Jane Shurtz-The teacher I will never forget

Okay, upon rereading, this sounds very much like a middle school essay. I think it is because I wasn't inspired, I went with a writing prompt. Lesson learned?

Teachers are often the first people, outside of parents, with whom children have regular contact. As the other adult in a child's life, their impact should not be underestimated. A good teacher can be the shining light in a child's life, while a poor one can be the daily disappointment, if not nightmare, in a  child's life. And ironically, the students who so desperately need a teacher the most, are the ones who often struggle the most to form a good bond with a teacher.

I went through the early years of my schooling with the fuzzy, innocent view only the unawakened have. I was never a teacher's pet, frequently in trouble for talking, and sent to sit with the boys who didn't behave at the back table. I didn't really think too much about it. I had been talking, it didn't really occur to me my teacher's heart might not dance with joy to see my face. In second grade I was becoming a little more aware of power struggles and hierarchies, but was still pretty innocent. In third grade, at age eight, I was awake. I liked my teacher, I was good and fast at the work, and even though I wasn't a cool, popular girl, I had a good friend or two. Fourth grade, brought on Hell, fast and quick. This was after several moves, and I started at a very small school in a mixed 3/4th grade class. There were only four fourth grade girls and the fighting was constant and bitter. This was topped off by a teacher who wore dress skirts and kitten heels and pantyhose. She was fancy and fastidious and reserved, and I was her opposite. She did not like me, and as hard as I tried to please her, I was never the sweet, obedient child she preferred. I mumble. I have strong opinions. I TALKED out loud. I was raised with boys, a bit rough, and I often had holes in the toes of my shoes (which I totally would have forgotten if it wasn't for my big toes poking out in the class photo).  It was a bad year.

The following year, our school joined with another and our tiny building housed the 5th and 6th graders. The teachers split up core subjects and each student was assigned a homeroom. This teacher was an inspiration. I loved her. She wore jeans even though she was overweight, which seemed so cool to me. She had preppy sweaters with shirt collars underneath, and grey hair and a big smile. She hugged me and asked why I didn't hug back. She made me feel like I was someone even when I wasn't perfect. Mrs. Shurtz was the designated language arts teacher at a time when my passion was writing. She encouraged me and helped me perfect my childish pieces and encouraged us to use five dollar words. She believed in my crappy poetry. The next year, after we had moved to St. Louis and returned to Springfield in February or March, she had become a sixth grade teacher, and smiled and said she would take me in her room. I was so happy.

Now I got in trouble with Mrs. Shurtz. I still talked too much. I still gave her major attitude, which eventually led to a long tear-soaked lecture with her and the principal while the other kids got an extra recess. But she always made me feel loved. She always made a big deal out of our grades and we girls fought to be the one whose report card would read "Top Score!" on various subjects. When I was floundering in the popular group, she wisely moved me to another group of girls who were more accepting (through the wisdom of a seating chart). I felt the relief of a more forgiving social structure, and it wasn't until years later that I realized this was probably planned.

Mrs. Shurtz was the teacher I always wanted to be. While I don't have the natural warmth she exuded, I feel blessed to have had her as an influence in my life. If someone were to ask me, who inspired me to be a teacher, it would have to be Mrs. Shurtz (along with Laura in These Happy Golden Years, of course. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am not very good with names. I tend to rely to strongly on right brain cues to make associations with people. But the name, Jane Shurtz, along with She Who Must Not Be Named, will remained etched into my brain long into my life.

Self-forgiveness.~ Why knowing is half the battle

Urg. At the end of last week, I was met with an angry acquaintance and realize a carelessly thoughtless act on my part had hurt their feelings. I quickly attempted to make amends, however, they were not ready.

And then I sat there kicking myself. How could I have screwed this up? I thought I was becoming a better person. Why do I always make such stupid mistakes and end up feeling on the outside, when I want to just be friendly and make friends. Why is my logic so weird, and why do I have such blind spots?

I have been fretting about this for two days now, and finally have come to the realization that I have to practice self-forgiveness more. I can apologize, and other people may or may not forgive me. That is out of my hands. But I cannot let a mistake on my part ruin my life.  A little self-flagellation for a few hours perhaps might be in order, but not a weekend, week, or month worth of pain. We all screw up. We all have to practice forgiveness as well as ask for it.

I found a lovely little article, Learn to Forgive Yourself Even When You Have Hurt Someone Else, by Michael Davidson, and eagerly read, searching for some absolution.

I wish I could say I feel a sense of relief and can wash my hands of the matter. Unfortunately, my desire to please and belong and be thought of "as a good person" are too strong for me to easily let myself off the hook emotionally. But intellectually, I know I am okay. I am good and I have a light, and it will not be snuffed out by the winds of error.

And as a wise G.I. Joe once said, "Knowing is half the battle."

Off Days

Now that winter break is over and I am back to my day job, I feel the exhaustion all over my body. The first day back, I came home, took some pain reliever and spent the evening on the couch. Gradually I became used to the extra activity, but I felt a bit of frustration. I do not have a physical job. In fact, I think I spend too much time sitting a great part of the day.  But something about being at work, just uses a tremendous amount of energy.

I had my Saturday planned. I would do some light straightening, some laundry, nothing serious or strenuous. The weather promised to be nasty, so it was going to be a hygge day spent reading, websurfing, playing with my business stuff, and generally enjoying being alive. My husband budgeted a whole $50 because I am dying for new clothes (because all my extra-and not so extra- money is being thrown into the previously mentioned business), so I would search for deals online. Of course, I planned to get up around five and quietly awaken and go through my spiritual practices as I coffeed myself up adequately.

And then, of course. Life. At four a.m. my toddler was knocking on his door. I opened it and he said one word as he stood there naked. "Poop." I looked around expecting a mess, but he pushed past me, went into my bathroom, retrieved his potty, went to his room, pushed me out, and closed the door.

I could live with this.
It was short-lived however. I noticed my phone had come unplugged and scraped the wall as I was plugging it in. It wasn't long before he was crying and knocking on his door. I went back. He was staring at the wall in fear, crying, and saying, "Wall." The noise had scared him. This started when his pesky older brother started knocking on another wall to creep him out. Now any knocking when he is in his room scares him.

So I brought him to my already crowded bed, because sometime during the night my seven-year-old had come in. But he never went back to sleep. Eventually we stumbled downstairs to start the day. The seven-year-old awoke and followed. The seven-year-old is clingy. So my morning was not the peaceful, mind-enhancing morning I had planned. It is now 11, the toddler has just been put down for a nap, the house is messy, my phone has been snatched by a kid, and I sit here tired. And not feeling spiritual at all.

But it is Saturday, and we are making the best of it. I started a fire in the fireplace. I made homemade biscuits for breakfast (ignored that the seven-year-old said they tasted like playdough-they kind of did).  I ordered groceries. I deliberately left cocoa and chocolate chips off the list because I must lose the Christmas weight, if nothing else. And now I have a moment, however short, to type.

Some days are just off. Some days your best laid plans are knocked down. Your sleep deprivation continues one more day. The books sit unread. The patience you prayed for is wearing painfully thin.
Those are days when you just have to let go of your expectations. "Not my will, but yours," you think. You set your teeth, clean up the coffee the seven-year-old kicked on the carpet accidentally, make another cup, and try again. This time you REALLY let the aroma sink in (because who knows if you will actually get it in your body before it cools-or spills). You watch the flames dance in the fireplace, knowing, you are one with all the women before who sat in firelight gathering the pieces.

And then you can sit and marvel at the abundance around you. The walls and roof. The living creatures, human and not. The furnishings and decor and dishes and books, purchased one by one through your own labor. And maybe the day is off. And maybe the plans are shattered. But you are there, living one more unexpectedly beautiful day surrounded by plenty.

And your spirit soars anyway.

The Power of Prayer

Do you believe in prayer? Do you believe there is a power waiting and listening and wanting to help us?
When I was younger I was often told I had a strong faith. While I struggled some during the college years (which for me was late 20s to early 30s-I chose to do the mom thing first), ultimately, even in times of darkness, I held on to the belief that there was something-Someone listening.

I have watched my husband struggle with this idea of a Powerful being, a God, because he sees the pain the world, the pain children go through, and it doesn't make sense to him. Maybe I am simpler. Maybe I wrapped up in my own life, I am not sure. I hate the idea that someone is suffering. I can't handle stories of abuse or the thought of children starving, or people are being locked up and used. It is sickening. But that doesn't make me feel hopeless or disbelieving.

And I guess I am different there. I don't really want to go too deep into my own religious beliefs here, but I have been thinking of the power of prayer today.

I think about answered and unanswered prayers. The truth is, we pray and things either turn out the way we want or another way. The real question is, is there something-is there energy or access to a higher power that actually occurs when we pray? Or is the change happening within us? Are we triggering actions which lead to the events which lead to the prayer being met or not.

Are met prayers just confirming our bias? Do we just kindly overlook the unanswered prayers? As a romantic, obsessive infp (I think-let's be honest, we are all a little fluid in personality), like Garth, I truly do sometimes thank God for unanswered prayers. Can you imagine the following of devoted, idealized men I would have if every prayer and wish upon a star came true. Good Lord!

But if there are not guarantees, what is the point of prayer? In the Christian film, War Room, which was only okay as far as movies go,  this idea of writing prayers down so you can see as they are answered is interesting. I always wrote my prayers in a journal form as a teen. Eventually, several years ago, I threw most of them away, (and the crushes and pleas for whichever boy I silently loved, the pleas for help controlling my temper and being kinder to my mom, even when she was unfair, and patience for watching my little brother are now lost to the world), but the idea of asking for help is still there.

But...I have had enough prayers answered to believe in prayer. There have been areas of growth I knew I needed, but was afraid to ask for help, because my gut knew it would be painful. Until I got to the point of grief and despair as I was sitting on a floor, crying, and asking for help (you know when your grief and despair drive you to the floor, it has gotten real) . And the help came.

And considering that I do believe in the power of prayer, I find it a great curiosity to think of the things I DON'T pray for. If my gut tells me prayer works, why is it a last resort? Curiouser and curiouser.

The Gift of Time ~~ Edited

I woke up contemplating two whole weeks, if not to myself, at least with those who love me best. As a reader I started looking for some reading material which help solidify and validify the half-formed thoughts in the back of my head.
I stumbled across this sweet little post about giving the gift of time to your little ones.

If you missed that it was:
https://www.playfullearning.net/resource/the-gift-of-time/

This spoke to me, because like so many other parents, it is hard to get lost in the moment. It is hard for me to ever get lost in a moment. I am only lost in emotion usually when I am just completely and utterly angry. The rest of time, I find my mind is working, looking at other perspectives, noting irony, and thinking about other things. But what a precious gift we can give our children by being completely present at least part of the day. We can play their games without rushing, but actually enjoy the moment as we are in it. While it sounds easy, to me it is not! I am always contemplating, thinking, wondering, dreaming, wishing, daydreaming, hoping, waiting-my mind is always somewhere else. But our children know. They know when they are jobs to be fulfilled and not valued as people we delight in. So I want to spend time enjoying them for the people they are. Not going through the motions and hoping they don't notice my disengagement, but being fully present for greater periods of the day with them.

And that is what I want to do. It will be hard. I like my creature comforts as much as I know I should go out in the back yard and watch the kids play even when it is below 60 degrees. I feel a little lost if I can't "research" a topic immediately that comes to mind. As Alec is slowly napping less and less, I find the day quite long without that break in the middle.
But I want to accept this challenge!

Why?
I think it is important to be present and involved with your little ones, and I want my actions to match my words!

How can this be accomplished?

First, I plan to leave my phone in my room. Maybe even hide it from the kids. I will only get on it when the house is quiet enough for me to sneak away upstairs.

I will only be on the computer when Alec is sleeping. Honestly, I don't know if I can accomplish this today. A lady has been asking for pictures of my in-stock items,which I promised to her today, and while I wonder if perhaps she is just lonely, I feel I should oblige. That will require the phone, for sure, and perhaps the computer.

Third, I am committing to take the kids somewhere each day and playing a board game with them each day. Since many of our pieces have been lost, I may have to go out and purchase some cheap games (again!). The somewhere doesn't have to be anything spectacular, it can be out for an ice cream cone. But what I need to commit to is actually getting out of the car, and making it an experience.

Check Progress
Now I have three solid goals which will be easy to mark, yes or no. We will see how I stack up! I will check in every other day with an update!

Okay! Day one, let's check my progress. I know I said every other day, but rules are made to be broken, baby!

1. My phone didn't stay totally in my room. But I was off it most of the day. I was on it enough to post a few things on social media, makes plans with my sweet customer to meet her so she could look at some clothing, and put up a new fun outfit I thought looked happy enough to be one of ours.

2. I wasn't on the computer much either. Yay me!

3. We didn't really go anywhere, except to the Walmart pickup, and after a rough and grumpy start (on my part-I have a cold and am cranky), the kids had some fun and got lots of outdoor time. My 9-year-old scuffled with a neighbor kid, and I am happy with how I handled it. He even broke down in tears over his own angry impulsiveness and we talked about that a bit. I was a hot-head as a child, which I have tempered tremendously as the years have gone on (with occasional, anxiety-induced outbursts), so I totally get it. And I get the guilt and self-disappointment when one acts in haste and anger.  So it was nice to get him to open up a bit.

Tonight, my husband I are going out to see Star Wars and then! tomorrow! Another great day full of plans!

Winter Vacation and it is TIME

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Every winter I reread Anne's House of Dreams  during the winter break. This was the book ever-present in my mind when I first moved to Massachusetts in the deep of winter, just prior to the New Year in December 1992. To me, this book is all the romance of a life-desired and I will never forget how Anne-ish I felt standing on the windblown New Hampshire Hampton Beach in the bitter cold as the wind raced around me. If you are an Anne fan, do me a favor Read the book and let me know what you think!

I always read it as an ebook since my paper copy has long-since disintegrated. Typically it feels more like a New Yearsy book, but I am starting early this year!

The ABCs of reacting to stressors

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Early morning read with my two-year-old. I love the cozy depictions of domestic tranquility in these lovely illustrations. Our version looks like this, but it is out of print:


Sunday is the most bittersweet of all days. While technically a free day, the pull of the real world is hanging there, putting his knobby little knuckled fingers around the edges of your world, pulling it towards them. Or maybe that is just an introvert's lamentation.

An old coworker, on Facebook, posted dozens of pictures of her daughter's birthday party, and while admiring her cute home, I found myself wondering if she'd just go ahead and adopt me now. Probably not. I resisted the urge to actually ask, because you know that is weird. Really though, the difference in lives people living just miles apart can have is astounding. Well. That's the great mystery isn't it? Why some people seem to have manna from the sky falling at their feet each day, others trudge exhaustedly to maintain a decent standard, and others just crawl along, exhausted and lost. The world is unfair and unequal, and somehow I just have to accept that. This isn't to knock other people's lives. This particular coworker must have amazing energy for the amount of work she appears to put into living, it's just... you know. We all have to hold onto the belief that our lives have a purpose. Our place has a purpose, whatever that might be.

I love waking up to a quiet house. I slept in today, until six a.m., then quietly awakened and did my normal things. Coffee, inspirational talk, meditating for a few, then starting breakfast. My typical weekday breakfast consists of an overeasy egg, a slice of whole wheat bread, and lots of black coffee. We are out of bread, so I made a sweet potato to go with the egg. I cannot digest eggs alone very well, so hopefully the sweet potato is starchy enough to help the egg go down well.I LOVE fried eggs, by the way. I am talking love-about an egg. I had two big, farm fresh eggs (my inlaws bring them from their neighbor a couple times a month), and even added some sweetened dessert creamer to one of my cups of coffee. It was nice, but black coffee is really my jam.

My inspirational talk today consisted of the speaker discussing the ABCs: Action, behavior, consequence. Something like that. It is very similar to the ABC of behavior we discuss in my day job. Essentially, something happens, we react in a certain way, and that mindset we take with us, can determine the consequences. For me, my struggle is interaction with others. I am always wary of being hurt, left out, stepped on. So when an action happens that sends off a warning light, my brain goes, Alert! Watch out! Protect yourself. Danger! The problem exists that when we are in self-protective mode, we aren't in loving mode. We aren't able to live out our best version of ourselves when we are waiting for Mr. Jones to stab us in the back. And that affects the outcome. Appearing paranoid makes one marginalized (I totally got this from an interaction between Andy and Dwight on the Office last night), and that doesn't lead to a great outcome. What to do? People can be mean. There really are backstabbers and people who have no issue hurting others. How do you protect yourself without going crazy?

And I think the answer is again, vulnerability. We don't have to share everything. We don't have to trust everyone. However, we have to be brave enough to show up with authenticity and kindness and also with the understanding that sometimes, we will get hurt. Operating with the assumption that we have the tools necessary to repair ourselves from potential hurt, we have to remain open to the world. We can't allow ourselves to be marginalized. It's no easy feat to accomplish. I work on this nearly every DAY of my working life. I am blindingly naive at times and have been spanked by it more than once. I also need attention and will happily take negative attention if that is all I can get. However, I also have some fantastic big girl panties and two strong hands to pull them up and keep going. We have to give others the benefit of the doubt, at least until they have made it clear they don't deserve it. And that is  hard, especially if, like me, you worry that your earnest sincerity is a wondrous source of amusement for others. However, I do feel, in spite of concerns and potential embarrassment, it is a necessary part of living one's fullest life.