We signed up for beginner sessions at the pool a few weeks ago, and then the lessons began this past Monday. There we all stood, a bevy of parents, grandparents, and swimsuit-clad kids of all ages. The perky, tanned lifeguards called out names and got everyone into the proper groupings, and the guardians and younger siblings made their way to spots in the grass or shade, where we plunked down to observe the swimmers-in-training.
It's funny how you can bury a memory, and then years later it all comes back with unsettling clarity. It's the swimming lessons' fault. My kid hates them. He needs them, I know. It is essential that he learn to swim. Crucial. Absolutely a must. But it's not fun. Not yet, anyway.
I didn't fully recollect how much I, too, used to hate swimming lessons until the second day of this week, when my sweet son pleaded silently with me from the pool, his face distorted by the telltale pre-cry grimace. I spoke to him over the fence, as close as I was permitted to get. He had to be tough, I said; he just needed to do his best. It was okay if it wasn't perfect. It would get easier. Etc. Etc. In vain. He heard not a word through his misery. I gave up after a minute and returned, guilt-stricken, to my safe spot in the shade.
The next day, I stayed farther away. When he looked my way repeatedly, I looked down at the notebook in my hands, adding imaginary items to my grocery list so he knew without a doubt that I wouldn't save him and let him out of the lesson commitment. This morning, after he'd played the tears card in the car before the lesson began, I went farther; I sat behind a huge mountain of a man after my son entered the pool, thus totally obliterating the kid's view of me. He seemed to give up after a bit, according to a classmate's grandpa who was keeping watch as he sat next to me, and by the end of class my boy was actually trying to retrieve a ring from under water. This is big for us, believe me. Ring retrieval is an enormous step.
Now, we have a few days off from lessons, and I pray that his ring-seeking moment of bravery will not be forgotten over the long weekend. The point of this post, though, is not how my boy hates swimming; it's the fact that my vicarious suffering has brought back to me memories of my own early days at the "big pool." The sad truth is that I recognized that dripping, grimacing face of his, and it was my face. From many years back.
My teacher was not a cute, brown-skinned teenager. My teacher was Miss Betty. She was ancient to us kids, but old even by the standards of most adults. Her hair was frizzy and white, and when she instructed the older kids and was submerged, I'm pretty certain she wore an old rubbery swim-cap. Her requisite blue suit was stretched over her doughy flesh, and I don't recall that she was actually tanned even though she had reportedly life-guarded since birth; she must have been an advocate of sunscreen even back in the day. Or, her weary pigment had just given up.
Miss Betty had about as many soft, fuzzy edges as a box. Her voice was not an encouraging coo—it was more of a bark. She had no tolerance for fear, and she accepted no excuses. When she said blow bubbles, by God you blew bubbles. Even if you filled the pool with snot as you wept openly. There we stood, a row of horrified 6-year-olds, our blue lips quivering (the lessons always happened in the morning, early in the summer when the water was still barely 75 degrees), and Betty made us blow, and float, and kick until we could barely move our frozen limbs.
For many of us not raised near a ready supply of deep water, the idea of putting your face under water it not appealing. The very sensation of water rushing around one's head, up one's nose, into one's ears is pretty frightening. Doing this under duress while a crabby old lady hollers at your from above the water's surface or, worse yet, "helps" you to do these things, is pretty traumatizing. At several points my terrified, oxygen-deprived young brain was convinced that Betty would let me drown. She never did.
In fact, not only did she manage to pass me on to the next level, turtle-floating and bubble-blowing in adequate fashion, but she also delivered artificial respiration successfully to an infant a few years later, thus saving a baby from drowning. She may not have been heavy on charm, but she knew her stuff, that Betty.
So, I know there is hope for my boy. I can still side-stroke myself to safety these days thanks to her Betty's stubborn efforts, and I do go under the surface willingly, not just when forced to do so. But my heart breaks a little when I imagine the thoughts that must be going through my little guy's head. I keep reassuring him that the guards know what they're doing, that they all started out the same way that he is starting, the same way that I started. It does get easier. I can't assure him that it will ever be easy—that might be a lie. But easier? Yes.
Happily, I can still say with certainty that Dory was right: "Just keep swimming." I just wish we could skip this part of the learning experience.
Showing posts with label lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lessons. Show all posts
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Combining negatives for a positive
I've been thinking recently about which forces have been most instrumental in shaping me over the years.
I am (somewhat but not terribly) surprised to report to you that the majority of shaping has been a direct result of primarily negative examples.
This has been especially true in my work. I once, long ago, was a high school English teacher. I came to this path because I was not too strong at math, and didn't particularly care for sciences other than biology and earth science, and I didn't really want to fix hair, and had no military dreams or technical prowess. After blacking out many other possible careers, I was eventually left with English, which is where I felt most at ease. And teaching, which at the time seemed a no-brainer when I considered job opportunities in the field of English. But think about it: I had to make my way to that path by eliminating all those other possibilities.
Then, since I'd focused on education, I considered teachers I had liked. I had blurry memories of my favorite teachers, their adorable mannerisms, their very tough standards which they explained firmly (and with a wink,) the way they genuinely listened to and considered what you said. But honestly? The sparklingly clear memories of teachers, in my mind anyway, were all the teachers I had abhorred. The teacher who addressed the class while facing the board, the teacher who spoke down to us and belittled our individual and collective abilities, the gossipy teacher who spoke inappropriately of others, and especially the teacher who played favorites. Those are the teachers I remember best, because I was daily affronted by their poor performances, their unfair and ineffective practices. The substandard or smug teachers are the ones who made me the teacher that I was; their voices and faces were the ones I saw in my mind—the images and memories that caused me to face the class when speaking, to hide the fact that I liked some students better than others (if a teacher denies this, he is a liar). Those disrespectful teachers are the ones who indirectly helped me bite my tongue when another instructor made me want to speak unkindly.
It was, and continues to be, true in my office work as well. There have been fellow workers who were admirable and dedicated...but they pale in my memory when compared to the silly colleague, the lazy or sloppy worker, the incessant talker who was merely tolerated by coworkers. The slackers were the people who helped me develop my office persona, because I could see so clearly why they fell short; those lackluster employees made it easy to strive to do the opposite of what they did. Even now, I listen to my bosses when they fume about annoying or frustrating employees; I note quietly to myself exactly which behaviors have driven the boss over the edge. I can try to avoid a behavior once I know it's a trigger.
Most often these days, though, it is pathetic parenting that helps me stay on track—in my role as a mother. I observe some moms and dads and the way they struggle to control and follow through with a toddler. I go to work and encounter the often sad results of neglectful parenting—and I see mouthy 'tweens and hear the unimaginable comments made to parents' faces. I am also witness to many well-to-do and weak-willed parents...and the monsters they've created; I watch, shaking my head in disbelief, as kids break rules and fail classes yet are consequently rewarded with technological toys and prizes. I see it all happening around me, and I continue to believe in more discipline and fewer privileges; I stand firm in my mantra that it's always easier to ease up than to crack down.
I've still managed to do a lot of things wrong in every job I've ever held. I'm certain I'm screwing up my son royally. We all are (or so the therapists would have us believe). Yet, I am regularly presented with really feeble examples—of workers, of parents, of people in general—and all of those shortcomings give me something to avoid, a wall from which to steer away. I suppose that many of us are better at remembering the negatives in life—periods of illness, of pain or suffering, of poverty—just as mean and hurtful comments stick with many of us better than kind ones. Yet, two negatives when multiplied make a positive.
I hope that people can make something positive from my less-than-stellar examples in life. Perhaps the indelible and bad impressions we've all left, and have seen others leave, can still multiply in a good way and become positives instead.
Or maybe I really am terribly pessimistic. Your call. ; }
I am (somewhat but not terribly) surprised to report to you that the majority of shaping has been a direct result of primarily negative examples.
This has been especially true in my work. I once, long ago, was a high school English teacher. I came to this path because I was not too strong at math, and didn't particularly care for sciences other than biology and earth science, and I didn't really want to fix hair, and had no military dreams or technical prowess. After blacking out many other possible careers, I was eventually left with English, which is where I felt most at ease. And teaching, which at the time seemed a no-brainer when I considered job opportunities in the field of English. But think about it: I had to make my way to that path by eliminating all those other possibilities.
Then, since I'd focused on education, I considered teachers I had liked. I had blurry memories of my favorite teachers, their adorable mannerisms, their very tough standards which they explained firmly (and with a wink,) the way they genuinely listened to and considered what you said. But honestly? The sparklingly clear memories of teachers, in my mind anyway, were all the teachers I had abhorred. The teacher who addressed the class while facing the board, the teacher who spoke down to us and belittled our individual and collective abilities, the gossipy teacher who spoke inappropriately of others, and especially the teacher who played favorites. Those are the teachers I remember best, because I was daily affronted by their poor performances, their unfair and ineffective practices. The substandard or smug teachers are the ones who made me the teacher that I was; their voices and faces were the ones I saw in my mind—the images and memories that caused me to face the class when speaking, to hide the fact that I liked some students better than others (if a teacher denies this, he is a liar). Those disrespectful teachers are the ones who indirectly helped me bite my tongue when another instructor made me want to speak unkindly.
It was, and continues to be, true in my office work as well. There have been fellow workers who were admirable and dedicated...but they pale in my memory when compared to the silly colleague, the lazy or sloppy worker, the incessant talker who was merely tolerated by coworkers. The slackers were the people who helped me develop my office persona, because I could see so clearly why they fell short; those lackluster employees made it easy to strive to do the opposite of what they did. Even now, I listen to my bosses when they fume about annoying or frustrating employees; I note quietly to myself exactly which behaviors have driven the boss over the edge. I can try to avoid a behavior once I know it's a trigger.
Most often these days, though, it is pathetic parenting that helps me stay on track—in my role as a mother. I observe some moms and dads and the way they struggle to control and follow through with a toddler. I go to work and encounter the often sad results of neglectful parenting—and I see mouthy 'tweens and hear the unimaginable comments made to parents' faces. I am also witness to many well-to-do and weak-willed parents...and the monsters they've created; I watch, shaking my head in disbelief, as kids break rules and fail classes yet are consequently rewarded with technological toys and prizes. I see it all happening around me, and I continue to believe in more discipline and fewer privileges; I stand firm in my mantra that it's always easier to ease up than to crack down.
I've still managed to do a lot of things wrong in every job I've ever held. I'm certain I'm screwing up my son royally. We all are (or so the therapists would have us believe). Yet, I am regularly presented with really feeble examples—of workers, of parents, of people in general—and all of those shortcomings give me something to avoid, a wall from which to steer away. I suppose that many of us are better at remembering the negatives in life—periods of illness, of pain or suffering, of poverty—just as mean and hurtful comments stick with many of us better than kind ones. Yet, two negatives when multiplied make a positive.
I hope that people can make something positive from my less-than-stellar examples in life. Perhaps the indelible and bad impressions we've all left, and have seen others leave, can still multiply in a good way and become positives instead.
Or maybe I really am terribly pessimistic. Your call. ; }
Thursday, January 21, 2010
You paint with your eye
I had a college painting prof who annoyed his students regularly by telling us, "You paint with your eye, not your hand." It seemed ludicrous to me then. Yet, I've quoted him more than any other instructor I've had.
He was right. The best painter, the best artist in general, never trusts his brain. He looks again and again at the subject. He squints at it, studies it, steps away and comes back, but he does not trust his mind's memory or interpretation of that object, that scene, whatever it may be. The artist knows that his brain lies. The brain fills in details that aren't really there, details that it has imagined to make a picture more attractive, more exciting, more like another picture it's already seen, more bright or more dark or more—you get the idea.
The paintings I've done with which I've been most pleased are the paintings where I've been scrupulously, meticulously loyal to the true image before me. Those paintings challenged me more than others, because they forced me to question my existing internal photo album. My favorite cow painting troubled me at first, because the cow's ears seemed too low. But they really were that low. And when I accepted their actual location on the beast's head, and represented them the way they really look, I was happier with the finished result. Similarly, I did a flower painting last year that bothers me to this day. I didn't follow the real image; I made the petals too small, because in my mind, there were so many petals. In the photo? Not so many. But they were densely packed together, and my brain created far more than actually existed, and I got carried away...and then I was too emotionally committed to the existing half-finished painting to go back and start again from scratch.
I keep finding that life is like that, too. That's why I keep on quoting that darned professor. You really do paint with your eye. You see with your eye. And when you shut your eyes, or simply stop looking, you are certain to misrepresent the things before you, even those things upon which you've gazed more times than you can count. Your brain will happily conjure inaccurate detail after inaccurate detail, and your brain will like it. But it will not be truth. It will be what you wish were true.
I think back over my life, and I ponder situations that don't make me proud, periods of time I try to avoid recalling. I consider decisions that I've made—most of which have consequences that remain. I remember warning signs that were there all along, the same clear signs I stepped over and around in order to reach my destination. I saw those signs, registered them, and then I pushed them out of the way to grasp only what I wanted from the picture before me. I let my brain blur and darken the parts of the image that bothered me, that didn't seem right, the parts that did not quite match the ideal I'd already created inside my head. And down the road, when I could no longer deny what was quite clear, I was too committed to start over.
I need to embrace the "wiping of the canvas" mentality. I need to understand that my eyes will grow sharper when I admit to what they show me—even if it means wiping clean the canvas over which I've labored. It's hard to do, but liberating as well. At least, I've heard that it is. Now, please excuse me while I avert my gaze.
He was right. The best painter, the best artist in general, never trusts his brain. He looks again and again at the subject. He squints at it, studies it, steps away and comes back, but he does not trust his mind's memory or interpretation of that object, that scene, whatever it may be. The artist knows that his brain lies. The brain fills in details that aren't really there, details that it has imagined to make a picture more attractive, more exciting, more like another picture it's already seen, more bright or more dark or more—you get the idea.
The paintings I've done with which I've been most pleased are the paintings where I've been scrupulously, meticulously loyal to the true image before me. Those paintings challenged me more than others, because they forced me to question my existing internal photo album. My favorite cow painting troubled me at first, because the cow's ears seemed too low. But they really were that low. And when I accepted their actual location on the beast's head, and represented them the way they really look, I was happier with the finished result. Similarly, I did a flower painting last year that bothers me to this day. I didn't follow the real image; I made the petals too small, because in my mind, there were so many petals. In the photo? Not so many. But they were densely packed together, and my brain created far more than actually existed, and I got carried away...and then I was too emotionally committed to the existing half-finished painting to go back and start again from scratch.
I keep finding that life is like that, too. That's why I keep on quoting that darned professor. You really do paint with your eye. You see with your eye. And when you shut your eyes, or simply stop looking, you are certain to misrepresent the things before you, even those things upon which you've gazed more times than you can count. Your brain will happily conjure inaccurate detail after inaccurate detail, and your brain will like it. But it will not be truth. It will be what you wish were true.
I think back over my life, and I ponder situations that don't make me proud, periods of time I try to avoid recalling. I consider decisions that I've made—most of which have consequences that remain. I remember warning signs that were there all along, the same clear signs I stepped over and around in order to reach my destination. I saw those signs, registered them, and then I pushed them out of the way to grasp only what I wanted from the picture before me. I let my brain blur and darken the parts of the image that bothered me, that didn't seem right, the parts that did not quite match the ideal I'd already created inside my head. And down the road, when I could no longer deny what was quite clear, I was too committed to start over.
I need to embrace the "wiping of the canvas" mentality. I need to understand that my eyes will grow sharper when I admit to what they show me—even if it means wiping clean the canvas over which I've labored. It's hard to do, but liberating as well. At least, I've heard that it is. Now, please excuse me while I avert my gaze.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Making the best of things
Just about everything I ever really needed to learn, I learned from poor examples.
There’s no nice way to say it, but it’s true. I could regale you with the intricacies of those sometimes-painful lessons, but I’ll bet you’d have a number of your own stories to tell. Many of those life lessons were acquired in unhealthy relationships, and I’m not just talking about romantic interests—I’m referring to all relationships: with fellow workers, friends, mentors, family members, everyone. And a lot of those lessons about how not to behave have been learned during trials—my own and other people’s.
Now, the Bible is pretty clear about identifying trials as blessings (James 1:2-3 and James 1:12 address this). I’m usually not able to embrace that interpretation, at least not in the midst of the trial itself. But I have to admit that after the fact, a broader view of what’s occurred sometimes minimizes my tunnel vision; then I can begin to see blessing woven into the disappointment, shortcoming, or even heartbreak. However. I have a long way to go in this “trials are blessings” department; most of us do.
Why am I addressing this? I’m not really in the midst of any trauma right now. But I have a friend who was, and has now begun to emerge on the other side—the victorious side. Watching her face a family member’s illness with unflagging grace and trust has been quite a lesson for me, and for everyone else who’s been privileged to witness their struggle.
And it’s such a joy, to learn from a person I admire. This woman and her daughter, God bless them, are one case where I’ve had to eat my words. I’ve had to admit that their honest but shining example has been far more instructive than all those negatives that preceded them. In my adulthood, I've seen ineffective and insensitive teachers, abusive and neglectful parents, lazy and careless co-workers… There's an ocean of people who will happily illustrate the wrong way to do things—but they all pale in significance when held up to a loving, faithful woman of true Godly character.
So, kudos to Shirley, and her daughter R. I wish you only great health and blessings to come. You’ve been through the valley; now feel the sun. Well done.
There’s no nice way to say it, but it’s true. I could regale you with the intricacies of those sometimes-painful lessons, but I’ll bet you’d have a number of your own stories to tell. Many of those life lessons were acquired in unhealthy relationships, and I’m not just talking about romantic interests—I’m referring to all relationships: with fellow workers, friends, mentors, family members, everyone. And a lot of those lessons about how not to behave have been learned during trials—my own and other people’s.
Now, the Bible is pretty clear about identifying trials as blessings (James 1:2-3 and James 1:12 address this). I’m usually not able to embrace that interpretation, at least not in the midst of the trial itself. But I have to admit that after the fact, a broader view of what’s occurred sometimes minimizes my tunnel vision; then I can begin to see blessing woven into the disappointment, shortcoming, or even heartbreak. However. I have a long way to go in this “trials are blessings” department; most of us do.
Why am I addressing this? I’m not really in the midst of any trauma right now. But I have a friend who was, and has now begun to emerge on the other side—the victorious side. Watching her face a family member’s illness with unflagging grace and trust has been quite a lesson for me, and for everyone else who’s been privileged to witness their struggle.
And it’s such a joy, to learn from a person I admire. This woman and her daughter, God bless them, are one case where I’ve had to eat my words. I’ve had to admit that their honest but shining example has been far more instructive than all those negatives that preceded them. In my adulthood, I've seen ineffective and insensitive teachers, abusive and neglectful parents, lazy and careless co-workers… There's an ocean of people who will happily illustrate the wrong way to do things—but they all pale in significance when held up to a loving, faithful woman of true Godly character.
So, kudos to Shirley, and her daughter R. I wish you only great health and blessings to come. You’ve been through the valley; now feel the sun. Well done.
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