Sitting, yet again. Cursor on the blank screen.

Ambitious, yet slightly resigned.

How hard can it be? To write every day?

The pandemic still here, it stopped us last time.

But not this time…I hope.

We sit at the dining room table, large enough to fit 8, but most recently only frequented by our family of four. Day 8 of quarantine.

We’re all plugged in, each trying to accomplish task after task, obligations that are meant to create normalcy but more than anything lack meaning.

He pulls on my sleeve, and as I turn from my screen, I see the frustration in his eyes. It wells up inside of him, tears forming pools in his eyes…I tell him to take a few breaths, and pull myself away from my own work once again to coach him through a poem that he’s just trying to finish, to post, so he can go out and play. He completes his task and is off, feeling “done” but I fear not any closer to becoming the poet he once wanted to be…

Later in the day, it was my turn. After 14 attempts at my first screencast, I had sworn, yelled at my kids for interrupting, and almost given up. I was tired, not feeling well after too much screen time and not enough human time. He pulls on my sleeve and I am so close to loosing it again, “Take a few breaths mama. It’s hard, but you can do it.” Tears form pools in my eyes, but they are from gratitude, not frustration.

This is tough. And yet, there is something so sweet in the slowness and the simplicity. As we learn to let these days go by and release the need to produce and accomplish, perhaps we’ll find gratitude in little interactions that might not have been under other circumstances. We’ll learn new things, and learn from others in ways that are beautiful and unexpected. We’ll grow. We’ll become.

As the to-do lists pile up, I long for the weekend. Time to sleep, to sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and just be. But the to-do list still sits there, so many things asking for attention. I pretend to ignored the calls to organize what is important and toss what is not, to meal plan and book flights, to check homework that was actually due on Friday but is still in my boy’s backpack. But there it all is…piling up as it becomes too many to complete even if I had week off and not just 2 days.

But here I sit, on the porch, sipping my coffee and watching birds build nests in the olive tree in the back yard. Just 10 more minutes of peace, before the to do list takes over.

Especially in times of change, unrest, and insecurity, our default mode is one of scarcity. There is such fear that there will not be enough.

But what if we chose to believe there will be enough? What if we believed in abundance?

An abundance of time to balance work, family, and personal time. An abundance of work to make ends meet. An abundance of courage to stand up to the bullies. An abundance of joy to make the world a brighter place.

I do recognize that this notion is spoken from a place of extreme privilege. But  I see so many of us who live in privilege approach life ever afraid of there not being “enough.” Perhaps if we chose to believe in abundance, generosity and contentment would change our world in a powerful way.

I challenge us all to believe in the abundance of this beautiful world. We just might save it this way.

Life is full of choices. One of the most crucial of which is how we spend our time. The speed of life asks us to choose. Do we finish that last work task or watch Nexflix? Do we choose to organize our closet or craft a blog post? Do we stay home to tuck the kids in bed or do we go to a happy hour with our closest girlfriends (I know, this one feels like a no brainer…)

Someone once said to me, “We don’t have time; we make time.” We make time for our passions, for our friends, for our spouses, for our kids. We make time for our careers, to read, to travel, to learn. We make time to write (even though it’s 11:59 pm).

So what will you make time for today?

“Does anyone know what a learning coach does?” I ask the wiggly 5 and 6 year olds as I introduce myself. I explain that my job is to learn about learning, and that I’m so happy to be in their classroom with their teacher so I can learn from them about how kindergartners learn to read. They proceed to ask me questions.

“What’s your favorite color?”

-¿Qué te gusta hacer los fines de semana?

“What is your favorite animal?”

“Do you know what my dogez names are?”

After a proper introduction and interview, the students transition off of the carpet into centers. The teacher and I stand up to prep for a guided reading group. As I walk toward the table where we meet small groups, I feel a soft hand reach up for mine. It was little Danny. He looks up at me, smiles, and says, “Do you want to learn with me today?

He’s holding his special yellow journal where he keeps ideas, stories, and reflections. I smile and say, “Danny, I’d love to learn with you today…Is there something that you’d like to show me?”

“Yes…” he says in a whisper, holding up his journal with a serious look. “There is something in here that is very dangerous.” I couldn’t help but smile at his sincerity. “What is it?” I ask, inquisitively.

I kneel down so we’re at the same eye level and Danny proceeds. “I’m afraid I have some bad news…the black plague existed almost 70 years ago. And 13 days ago…It came back.” He slowly flips through his journal, which is a series of drawings and scribbles, written in black crayon. He reads me his pictures, shares “facts” that are true to him. When he finishes reading his final page he looks up and asks, “Did you like learning that?” “Yes Danny, I liked learning from you very much. Thank you…”

——————————————————————————–

Sometimes in the hustle and bustle of our teaching/coaching lives we can forget what an honor it is to be in the presence of young ones all day. Danny, with his fascination of the black plague and his desire to learn with me, reminded me today that I have the best job on earth.

Tonight I was tidying up the kitchen, neatly stacking dishes, drying, organizing. NPR played softly in the background, a podcast about fallen American heroes, which in and of itself feels ironic to me. In the midst of this mindless routine, a familiar song played…it was a buzz in the background, sung by an unfamiliar voice. Then suddenly the voice changed and had a visceral impact on me…It was Elvis singing “Blue Christmas” and although my head was filled with a million other ideas from a long day, as soon as I heard the song…I smiled. Not a small little grin by a full out, teethy smile. It was automatic and I suddenly was filled with a happiness that I can only describe as elation. At this point I chuckled, not about the song, which had now faded into the background, but about how interesting our minds and bodies are and about how little we can control what we feel at any given moment.

Now, I’m not a big Elvis fan…but there was something in that tune that was meaningful to me, and not in a conscious way. As an educator who is passionate about mindfulness, it got me thinking about how tricky it can be to spot emotions and triggers but about how powerful these triggers and emotions can be. It was a sweet reminder that we don’t (and can’t) control everything. But we can allow ourselves to feel…to recognize these feelings, both positive and not so much.

It also made me think that I might need to plan a Christmas in July party…because playing “Blue Christmas” just to smile seems a little weird.

: the quality or state of being close or near.

When we are young, approximations are celebrated. We scoot across the floor on our tummies, we babble, we take wobbly, miniature steps and fall into the arms of loved ones around us. “So close,” they say.

Little by little, these approximations become less appreciated. We are corrected at best and admonished at worst for our clumsy attempts at new things, hard things. The world begins to put expectations on us and eventually, we begin to reinforce these expectations on ourselves. We shy away from that which is new and settle into the comfort of the ordinary.

But what if we celebrated our approximations as adults?

What if we try for an entire summer to stand up on a surf board, only get up once, and tell that story with pride and a smile. “So close.”

What if we focused less on the times we lose our patience with our children and more on the hundreds of smiles and hugs we give them? “So close.”

What if we take on a new challenge, commit to sharing our voices with the world, to being vulnerable and accepting our own approximations as writers? “So close,” is gorgeously better than “I never tried.”

Too soon to say goodbye?

A month, or a two months?

A week, or a day?

Is it the last annual event?

Or the last weekend away?

When is it too soon to say goodbye?

 

Is it when you’re thinking about leaving?

Or when you’ve found your next home?

Is it when you tell the first person?

Or when the whole community knows?

When is it too soon to say goodbye?

 

For each person it is different,

But a challenge all the same.

Letting go, moving on…

Saying goodbye…

To your friends.