her a serum of water and Karo syrup, hoping it would be enough to keep her alive.

And she grew.  She found a personality and some spunk.  She found her purr.  And she used it, a lot, and more and more each day.

My reserved, gruff father turned into this unrecognizable softie around the kitten.  “I’ve grown exceedingly fond of her,” he admitted.  He carved out a couple hours of each too-busy day to pet her.  He transitioned her to milk and, then, soft food.  He trained her how to use a litter box.

I couldn’t help thinking about it. 

I did a bunch of research, trying to figure out how, 25-some years earlier, I could have gone from very not allergic to cats (as a kid, I slept with my cat on my neck, for cryin’ out loud) to very allergic.  I read about the likelihood of building immunity to cat dander.  I learned that sometimes allergies come and go and change.  I learned that cat dander might be managed with hyper-vigilant cleaning and lots of hand washing. 

I studied.  I asked questions.  I started to figure I could do this.  That we should.  Our family should adopt the cat.

I announced my thinking to my husband. 

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“We can just try,” I told him.  “Let’s see if I can build an immunity.  If not, we’ll find a good home for her, and she’ll live a very fat, happy suburban life.”

He thought about it.  A lot.  That’s what he does.

“It just seemed like a bad idea,” he told me, shaking his head.

“The kids need this,” I said.  “They need to see a young animal grow into our family.”

He sighed.

“So… “  I decided to drop the mic.  “It’s either this, or a puppy.”  

“I don’t like dogs.”

“I know.  Which is why we should try a cat.”

So last Sunday, the kitten arrived.  It was a trial basis, we said:  We’d see how things went, with me.  We wouldn’t name the kitten until and unless we were certain she could continue to live with us. 

The kids fell immediately into a deep, adoring love.  So did my husband.  I began catching him, late at night, snuggling and smooching with the kitten. 

I approached it very laboratory-like:  careful and with baby steps.  I spent a few minutes with the kitten every morning.  I first pet her gingerly, then more assertively, and then plunged in, sticking my nose right down to match her nose.  I breathed. 

Then I waited, fending off the dread, to see if I’d start to itch.

I haven’t, yet.  It seems like it’s going to be okay.  I had a flare-up once when she scratched me, but otherwise it’s been just fine.

So now we name her. 

I titled this piece, “How to Name a Cat,” but I have no idea how to name a cat.  We can’t agree, the husband and kids and I.  We’ve considered every name from Softie to Farcus (that from the husband).  We can’t agree, yet.  But what we are agreeing on is that this cat had a helluva start, in life, and a whole bunch of people who were at the right place in the right time to make sure she has a good life.  We love her already.

Maybe we’ll call her Lucky.