Day 236 “True Merit”

Trudy rises well before dawn, throws on her sweats, grabs the dog leash, and the dog, and rushes out the door for a quick jog around the block, stopping only to allow Mitzy time to do her business.  Her husband, Frank, rolls over at the sound of her movements and absentmindedly reaches for her across the bed.  He moans with the realization that she is already gone.

“You didn’t get enough sleep!”  he chides her when she reappears, readying herself for the  morning ritual.

“Sleep is for the weak!”  comes her perky answer.

Frank rolls back over and resumes sleeping.  It will be an hour or so before his wife emerges from the bathroom, so he knows he has time.

Trudy’s morning ritual includes showering, styling her hair just right, applying just the right amount of makeup (including false eyelashes) and making sure her manicure is presentable.  As she coifs she runs down the day’s schedule:  meeting with parents at 8:00 am, report due to the Board by noon, meeting with Principal at 1:00, and a meeting of her staff at 2:30.  She has a class to teach in between, but there is just no time today, so she’ll have to ask Dorothy.  Trudy sighs.  Dorothy would not have been her first pick for her department, and she had tried to reject her, but the Principal insisted.  “Oh well,” she told herself, “I’ll just have to make the most of it – more work for me!”

The idea of more work never fazed Trudy.  She was a champion, and with her brains and capability, she was headed straight to the top.  She’d have to make sure Dorothy was clear about her expectations.

Black and white was the colour palette Trudy chose for this day.  She wanted to look and feel powerful and in charge.  Knee high black leather boots with stilletoes finished off the effect.  She was ready to go.  Slipping on her watch, she noticed that she was running behind.  “Oh well,”  she thought, “they can wait.”  She wouldn’t forgo her morning stop at Starbucks.

Dorothy arrived at school, early as usual, her salt and pepper hair barely dry yet.  She opened the doors, turned on all the lights and checked the agenda for the day.  Trudy, she noted, would be booked up, so that meant she would be taking on the task of her class.  “No problem,” she thought.  Dorothy co-taught most days with Trudy anyway, and to be honest, she preferred it when Trudy was busy, it gave her more autonomy with the class.

When Trudy’s 8:00 am appointment arrived, Dorothy ushered the parents into the meeting room, with apologies and assurances that Trudy would be along shortly.

Students started to arrive and her day began.  Questions, requests, complaints – Dorothy patiently dealt with each, and hurried the students along to their first class.  First period was always the quietest in their room, and Dorothy cherished this time to get organized for what typically turned out to be a challenging day.

Logging onto the computer, Dorothy intended to catch up with some of the paperwork that her position required.  She pulled out the overflowing file of  “to do”s” and started to search through for the most urgent, but stopped when she heard the distinct click, click of Trudy’s heels.

“Your eight o’clock is in the meeting room,”  she advised Trudy who was now fifteen minutes late.

“Can you hold them off a minute?” Trudy asked.  “I have to speak to the office first. Oh, and Dorothy, I will need you to take the class today – my notes are in the file.  They can just work on yesterday’s assignment, so you don’t have teach them anything new – I’d prefer to do that myself.  Can you also pull up the files I’ll need for the report I need to get done today.  Just leave them on my desk.  I will not want to be disturbed until it is finished.”

Obediently, Dorothy again advised the parents that Trudy would be along shortly, and offered tea or coffee as a peace offering.  “These parents have taken time out of their own busy schedule,”  she thought, shaking her head at her superior’s lack of courtesy.  Then she proceeded to complete the other tasks Trudy had given her, sending a quick message home to let her husband know she’d be late again today – no time to get to her own work.

Glancing up at the clock, she noted that there were ten more minutes before the changing of classes.  Dorothy would have test-takers, and some independent workers for period two, and she might be able to get through a few files.

She’d no sooner thought it, when a tall, slightly stooped boy appeared in her doorway.   His footwear caught her attention first – work boots, caked with mud – they appeared much too big for the gangly thin body they belonged to.  The boy wore a baseball cap and a t-shirt and jeans that hung loosely about him and reeked of dirt and sweat.  He was clutching a handful of crumpled papers and well-worn paperback.

“Hi Jack!  What’s up?”

“Miss P kicked me out of class,”  he said with a shy grin.  “She told me to come here.”

Dorothy pulled a chair up beside her.  “Let me have a look at what you’re working on,”  she invited.

Flattening out the papers, Dorothy noted that the pages lacked visible work.  “Are you supposed to complete each of these?”  she asked.

“Yep.”     Jack’s shoulders slouch a little more.  He doesn’t look at her.

“Jack, when was this work due?”

“Two weeks ago.  Miss P said I do it today or get zero.”

Dorothy tries to recollect any previous conversations with Miss P. about Jack.  How had this missed her?  She tries to keep on top of all her special needs children, and while Jack usually manages to stay under the radar, she had neglected to check.

“I apologize, Jack.  I had no idea you were having trouble.  Let’s see what we can do. Have you read the book yet?”

“No,”  Jack’s voice was tired – he’d been down this road before.  “You know I hate to read!”

Dorothy took the paperback from Jack.  “I know this book,”  she said enthusiastically.  “It’s actually not that bad.”

“Yea,”  Jack agreed.  “I read a bit of it.  It seems okay.”

The report Jack needed to complete was his final project for the class.  It would be worth twenty percent of his final grade.  Jack needed it to pass the class.  Dorothy looked at the pile of incomplete work.

“Pick one worksheet, and lets get started at lunch,” she advised Jack.  “I’ll read and you can answer the questions.”  Meantime, she’d talk to Jack’s teacher.  Jack was just one of the many students Dorothy saw in a day – students who ran the risk of falling through the cracks.

As the bell rang, Trudy came rushing through the room headed for her office.  “That was a waste of time!”  she remarked in passing, “I’ll be in my office.”

Dorothy stared at the closed door and wondered if anything important had been discussed that she should know about, however; the room quickly filled with students and her attention was dragged elsewhere.

Lunch came, and Dorothy and Jack settled into the back room with his book and papers.

“This question asks you to link a personal experience to something you read about in the book,”  she explained to Jack.  “Is there any part in the chapter we just read that you can relate to?”

“Totally,”  Jack’s response surprised her.  “You know the part where she talks about how she doesn’t know how she’ll ever learn to deal with the abuse at home?  I can relate to that!  Not abuse at home, but I’ve seen things that I wonder if I’ll ever get over.”

“Okay,”  Dorothy answers trying to hide her surprise.  “Let’s write about it.”

Jack, it turns out, was a volunteer fire fighter for the small community he lived in.  “I remember the first time I got called out to a car accident,”  he told Dorothy.  “The guy was dead.  To see at that blood and guts really shook me up.  We got some counselling, but I can’t ever get used to it.”

“You still volunteer?”

“Oh yeah.  It’s an important job.  Not everybody can do it.”

“I’m sure they can’t,”  Dorothy thought, seeing Jack in a whole new light.

“Can I see you in my office, now!” Trudy’s voice startled her.  “What are you doing in there?”

“Working with Jack.  Miss P sent him.”

“She also sent explicit instructions that we are not to do his work for him!”  Trudy scolded.  She showed Dorothy the email she’d received that very morning.

“Jack continues to be a problem in class, arriving late, not completing his work, and failing to demonstrate a willingness to comply.  I am sending him to you as one last chance.  It is important that Jack complete this work on his own to demonstrate his capability.  Please let him work in your room, but do not coach him in anyway.”

Dorothy’s heart sank.  “I just think that Jack is misunderstood,”  she started.

“Dorothy, you must be careful not to overstep your boundaries.  Jack has had plenty of chances, I don’t want you doing any more.”

“Well,”  Dorothy, who usually complied with Trudy’s wishes, was not willing to bend when it came to her students best interests.  “We are getting somewhere.  I’ll talk to his teacher myself.”

Another teacher popped his head before Trudy could reply and Dorothy took the opportunity to slink out.

“Jack,”  she said returning to the back room.  “We are on a roll and I want this to continue.  As long as you are working, you can stay here.  I will speak to your teachers for you.”

“Thanks Miss D!”  Jack looked hopeful.  “My friend Lisa said she would help me read on her breaks.”

Dorothy gave him a thumbs up as she headed towards his teacher’s classroom.

“She’s a useless piece of meat!”  Trudy’s voice boomed from her office.  Dorothy stopped in her tracks.  “Well, for one thing, she’s over fifty.  And she gives the student’s one on one attention, who’s got time for that!  I’m running out of patience here.”

Dorothy felt her own shoulders slouch.  Trudy’s phone conversation was disheartening.  It didn’t matter what Dorothy did, Trudy seemed to to disapprove.  She pushed on.  She and Jack had made a connection today, and Jack was making progress.  She refused to turn away now.

Just as she headed out the door, Miss P appeared.

“I’ve come to collect Jack’s work,”  she announced.  “You haven’t been helping him have you?”

“Hi P!”  Trudy emerged from her office.  “Come on in.  We were just talking about Jack.”

“I am so frustrated with that boy!”  Miss P exclaimed.  “He’s useless.”

Useless!  There was that word again.  Dorothy looked at her colleagues – young, smart, stylish – and the rage began to build up in her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, “but he is not useless! Do you know that young boy volunteers to save lives.”

“That’s nice, Dorothy, but it doesn’t get his school work done.”

“We are getting his school work done!”  Dorothy continued.  “Jack and I are making progress.  He needs help.  Jack has a legitimate learning disability and he has the right to help.  And if you don’t like that take it to the Board!”

Trudy and Miss P, shocked at this outburst, were momentarily speechless.

“Furthermore, that boy has witnessed more than all of us put together, and he may not like reading, but his heart is in the right place.  And that dear ladies, is what I would call true merit.  Jack not only deserves, but will get my help.”

Dorothy turned on her heels and walked out before she said more.

“Fine!”  Miss P yelled after her, “But I’m docking him marks for lateness.”

 

 

 

 

Day 217 “Leadership”

My father died on December 23rd and. because of the holiday, we were only able to post an obituary for one day before the funeral proceedings. It was a blustery Christmas that year, with the weather fluctuating between freezing rain and snow squalls, making driving a hazard. We had little expectation that anyone would come out for the service.

Surprisingly, many came, and we stood in line for hours greeting people, and listening to tales of our father. Friends I remembered from my childhood days appeared and fussed over how grown we all are, but many of the faces were unfamiliar. Regardless of the connection, the stories all expressed a common thread.

“If it wasn’t for your father,” one man told me, “I don’t know where I’d be today. Your father took me in at time when even I didn’t believe in myself. Hired me when he could have had a hundred other, younger, more experienced men.” I listened politely, as the man still clung to my hand. “I even asked him why me? You know what he said?” No, I shook my head, trying to picture my father even having this conversation. “He said I was a regular guy, down-to-earth; that people would relate to me. He said he couldn’t train the young whipper-snappers (definitely my dad’s words) to have what I had. I’ve been quite successful too, thanks to your dad.”

“Your father found me sleeping on a bench in the train station.” Another man told me. “I had hit rock bottom, didn’t know where to go next or how to carry on. I had one suit draped over the bench behind me. In your father came, grabbed up the suit in one hand, and literally pulled me off the bench. ‘Come on, Man!’ he said. ‘You’re too good for this. I’m getting you a job.’ He was my angel.” I knew this man. He’d been far more successful than my father in his life. I never knew about the role my father played.

“Your father always had a way of motivating us,” one man told me. “We were his team, but we were more than that. He made us feel important, like family. And he never asked us to do anything that he wouldn’t do himself. We felt respected.”

“He fired me once,” another man chuckled. “But you know, I deserved it. Told me to come back when I grew up and got my priorities right. I did, and we worked together again. I credit him with giving me the kick I needed. He never held a grudge, and neither did I.”

It was difficult through it all not to picture the tyrant that had ruled our household with terror for so many years, and yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I had always seen this potential in my father.

He had been a great leader in his field, as witnessed on this stormy December day. The many who dared to come despite the weather gave us a wonderful gift that day – a new understanding of the man we called ‘father’, and a new purpose to our grieving.

I, personally, grieve that the type of leadership my father practiced in his working life seldom made it home where it was sorely needed.

Day 205 “The Best of Times”

My dreams drag me back into my past; into lives and loves long forgotten, and my mind follows, driven by nostalgia, full of hope. Last night, it was my former husband, inviting me back to the marital home, needing my help, and I naively following, thinking all is forgiven; life moves on. We don’t make it past the local variety store, and a few old neighbours before I realize that I am mistaken. There is no innocent intent here, only an attempt to use me once again, and the rage surfaces propelling me out of the dream into the light of a new day.

Why do we always associate “the best of times” with the past? Is it easier to look back and gloss over the unpleasantness, focusing only on the good? Why can’t we then do that in the present?

I cannot remember a time when there was not some sort of stress in my life, and yet, undeniably, always an accompanying joy. Today is no different.

Struggling to come to terms with a chronic illness and the life changes that brings, on the back of a year of health hell for my husband, there is stress and times of frustration, however; our love for each other has grown proportionately, with a new depth of caring and compassion. There isn’t a day that goes by that I am not grateful for this man in my life, so that even in the darkest moments I know that I am blessed.

These are the best times, if I am truly honest. These very days in which we wish things were different: wistfully dreaming of another time, a brighter future. There are no better times than right now.

So today, as the sun shines through the window and blows off the nasty remnants of my dream, I sit at the edge of the bed and ponder the perfection of now (or the “perfect imperfection”, as the popular song says) and make a commitment to myself to embrace the day, whatever it brings.

Day 163 “Time Travel”

My granddaughter’s arms reach up above her head, her tiny hands each grasping one of my fingers.  She takes a wobbly step forward and then pauses to gaze in the glass counter beside us.

“Buh”, she says.

“Pretty”  I respond.  The cabinet showcases an array of colourful china cups.  “Keep going.”

She takes a few more precarious steps and stops again.  Thus we entertain ourselves while her mother and aunt shop for antiques.  My girls arranged this little getaway as a celebration of my fifty-fifth birthday.  Their brother would be joining us later for dinner.  The site of our gathering is a quaint, tourist attraction, noted for its shops and market. I am amused at some of the items on display: mementos of bygone days.  Hard for me to see the value in what was once common place, and overdone.  I mean, really, could blue mountain pottery be making a comeback?

Annie stumbles and I catch her up in my arms, wanting to move on from this aisle where everything is breakable.  That’s when I hear a familiar voice – one I haven’t heard for years.   I turn and catch site of a childhood friend.

“Beth!”

We embrace, and I call in my children to share in the encounter, proudly introducing the newest member of the family.  Beth and her husband join our little entourage and we wander out into the street in search of a place where we can catch up.

Our conversation comes so easily, as if there has been no separation of years.

Annie, close to needing feeding, cries out for her mother.  Beth and I simultaneously remember another time, when Annie’s mother was a baby, and would accept comfort from no one but me.  Beth’s husband makes a comment about my nature, a dig rooted in our teenage years when he teased me constantly.  I feel like I am fourteen again.

It is a surreal moment.   I have journeyed down many paths and crossed many bridges in my life, and in an instance I travel back forty years.

The meeting lingers with me for the rest of the day.  So many thoughts and emotions swirling inside.

I always loved Beth.  Her gentle nature and practical approach to life balanced my dramatic, frantic self.  There had been three of us in those teenage years, and despite our hopes and dreams, I was the only one to go on and have a family.  Beth and her husband chose not to have children, and our third friend never even married.  None of us could see back then how things would turn out.

I kept in touch with Beth in the early years of marriage and children, visiting every six months or so, but as my children grew and our lives became more complicated, I let the relationship go.  As I did with many of my close friendships, I created a distance that would protect me from rejection.  Today’s encounter reminded me that the people who know me best don’t care about my faults and failings.  I have worried for nothing.

A chance meeting today propelled me back in time, looking at my life from a new perspective.  Yes, there has been strife and regrets, but there has been so much more.  My family is a testament to that.

Time travel:  it’s good for the soul.

Day 152 “Winds of Change”

The cab follows familiar routes, and as a passenger I am afforded the luxury of observing the sights.  Having grown up in this city, there are many memories stored here.

The driver takes the route past the park: a favourite drive for me.  Majestic green trees line the street, and beyond a grassy expanse offers the promise of leisurely walks, and family outings.  Every stage of my life has been marked by time spent in this place, and some little bits of my past bubble up in passing.  Today my mind flashes to drives through the park with my mother, begging her to stop so we could play on the swings.  “Another time,”  she would always promise.  Never enough times for our young hearts.

Beyond the park, we come to a halt at a traffic light.  There was no through street here when I was a kid, and the house on the corner belonged to a friend’s mother.  I remember how she resisted selling when the city put the new road through, and hung on for years.  She is dead now and the house is boarded up.  I assume her children did not carry on her cause.

A little further up the road is a restaurant where I once worked.  At the time, it was well known, attracting both locals and what we considered to be “celebrities”.  Long lines of people waited to get in well into the night, and we worked hard but thrived in the bustle.  Now the sign is faded, and the parking lot overgrown with weeds.  A converted church next door is the new “fab” place to dine.

We pass another green space, once a field, that is now well groomed for soccer players.  The houses just the other side, previously old and neglected, now house new families with fresh hopes.

Coming into downtown many of the buildings are the same, but the names have changed.   A parking lot is being cleared for new construction.

The cab drops me at my destination, and as I sit in the new station, waiting for my train, I contemplate the many changes that this city I call home has undergone.

Isn’t that life? I muse.  Some things stay the same, but much changes. 

All change is for the better, I once read.  I wonder.

Thor and my lives have certainly undergone change in the past year, and I dreamt of a snake again last night, waking in a panic.  My dream snakes have been harbingers for the changes we have undergone,  but this one was coiled peacefully, and causing no harm.  Still, it made me ponder what is next.

My journey to this station reminded me that it is naive to think things will never change.  Perspectives change, causes lose their impact, and priorities shift.

Armed with this new outlook, I am willing to bet that this next life shift will be positive.

We are ready for good news.

Winds of change brings us renewed life and enjoyment.

 

 

 

Accepting Success

My husband always tells me that I am failing my way through life with an A+.

It started when I returned to university to upgrade my degree.  I would sweat over every assignment, proclaiming uncertainty about the expectations and certainty that my efforts would fall short.  I would get the paper back with a mark in the nineties.

Despite my high marks, the insecurity persisted.  When I graduated from the Faculty of Education, I didn’t even notice that it was with distinction until my stepdaughter asked me what that meant.  Surprised, I responded:  “It probably means that I was the oldest.”

The assumption behind all this angst is that I am not capable, and that every task is designed to trip me up.  Of course, this is nonsense, and when I spell it out like that, my rational mind can see that it is.  Yet, somewhere inside me is an insecurity that my success is phony; that I am a fraud.

I am working on moving towards an easier approach to life.  I am trying to be consciously aware of how I complicate things with insecurity, and replace those thoughts with simplicity. I’m trying to take a step back before responding.  Reassessing a situation usually does reveal a simpler solution.

 

On Suffering

“All I need is to win the lottery,” Mae often proclaims.

“That’s not true,” I tell her.

“But if I had enough money, my problems would all be solved.”

“No.  If you had lots of money, you would still be schizophrenic.”

She takes this in and nods solemnly.  Then she laughs.  “You’re so funny.”

“I am studying the dictionary, though.  If I can get smarter then I’ll be better, don’t you think so?”  (Mae finished nursing school with 96%).

“Schizophrenia has nothing to do with intelligence, it’s a chemical imbalance.  You are smart already.”

The conversation is redundant.  We will revisit it many times.

Mae, like many people, just wants an end to her suffering.

As a student of alternative health care techniques, and a caregiver, I too have looked for answers to the riddle of why suffering exists in the world.  I have witnessed parents watching their infant die, and young children sitting at their dying mother’s bedside.  I have met those whose disease has debilitated them to a point of total dependency; and others whose lives have changed in an instant due to an accident or violence.  And I have met many, like Mae, who are born into suffering, with no hope for a cure.  Void of answers, I am only left with more questions.

What I have come away with, though, is a sense of awe for the spirit that drives each and everyone of these people.  In the midst of so much tragedy, I have encountered strength, willingness, compassion, and incredible resilience.

I don’t believe, as some do, that suffering is a choice; I believe it is inevitable.   And in some instances, I believe that suffering can open the doors for much discovery.

Relief

The verdict is in:  there is no cancer!

Relief is immediate.  I find myself breathing easier.  I feel lighter.

So, what was that about?   Months of uncertainty, unknowing, like a cloud hovering over each day.  Dare we plan….?  What if…..?  What about…..?  The questions were there, but unanswerable.  Just as quickly as it arrived, the cloud is gone.  The sky is clear again; life is back to normal.

But I am not the same.  I am more aware.  I more aware of how important my love ones are to me, and that I let them know.  I am more aware of how fortunate I am to be working at a job I love, but that my health and well-being comes first.  I must look after myself.  I am more aware that as I grow older my body is less forgiving, and it needs my care.  Health is not a given, nor a promise; it requires work and commitment.

I was lucky.  Not everyone is.  I have been given another chance.  I’ve got some personal work to do.