Fear and other absurd realities

It has been way too long since my last entry.  I knew it was there, just waiting to be written, but I could not get any words on the page.  Instead, I have spent countless hours checking "the facebook", following tweets, reading (well a few minutes before I conk out right on time at ten!), sending text messages, and generally *not* writing anything.  I have spent equal amounts of time trying to figure out WHY I have so much trouble getting the words on the page.

Here is my conclusion:  Fear.

Fear of not writing well.
Fear of offending someone or saying something that someone else will judge.
Fear of not being witty enough. Or smart enough. Or interesting enough. Or...or...or...
Fear of "too".  Too trite.  Too serious. Too full of myself. Too boring.
And most importantly, fear of my own words.  That once I write it, and send it out into the world, I will realize that was not what I meant at all. That when I say something, I need to commit to it.  To own it.  To be able to stand up and defend it, or support it, or justify it in some way.

But here is the thing:  I write my feelings.  I should not fear how I feel.  I should not defend or justify or support my feelings.  I write so that I can understand and share my inner thoughts, and my emotional reactions to things, and my heart and soul.

What is fearsome about that?

To be fair to myself, I have had past experiences of being judged or belittled or ridiculed or, worst of all, ignored when I have expressed myself and shared my innermost feelings.  No wonder I find it hard to speak up (or write up, in this case).  Who wants to go through that?  Better to just be quiet.  Keep it inside. Until you explode, bursting with all the sadness and rage and joy and fear unexpressed until you cannot contain it any more!

Which brings me to my children.

Their emotional lives are HUGE.  They feel their feelings and express themselves in raw, explosive and brilliant ways.  They have the potential to be anything, do anything, feel anything.  But at what cost?  The environment they learn in, that I work in, is emotionally and creatively stifling.  It is about test scores and following rules and shouting and tantrums and frustration.  They are not encouraged to express themselves, but to conform, to fit in, to "just do what (fill in well-behaved child's name) is doing."  And this is a problem.  Even when they should be able to be creative, in writing or singing or painting, the rules are rigid, the curriculum scripted, the expectations expected but not expanded.  They are nurtured by some, belittled by others.  The "worst offenders" are the ones with the most vibrant emotional lives, the ones who do not fit in, do not conform, and therefore are on the outside trying to be heard.

But they are also learning fear. Fear of being who they are.  Fear of not achieving.  Fear of being belittled, judged or, worst of all, ignored.  I don't want this for them.  Or for myself.  I want them to learn to express themselves, to feel and own their emotions, so that one day, when they are grown like me, they will not have to struggle to get words out.

I will end this with something that really speaks to me.  I received it from a colleague during a rare and wonderful workshop where I actually felt empowered and rejuvenated.  This is I believe from Marianne Williamson, but was spoken also by Nelson Mandela.  It resonated with me in all this mulling about fear:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

exposure

Last week, I attended a recital at Carnegie Hall.  The lovely soprano Renee Fleming sang her current repertoire of German romantic songs accompanied by Hartmut Holl.  The concert was lovely, and the hall was packed despite the impending snow storm.

Now, if I was a blogger of all things music this entry would be all about the recital itself: the gorgeous dresses she wore, the choice of songs and composers, the technique and the encores.  But, I blog about other people's children.  So, why would I be writing about this exquisite evening at one of the premiere concert houses featuring one of the premiere sopranos of our time?

Because as I looked around the balcony (where we sat), way up, far away from the stage, I saw not one or two, but nine children with their parents.  These little people appeared to be anywhere from five years old to tween-aged.  They sat still. They listened. They did not talk through the performance.  The littlest one (a few rows in front of us) played with his binoculars for a bit, then fell asleep after the intermission. The concert from up there was not visually exciting- just a piano and singer, center stage. There were no 3-D effects, no crazy costumes. There was no story line, and the words were sung primarily in German.  Yet, they sat, quietly, some peering through binoculars to get a better look, and listened.

It got me thinking.   I remembered being about five myself when my parents would take me to the Philharmonic concerts in my hometown.  They would put their winter coats on the seat between them, so I might see better.  They would explain to me what we were hearing, and that they expected me to sit still and listen.  I would have my own program, so I could follow along, and a pencil in case I needed to doodle.  I vividly recall attending a performance of Beethoven's "Pastoral" Symphony (No.6), and my mother explaining between movements that it was about nature, and that if I listened I could picture the rabbits hopping and the birds singing and the thunderstorm approaching.  And, I could.  I still hear that every time I listen to the piece.

Do I think that all children will love classical music, or sopranos, or going to concerts?  Definitely not. I have loved music of all kinds since I was a child, and even majored in it in college. My younger brother, on the other hand, who had the same upbringing as I did (violin lessons, singing in a Cathedral choir, etc), was not fond of these "forced" concerts. But, since my parents also exposed him to animals, hiking, fishing and respect for nature, today he is an outdoorsman who teaches his own children about birds and snow and how to track deer.

I was so happy to see those children sitting in the audience at Carnegie Hall.  Not because I thought they would all end up loving concerts or sopranos or opera, but because their parents were sharing their own passions with their children.  Children follow what the adults around them do.  And whether it is camping, hunting, reading, dancing, singing, playing music, making art or attending performances, exposure is the only way that children (and adults, for that matter) can decide for themselves what brings them pleasure and meaning.

a new chapter

...but first a fresh cup of coffee!  Ok, let's do this...

Welcome to my first entry, a new endeavor to channel my thoughts and experiences with other people's children into something positive, contained and occasionally enlightening.

To begin, I suppose an introduction is in order.  I am a teacher of young children in an inner city school.  Currently, I am a special educator, though I have taught kindergarten, and many years in Montessori early childhood.  This is my eighteenth year in the classroom, and every minute is a learning experience for me.

I am also the auntie to four lovely little beings all under the age of six, whom I try to see as often as possible.

I am partnered with a wonderful woman, and we have no children of our own, unless you count our fish (rescued from the classroom for summer break and never returned..) and our two year old hamster with no teeth (heretofore known as The Toothless Wonder).

My life is rich with experience.  I sing in a 60 voice choral group, attend the opera and concerts when I can, go to museums and various restaurants, the occasional movie and read every night before I fall asleep.  I have traveled to Italy, France, England and Wales, have dug for dinosaur bones in Montana and explored orchids in Costa Rica.

I love to share what I have done and learned with my children.  Once, my nephew asked me if it was true that I dug for dinosaurs in the "the mean place".  Apparently my sister had told him that I went to "The Badlands" of Montana.  We laughed about it for days!

Having never blogged before, but having made a resolution this year to not bring home every little thing that happens at work (my girlfriend will be happier, I'm sure!), I don't know what this will bring.  At least, it will be an outlet for my poor, overworked, never-settles-down brain.  At most, someone else will read it and get something out of it.