Memories

I find time in silence to remember. I think back to when I was younger, wondering where the time has gone and realizing that I'll never be as young as I consider myself to be. The universal nature of such subjects may render them commonplace, but it doesn't diminish their importance. I wonder, as well, whether I'll ever outgrow my capacity to pluck details from the past and relive them at will. When will I lose the remnants of the past, placing an expiry date on memories and forgetting things which once were the sum of my collective experience? I believe that each friendship, each encounter, even each moment we share in joy and love with another has value; but is this value diminished by my inability to remember? Nostalgia, then, becomes a means of self-preservation used to hold on to each moment.

I miss people in the sense that I miss the experiences we've shared, I miss the friendships in my memories. I don't know if I ever expect myself to be the person who has lifelong friendships. I suppose if the past in any way dictates the future, socially I'll be a transient wanderer. I keep thinking things will never be the same as if the comfort found in the predictable is something I need, while at the same time I recognize the inevitability of change and the importance in realizing that life isn't about preservation. I suppose this sort of reflection is always fraught with contradictory wills for me, but nonetheless, I will both lament and excitedly embrace the impact of change.

Beyond these thoughts, although not necessarily entirely apart from them, I think I need to learn the importance of being content with my life. I think this requires gratitude and patience, the latter of which being something I struggle with. I constantly think about the hypothetical paths my life could take, and the next steps involved in my many decisions. I'm always planning, charting some greater trajectory that may or may not involve grand changes to my circumstance. I need to practice a discipline of thankfulness that goes beyond celebrating successes to celebrate simply being. I think, amidst change, one way to part with the past is to celebrate the present rather than resenting the loss of the moment and having to lament my inability to relive my memories.

...or something along those lines. If, for whatever reason, this is to be my last post of the season, Merry Christmas all!

On my educational journey

Throughout my 405 experience, I’ve spent these months focusing on defining myself as an educator. I’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on the amount of influence a teacher has, I’ve forged relationships with the students in my class and I’ve discovered my own predispositions for assessing and quantifying knowledge. I have spent time outside of the regular classroom hours getting involved in the school community, I have spent many hours discussing the intricacies of assessment with my S.A, and I have spent even more time writing and re-writing various reflections on lessons, observations, and the events of the week. These experiences have combined to aid me as I work towards the realization that I’m about to enter in to a profession for which I’ve spent my entire academic life working.

When I began my journey in PDP, we had several guest speakers come in and address myself and my fellow students in a variety of presentations and seminars. During one of these presentations I heard a phrase that has come to represent my journey as a student teacher: “you need to become comfortable with the uncomfortable.” I’ve spent years studying education in university, learning all about various pedagogical and philosophical approaches to education. Yet, the experience of actually taking over a classroom has allowed me to develop my own beliefs about what it means to me to be an educator. It has stretched me by urging me to confront issues surrounding differentiation, assessment, socialization, teacher-student relationships and the role of technology in the classroom to which there are no simple answers or solutions.

I have learned that, as far as these sorts of larger issues are concerned, I gravitate towards a comfortable solution that I can apply to any and all situations. However, it is the uncomfortable realization that these issues may never be fully resolved that I have come to understand profoundly. As I work towards defining myself as an instructor, I must continue to work through these issues and continue to seek professional growth as a way of becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable. I believe that we pay respect to this profession by striving to grow in all circumstances, and that the steps towards growth are never the most comfortable but they are certainly the most fruitful.

Late night line...

Sleeplessness is tomorrow's burden as I trudge drearily toward tonight's conclusion.

Birthday at Minnekhada

It truly must be the greatest feeling in the world, to feel loved. To feel that, for whatever reason, you are the subject of another's thoughts. To feel as though your presence is felt, appreciated, cherished by those around you. Today, I feel loved.

I am not a fan of birthdays. When I was younger, I had a bad experience that has since left me in a miniature existential crisis surrounding the celebration of another passing year. It's the sort of thing that's petty enough that you're embarrassed to share it, but substantial enough that you find yourself powerless to move beyond it. My birthday was forgotten, and since then, I've wondered why we remember at all.

Why do we rejoice at the notion that I am being helplessly drawn towards the end of my life? I suppose there's much to be said of being thankful for what we've been given, but that feels overshadowed when we celebrate the progress of a passing year in a day, confining even our celebration on that day to an hour or two. How can I appreciate each moment for what it is when you're singing celebrating a year's worth of grace in one short song? In any case, I digress. As I said above, I feel loved.

As I walked into the school for an early morning volleyball practice, I remained completely oblivious to the package of goodies awaiting me in the corner of the gym. At the practice's end, my fellow PDP soldiers presented me with an amazing bundle of gifts. It wasn't what they got me, not how much they spent or the uses of these presents, it was the thought that I appreciated. As I headed back to my classroom to reflect on their gifts, I remembered conversations had in passing, jokes we'd laughed those deep, drawn out laughs about, and moments when insignificant comments had been noted by people who genuinely care. I felt noticed, I felt cared for, I felt loved.

The greatest gift of all was a card that wasn't a card at all but rather a piece of plain white legal paper, folded over several times and scrawled on without a particular amount of care. This card read "so it's your birthday and you hate cards so some of us thought it would be a good idea to let you know: Everyone hates you! Signed everyone!" Obviously filled with inside jokes, this card represents a friendship that has been built out of shared frustrations, laughs, and difficulties. To me, it is an effort to bring joy in a purely selfless way. To me, it shows that there are people around me who care about me more than I've realized.

Throughout the day, I received a couple cards from students, I had many people come up to me and wish me a happy birthday and, contrary to my usual birthday presence, I actually enjoyed it. These amazing young women brightened my day. It must be the greatest feeling in the world, to feel loved. Let me know if you come across something greater. Today was a great day.

My Voice

If my voice is captured in
waves that
resonate through the air
in an effort to
communicate something of
who I am and
who I wish to become,
Where do my thoughts go when I die?

We spend hours each day in conversation but we are limited by each breath
to confine our words to the capacities of our lungs.
We temporarily preserve our thoughts for the
eternity of emptiness that awaits.

We stock shelves of compliments only to see them go undelivered,
preserving our words for perfect moments that never appear.

Hoarders of potential, we reserve our individuality
and ridicule the brave few whose dying breaths are not
drawn out sighs of remorseful silence.

Skittles

In my experience, I've come to the conclusion that inspiration strikes suddenly--without warning, and seldom does it wait around for you to find a means to harness it. Skittles ran an ad campaign several years ago where it'd rain skittles and I remember thinking to myself that I'd have to be prepared to grab something to catch all those candies before they touch the ground. Inspiration is a lot like those Skittles, and it seems I repeatedly find myself off guard when it starts to rain.

Society and Giftedness

Society and Giftedness: Can’t They Just Get Along?!

Due to the scattered nature of my many thoughts on the subject of social influence on gifted education, and the complexities found in each factor, I have decided to submit my written piece as a reflection rather than an academic paper. As a way of taking the issues I engage with and bringing them into my life, I’ll be posting this on my blog as well as submitting it in my portfolio. I have no resolution to offer, I have very limited experience dealing with gifted students, and even the experts in the field cannot answer some of the questions regarding the way society treats the gifted. Within this format, I intend to engage with several different aspects of gifted education, providing a brief historical context for the relationship between society and gifted students and eventually discussing the influence of current social and political values have on our educational approaches. Additionally, throughout this piece I will likely be asking questions that I have been unable to find answers to. Sometimes, it is through such rhetorical or difficult questions that we gain a better understanding of the complexity of an issue. I also hope not to bore you, so I’ll try to keep this interesting.

In the beginning, there was Sputnik. Well, not really, but this is a place many articles on giftedness like to pause on and consider as they talk about the relationship between society and gifted education. The space race of the 1950’s presented a nationwide goal for American citizens. This motivation led to an increased interest on educating gifted students in the areas of math and science, propelling them on an obvious trajectory (get it?!?) towards the goal of helping their nation win this race. The idea of a common goal and a real world application for material being studied in class made gifted education in these domains an extremely valuable focus. In many ways, this makes me think of educational exploitation when I consider the situation in hindsight, since the students were simply a means to a national goal, but I suppose the relationship was symbiotic for those involved. In any case, modern researchers point back to this point in time and claim that what we need is exactly what they had, a cultural goal to put education back in the spotlight.

To me, this is almost reminiscent of over-the-hill athletes who relive the glory days by forcing their children on to the field. Sure, they may become successful and it may work out, but it also perpetuates a cycle without addressing some greater issues that may be involved such as the wishes of the child. Questions such as the inherent value of education or the desires of individual students can be overlooked if we search too hastily for the next educational fad to bring relevance to the practice of gifted education.

In an article on the relationship between society and gifted education, Cross and Cross claim that “schools exist as institutions within our society, meaning that they reflect the values of our society. A lack of agreement regarding the purpose of schools indicates differences among the members of society who make these determinations.”  While this may be detrimental, I feel as though it’s better to be in a state of uncertainty than to hastily decide on a direction due to insecurity. What would it look like if our schools selected and supported certain specific dominant ideologies represented by our society?

Well, for one thing, one shift that might be made is that they would be somehow monetized. If there is one thing that can be said about Western society, it would have to be that it is geared towards the consumer (ATMs in the classroom? Commercial breaks?). If we were somehow able to keep financial influence out of the classroom, one definite consideration we’d need to make is that the school would be a more competitive place. Western society is predicated on individualist notions that can be both helpful and harmful: we have individual rights and freedoms and we look out for ourselves. The classroom that reflects the majority of our society doesn’t concern itself with those who need additional support or those who are being treated unjustly, it is self-serving. Competition isn’t inherently a negative thing, but it should not be elevated above other notions of interpersonal relations.

Along this rationale, Cross and Cross go on in their article to discuss Social Dominance Theory which essentially states that we become stable as a society by having “dominant and subordinate groups whose members agree (consciously or not) that the dominant group is deserving of its disproportionately large share of positive social value.” In their view, we’re already seeing aspects of our society manifesting in the classroom and in this sense, dominant groups are being favored in all aspects of education (included giftedness identification). By dominant group, they are referring to affluent Caucasian males. While this is already an issue in our classrooms in a (hopefully) limited sense, if we permit our educational practices to be driven not by informed research and experience but rather by the dominant ideologies of society (such as the SDT), we open ourselves up to condoning negligent, harmful instruction for all of our students.

As we study and inquire into the nature of learning and education, our understanding is inevitably enriched. Running contrary to this process, we also have intuitive notions we acquire from outside sources in society that occasionally impede our ability to make rational decisions. What this looks like practically is learning that, in cold enough temperatures, wet objects may become stuck to other objects in class and then running out on to the playground and being dared to lick the frozen pole. Sometimes the loud chants of peers and their encouragement to “trust them” can feel more influential than what some teacher told you in a classroom. This is analogous to the state of many public impressions regarding the benefits of gifted education. The difference is, unlike in the scenario with the pole, nobody in this circumstance is aware their tongue has become stuck at all.

In Jolly’s article on gifted education, she makes three prominent “despite” statements that showcase the way society has historically neglected the teacher in the classroom in favor of the friends on the playground:

“Despite strong empirical evidence for the need to challenge gifted children in the regular classroom or through special classes or schools, a general consensus existed about the woeful state of gifted education at the end of World War II.”

“Despite the theoretical shifts and recommendations for a more sensitive means of identification, IQ scores and standardized achievement measures were still widely used in conjunction with a narrow definition of giftedness to identify students for gifted and talented programs…”

 “Despite research findings from Terman and Hollingworth that supported acceleration for gifted students, many school personnel clung to the antiquated idea that acceleration options negatively impacted children in terms of social development, which would certainly outweigh any academic advantages.”

These statements exist among a myriad of others related to issues about giftedness and gifted education. We, as a society, have had our tongues stuck to the pole for so long we’re beginning to like the taste of metal. It is this very same society that, I hope we can agree (as we discussed above), does not necessarily result in the best judgment in terms of educational practices and paradigms for our students.

There is, I believe, a simple explanation for why we see so many mistaken assumptions about education and educational practices: anyone can teach. We are not brain surgeons wielding tools of potentially deathly consequences nor professional athletes performing feats of unimaginable physical exertion; we are educators hoping that some of the wisdom and knowledge we’ve gained can be passed on to our students. Anyone can teach. When it comes to an activity anyone can do, you’ll always have people telling you you’re doing it wrong. However, simply because someone CAN do something, it doesn’t mean that they can either do it well or that they should do it.

Case in point, my wife is an amazing cook. She occasionally has the patient to permit me to assist her in the kitchen (though not often). She assigns me simple tasks which I, in turn, decide upon a different way of completing to get the desired results. The other day, I attempted my variation of the pan toss that I’d seen her, and so many other television chefs, perform with ease. I, however, had figured out my way to do it that (I thought) would be a good idea. It took me about an hour to clean the oven element of egg debris that found its way out of the pan and all over the range top. Sure, I CAN cook and I probably CAN execute a pan flip, but this doesn’t mean that I should assume my way is better than those who have spent time practicing such things.

What do those who have spent their time researching gifted education say? Well, they agree pretty emphatically that it is a profession that is heavily influenced by misinformed presumptions that serve to undermine the goal of education for all students. Jolly goes on in her article to state that “…gifted and talented students become a national priority when excellence is sought and a critical need is perceived. However, as equity becomes the predilection, gifted students’ needs are seen as an elitist luxury and are replaced with the priorities of students within other subpopulations.” Essentially, she’s reminding us not to forget the same students we praised and supported back when we needed to get to space simply because we’ve stopped paying attention to that venture. Two problems with turning education into a fad is that nobody feels nostalgia for the needs of students, and you don’t see too many kids playing with their pet rocks anymore. We need to have a model of education that is sustained and supported by both those directly involved in it (teachers, principals, students, parents) and the rest of society, and this model needs to be inclusive of all learning styles.

With regard to the latter portion of Jolly’s quote, we must also consider a very sensitive area in gifted education. Gifted students, in some districts, receive their funding from the same pool that students with other educational needs do. If you were to consider the needs of your students, and have resources to split between a group of gifted learners and a group of students with learning disabilities, how would you divide it? 50/50? 60/40? 70/30? Equity, as Jolly refers to it, is often meant to mean that each person does not get an equal amount but rather they receive what they need. This paradigm is observed both in the opinion of the general public as well as most educational practitioners. The question should be, in my opinion, how do we support the needs of all learners rather than how do we support those who need it most. We should not view education as a process wherein any one group is excluded or sacrificed to benefit another; this is an example of a negative outcome from the competitive societal value I spoke about earlier. Instead, we need to be advocating for the needs of all students in our classroom, even those who are gifted.

Many researches have claimed, as Jolly, Cross & Cross have, that we are without a societal goal or direction. The generation of utopian ideals could potentially be a response to such criticisms. As such, a final element of gifted education that I wish to address today is heavily influenced by Ambrose’s article on giftedness and utopias. It is not only the way society interacts with giftedness that we must consider, but also the way gifted individuals relate to society. One aspect shared by many gifted students is an intense sense of and desire for justice. This, to me, is an ironic element as many gifted students aren’t always cared for and educated in the most just manner. In any case, because justice is such an intense focus for many of these students, a topic such as designing a utopia is an alluring endeavor.

Additionally, Ambrose argues that “Gifted people are especially important in considerations of utopianism, because they have the greatest ability to create utopian perspectives that will capture the imaginations of millions. They also are more likely to develop the critical thought capacities needed for cutting through flawed utopian frameworks…” The abilities of gifted students make them ideal candidates for seeing the problems we face in our societies and coming up with real solutions. Ironically, this could lead to gifted students solving many of the issues around society’s reception of future gifted students. However, Ambrose’s article deals with issues larger than education. While utopias of societies past may have focused on nurturing gifted students, or having them give focus on critical thinking and the influence society has on them, a modern utopia seems to represent harmful outcomes both financially and politically for the individual with little consideration paid to education. He advocates an educational approach that makes gifted students aware of the in which they are immersed before they set out to conceptualize an ideal world.

In my opinion, issues surrounding gifted education are fascinating as they constitute much larger questions about what we, as a society, value. Is it important for us to raise up and nurture those with intellectual gifts? For what purpose? Should we have a goal for gifted education that goes beyond our other educational goals? If we were to nurture gifted students’ ability to conceptualize utopian systems, would we even put these into practice? Have we shown ourselves, as a society, to be well informed in the past? If we share the goals of enriching the educational experience of gifted students, are we prepared to listen to them or are they merely being used to further our society’s goals? It is these sorts of questions that we must be prepared to wrestled with when we consider our relationship with gifted education.

As a final message, I think it is important to consider Ambrose’s suggestion that we not send out gifted students (or any student for that matter) on a quest to change the world but rather that we equip them with the tools to shift their own perspective. I hope, after reading this post, you come to develop a perspective on issues surrounding gifted education, and that you use that perspective to influence others.

Thank you!

References

Ambrose, D. (2008). Utopian Visions: Promise and Pitfalls in the Global Awareness of the

Gifted. Roeper Review, 30(1), 52-60.

Cross, J., & Cross, T. L. (2005). Social Dominance, Moral Politics, and Gifted Education.

Roeper Review, 28(1), 21.

Jolly, J. L. (2009). A Resuscitation of Gifted Education. American Educational History Journal,

36(1), 37-52.

Just an update

School is decent, work is good, life is busy, am I enjoying it? Sometimes.

Now that the update is out of the way, lets discuss some more interesting matters.

Please tell me I'm wrong, but I believe motivation is dead. Well, perhaps I should qualify that statement and reduce its absolute nature. Intrinsic motivation is on life support. Why do we do the many things that we do? Why do we learn? Why do we work? Why?

I'd like to say that we do it because in these areas we find fulfillment. I'd like to say that I make decisions that, within the short time frame of my existence, both fulfill a sense of purpose in me and mutually benefit those around me. I'd like to think that the passion I have for learning, music, language, discussion, philosophy, sports and love motivate me to act far more than the dreary need to fit in and do as I am expected, but I think I'd be deceiving myself. I believe that we are social beings who, somewhere along the line, stopped considering personal development as a worthy goal in itself and got caught up with an intense need for social validation.

It'd be easy to point to social media as exhibit A and toss the blame at whomever thought it'd be a good idea to encourage the masses to subjugation by encouraging "following" in numbers exceeding populations of entire nations. It'd be easy to say that this need stems from an intense desire to be "liked" without considering why, despite our technological innovations, we feel so disconnected. But simplicity is seldom a settling solution to such complex considerations.

As we age we acquire concrete thinking processes that teach us to move beyond the realm of subjective experience into the world of objective explanation. We discover that there are answers and our opinions are private matters that really only matter when they fit neatly within the trends of popular thought. We are shaped to want to be accepted, and groomed to expect of ourselves a set of culturally agreed upon expectations. Go to school, get a job, own a house, own a car, find a partner, have children, etc. We may feel a desire for these things, but is this desire our very own? Even if it is, how do we keep such a thing pure?

I wish to be a teacher because it is my passion. I love to learn, but I also fully acknowledge that I harbour resentment toward educational institutions, standardizations, and anything that places expectations of success above the importance of developing a passion for learning. I approach my classes with an attitude that says "convince me this is worth my time," perhaps due to the disappointment I feel in the idea of educational systems. This problem is such an interwoven conundrum that I need to clear my head to think about it. Although usually I try to avoid rambling in such a disconnected way, perhaps this will be the verbalization I needed to begin wrestling with these concepts.

Beyond this, I am beginning to feel somewhat isolated again. I hope this is just a phase or some sort of pattern that can be brought to an end. Take care folks.

What does a rational fear of death look like? At what point may we decide that the dread we collectively experience at the potential of eternal nothingness is a reasonable response? Eternity is a concept so abstract that it eludes our best guess like trying to measure the weight of shadow's reflection. We cannot begin to imagine such a thing and yet we obsess over anything that reminds us of our tiny place in the world...

Imagine mountains as pebbles,
that we could carry continents between our fingertips
and skip across puddle sized oceans
filled with microscopic mammals.

The edges of fantasy house fictions that challenge our imagination to an infinite expanse of possibility. We inhabit a world of limitations where identity is captured and claims are made on intellectual property. The rules of creativity demand protection; freedom itself is contained within the structures of self-preservation.

Funhouse Mirrors

Reality for me
is a funhouse mirror in my head
where my fears manifest in my own reflection

and though you protest in earnest,
speaking of a beauty unknown to me,
you'll never see what I see

The Depth of Sensitivity

I wonder how to walk the fine line of sensitivity. How ignorance can be a just plead for insensitivity when information is at our fingertips. I wonder about the limits of empathy: when we extend beyond the reach of love into the realm of overwhelming care, at which point we need to calm down and relax. I wonder if such limitations are numbing, if they convert passionate empathy into passive apathy as a way of normalizing a casual societal context where it's a beautifully odd thing to care that much.

I wonder why we're able to casually refer to ourselves as ADD, depressed, mental, bipolar; whether the use of these terms to describe our fluctuations lessens our ability to comprehend the complexity of living with a designation that isn't attached to a momentary lapse. I don't understand the limits of social acceptability where it's acceptable to pick and choose disorders to joke about as if there's some sort of unwritten justification that says certain people deserve to be the targets of our misunderstanding. We empathize with terminal circumstances because they help us to appreciate the delicacy and fragility of human life; they teach us to appreciate the present and cherish the past...I get this. But why does it take loss for us to recognize insensitivity; why do we wait for sorrow to reflect on the boundaries of our behaviors?

I wonder whether it matters at all that we should care about the topics of humorous discussion. I've heard it said that there should be no boundaries in comedy, that we should be willing to engage with all topics and make light of all circumstances. I wonder whether this is a viable strategy to help us comprehend the complexity of a fallen and flawed humanity. I feel like the less sensitive we are, the less it matters what we discuss and the less we feel bound to those around us but I wonder whether this detached state is of any help in progressing our society.

What is it worth to gain affection at the cost of diminishing the dignity of others? Does it matter that we don't point at the men and women living on the streets every time we refer to ourselves as poor? Does it matter that we don't call attention to the struggling student every time we mistakenly refer to ourselves as dyslexic? If we wear labels as culturally ironic outfits ready to be changed as soon as they lose their popularity, what does it do to those who have only one set of clothes?

Perhaps I'm being too sensitive. Perhaps, due to those who take no offense, we shouldn't be worried about others who choose not to speak up. But I wonder why we take such firm stances against acts of outright bullying while we neglect to consider the weight of our words. What does it take for a phrase to be inducted into the culturally protected lexicon of unacceptable phrases? Should we even have such a thing?

Thoughts?

Grace

Grace is beautiful in its simplicity, yet immeasurable in its abundance. If I could quantify my failures, I’d disappoint the world twice: once in the magnitude of my flaws and again in the endless nature of my misdeeds. I’ve spent my life learning a lesson I already understand but consistently fail to grasp. It’s as if I’m submerged, fully aware of my need to breathe but preparing to feel my lungs fill with water as I sink deeper as I claim to be a strong swimmer. Grace is the hand that pulls me above the surface, dries me off and warns me of the dangers these waters pose. Grace rescues me from the dangers of myself. Yet, as I write, I prepare to plunge myself in again. I feel guilt in knowing that I abuse this gift, and have a hard time finding comfort in knowing that grace surpasses the reaches of guilt, build on a foundation of love and forgiveness. I am weak, I need grace, but so often I’d rather be strong.

We extend grace to those we love. We say we understand love, we say that we really get what it’s all about, but yet we are so blown away by grace as if love could stand without it. I am blown away by it, though, because I feel like to accept grace I must acknowledge that I’m not loving as much as I should be. I feel like to receive this grace; I must acknowledge that I’ve failed. Failure hurts. Failure is that understanding that there is this person I wish to be and I’m nowhere near that goal. Somewhere in this messy crossroads grace heals this insecurity, giving us clarity if only for a moment.

I am profoundly afraid of failing, and yet it is through failure that I come to fully experience and understand the depth of love. 

Dealing with the Day

With each day that passed, I felt exceedingly comfortable with the banality of life. Each uneventful hour spent in routine represented the safety of consistency. I used to value this predictability in life, I used to appreciate the repetition and I used to embrace the comfort for the many ways they made living easy. I found peace in knowing that I’d finish my day in the same space in which it began. It’s as if I’d made a promise with the sunrise that, in order to fully appreciate her beauty I must be guaranteed the same luxury tomorrow. In her desire for appreciation she begrudgingly accepts and I delight in the moments I’ve earned myself, aware that the same transaction awaits me tomorrow. This deal becomes so deeply ingrained in our lives; we grow to overlook its importance.

One day, without warning, I was informed that though this deal had been struck for myself, someone I cared for deeply hadn’t been extended the same courtesy.

I awoke that day to see nature in turmoil, with the dreary appearance of guilt plastered above in the morning’s sky. Yet, I’d made a routine of stormy skies, and with haste I purchased one more day as I exclaimed unexcitedly “what a beautiful morning”. I knew the irony in my sentiment, but such things are to be appreciated, I supposed. As I made my way from the shelter of the cabin to that of the dining hall, I grew to resent my words with an increasing level of frustration. The weight of each falling drop became a burden too heavy to bear, so I spent the day seeking shelter.

It was around the time I made my way into the dining hall that he had arrived, a fact I’d remain unaware of for the time being. Writhing in pain and wholly unaware of the world around him, he was brought in their desperation to improve his circumstance. He had been transferred the night before, life leaking from him steadily as they transfused without success. His consciousness wrapped up in the torment of the moment, the routine had been shattered and its repair seemed too complex for even the most skilled of laborers.

My meal passed quickly and uneventfully, with forgettable conversations ranging from the usual (“wow, this food is really good”) to their standard for usual (“why is he dancing like that?”), all very fitting points of discussion for these youth. I spend my time at the table’s edge, overseeing the social dynamic of my group from the fringes. I ask myself whether everyone is being accepted, how they’re caring for one another, whether they’re getting enough food; I fulfill my duty as the makeshift parent for the weekend. Parenting 7 boys is an experience one cannot adequately describe, and I am thankful that our return trip commences at the end of this meal. As we finish eating, I quickly make my way from the dining hall to the bus, still trying to avoid the weight of the falling rain.

With desperation he fumbles with his phone, clumsily inputting the wrong information and having to try again. His task is a thankless one, his burden is heavy. As he prepares his script, tears welling in his eyes, he is relieved by the sound of the automated voice as it gives him time to choose his words carefully. “Matt” he says, “it’s dad…grandpa’s not doing too well…” He trails off aware that the distance between his son and his father is a gap that may remain forever wide.

As if the weekend hadn’t been enough excitement, the bus ride home never feels fast enough. Thankfully the weight of their eyelids is greater than their desire to sing out on this confined space and many youth fade into an uncomfortable rest. It is on the bus that, as we re-enter civilization, cell phone reception is restored to our phones and I see one voicemail message. Typically a call from my father denotes a usual check-in to see how I’m doing which is both slightly embarrassing and wholly comforting. As I decide to preview the message, I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and listen in stunned silence as I feel pain wash over me in waves. I feel. I feel weak. I feel weak and helpless. Sobbing loudly I feel guilty, I feel worried, I feel nothing beyond the moment as the monotony of life is disrupted and agony seeps in. This is not the life I’ve grown accustomed to. The bus ride home never feels fast enough.

When I arrive at the hospital, I’ve had hours to think. I've thought about life, about the dangers of comfort, about the unsettling feeling we get when we realize that we do not bargain for each day on our terms, regardless of how in control we may feel. I’ve thought about the powers of prayer and the limits of worldly strength, about the hope that goes beyond my control and reaches into another realm for influences beyond our imagination. I’ve thought about a goodbye that surpasses routine and reaches into the infinite. I’ve thought of what to say; how to stand beside someone in a moment of uncertainty and be reassuring in the face of doubt.

Yet, when it is my turn to see him and I approach this man, I fumble with my words, clumsily tripping over my tongue in my silence. I hold his hand; I stare at his motionless body and can’t help but think that my last goodbye will not be heard. They tell me he can hear in this state, so I pray with him. I petition for him on his behalf that one more day would be granted, that he would overcome this state and stay with us. My dad says his eyes flicker during this prayer, that there was a response. For me, this becomes a moment of turmoil as I struggle to believe and reconcile that he has heard me. I leave the room unsure, in a space between reality and perception where I’d rather remain uncertain than dwell on an unforgiving result.

It is four days later that my grandfather awakens, with each day since our visit spent steadily gaining his strength. There is no certainty that I was heard, no certainty that my petition accomplished anything, no moment I feel assured that anything beyond his own body’s response brought him back to us. Yet, to this day I am reminded of the fragility of each morning. I am reminded that there is no comfort to be found in the routine, that we must reject the limitations of monotony. Though it may feel safe, routine reminds me of a life void of vibrancy. I no longer wish to wake each morning bargaining for one more but rather to finish each evening grateful for the excitement lived before the setting sun.  

To reminisce

If this is the YOLO generation, why is it that everyone insists on capturing the moment via whatever technology they can get their hands on? At the Mumford concert the other night (which, by the way, was amazing but that sort of goes without saying) I had to find viewing windows above and around outstretched arms wielding low quality recording devices. Everyone had to not only capture the moment, but capture the moment from their own perspective. At one point, they mentioned the beautiful moon behind us, and people began turning to take pictures...of the moon...the same moon that's always been there...as if it were only made significant by the moment they found themselves in. If we're living once, why do we need data to relive? In our efforts to perfect deja vu, we've discarded the art of reminiscence.

There is subtle beauty in the passing moment, and a joy in knowing that we'll never get it back. Our experiences make up our identity; all of who we are is lived out in the moments that pass. As we fade away, we hope that we've left an impression in the memories we share. If my eulogy is composed not of anecdotes but rather Youtube highlights and slideshows, I should think I've not been remembered at all.

On and On and On

We are the unexperienced cliche,
humanity's trope viewing the world through the eyes of naivety
while we bring nothing new to existence.
We are no more than a self-absorbed cycle.

It's depressingly dark how, when I sit down to write, it's thoughts like these that plague my mind. Whenever I write, insecurities abound and I think about the worst possible circumstances in which I may one day find myself. I think forward to an existence of nothingness, or a life lived in constant forgetfulness and I write to capture life as I live now. What an odd thing to wish to document.

I feel as though writing is the process by which I share my self. I am given the freedom to say whatever I wish and as I write I think of nothing beyond my own thoughts. So often we tailor who we are or what we say to our audience as a means of coexisting, this can be such a tiring process when all we are looking for is someone to hear everything we need to say. Like I said above, this is all such a self-centered cycle but I suppose there are moments within one's life where they transcend the trivial reflections and leave something that lasts. This is something worth striving for. I feel as though one day I'll have something so valuable to say that I must prepare my voice, without losing it altogether droning on about pessimistic observations.

I want to write a song. I want to create something that I can be proud of, something that I can perform, something that requires focus and attention. I've been lacking these traits lately, finding myself pulled all sorts of directions while freely confined to the computer chair at my desk. Motivation is a paradoxical beast; how is it that I can spend so much time wanting to want to do something while paralyzed from any actual action or pursuit? I want to be a musician, I want to be more physically active, I want to be more assertive and I want to be more adventurous. I wake up with these sort of goals on my mind, and go to sleep aware of the fact I've fallen short. Somewhere between the sun's rise and fall, I've been pulled away from ambition until I'm reminiscing of the missed opportunity. I pray life doesn't follow this same trajectory for me. I suppose I only ever worry in reflection.

On another note, I recently met someone whose abilities I greatly admire at his poetry reading/show thing. It's funny how someone else's words can express the pain of your heart better than anything you've ever uttered. As I sat in my seat listening to him speak about life, love, heartbreak, loss, and a variety of other subjects, I was fully focused on his every word as though he'd speak secrets of the universe I'd never again have the chance to hear. He read my favorite poem, Move Pen Move, as his encore, and I was brought to tears at the possibilities life may yet have in store for me. After the show, I met him, posed for a picture, and then went on my way. Even those words, the ones which reach deep into my chest and grasping my heart, squeezing it and forcing it to beat faster while grabbing hold of my breath in an effort to fully capture my attention, even they become lost in the night, washed away by the downpour of a Vancouver rain. I drove off without saying anything more to the man whose inspired me, perhaps some day down the line I'll inspire someone and realize that nothing's changed.

The most populated places wreak of loneliness;
collective consciousness coordinates ignorance
as we, bound tightly, look outward
and suffer inward.

We coexist in mutual misunderstanding,
sworn to silence by our desire to fit in
to ever shrinking spaces.

Stepping backward, we search ourselves for dividing lines,
thrusting forward those who we force to stand out;

we sling slurs of sympathy for those we victimize.

The final tomorrow

Lately it feels like coffee, late nights and writing are all bound together to keep this blog alive, though seldom do these elements come together. However, tonight (morning?) is such a time, so let's chat.

I'm particularly interested in the hypothetical situation posed to me by Leah earlier in the evening: if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day? She said she'd spend it with me, she said she'd spend it visiting family, I could see that. As for me, I didn't think at all of the people I'd spend my time with. In fact, my thoughts were quite the opposite. Upon wrestling with the situation, I realized solitude was the predominant state in which I'd seek refuge.

I find it odd, and I'm not quite sure why, but I'm very convinced that I'd want to spend a majority of the day preparing goodbyes to be read rather than delivered in person. I think goodbyes are difficult, painful things that I do very poorly and so if I were to make one final shot at them I suppose I'd like the opportunity to edit myself very carefully. The funny bit about this is, of course, that in life we very seldom have the opportunity to perfect our words. We rarely say what we think, and when we do we often criticize the way we deliver our sentiments. I fully acknowledge that I am a flawed individual full of imperfections and yet I wish to be remembered through wise, deep thoughts that inspire those who encounter them. Perhaps I aim too high, and I'll spend my hypothetical last day realigning letters on a page to everyone, eventually being defeated by my own impossible aspirations.

I don't want to spend my last day lamenting the life I've lived, begging for more time, or desperately reaching out for outlandish experiences uncharacteristic of the man I am. I suppose I am better able to tell you of the many things I don't wish to do rather than what I would do. Ultimately, as a result of the many restrictions, I feel as though my day would be spent wasting away as I sit critically binding myself to inaction.

How would your last day be spent? How does this answer differ from one in response to the question "how would you want to spend your last day?" The harsh imposition of reality in context has a harsh way of reminding me of my consciousness, reminding me of the gap between who I'd like to be and who I am. I would love to spend my last day filled with courage, filled with wisdom, filled with bravery as I work tirelessly to share this strength with those who need it around me. In reality, it will be I who requires strength. I am glad this scenario is merely hypothetical, and hope that the life I live in some way demonstrates the characteristics of the man I wish to be.

Questions and Curiosity.

If I speak any wisdom, let it be coupled with curiosity that reaches beyond what is known. Let it be nestled between that which is experienced, relatable and predictable and that which requires further investigation. Let it not be finite but rather in progress. If I should speak wisdom at all, it is only to proclaim the limits of my own understanding and a desire to go beyond my present threshold.

Yet, far better than to speak with wisdom is to speak with curiosity. Curiosity drives introspection, the acquisition of knowledge, the very genesis of wisdom. The critical mind struggles with the known in ways that render it unfamiliar, constantly shifting perspectives with each gaze like the eager child manipulating the lens of a kaleidoscope. Who's to say which glance carries truth?

As I reflect on my journey as a student teacher, I am filled with questions. I look back upon the semester, and many of my quandaries remain unanswered. We were told to become comfortable with the uncomfortable, challenged to embrace the uncertainty that accompanies reality. Within my practice, without comfort, I find myself seeking answers but accepting questions as a possible end. So I'll continue to ask, storing up questions like treasures with the hopes of finding answers that illuminate the darkest areas of the unknown. However, should they remain beyond my grasp, I shall grow ever more comfortable continuing to ask questions that force me to reach beyond the limits of my own perspective.

Self-Reliance

Inhabiting the intersection of convenience and selflessness,
I serve conditionally
as if circumstance is under my will,
to whom be the glory?

Discarding the yoke,
I walk alone,
1000 steps in the right direction
yet no nearer to you.

And I hold my breath in defiance,
life, freely given, is held hostage.
I take without consideration,
and lament the losses suffered.

Demonstration of the Beauty in Language

For full effect, stop the music player the bottom of the blog.

Be yourself

What would the world look like if we projected ourselves as we are, and not the selves we wish to be? Would it suffer greatly at the overwhelming disappointment of our own erroneously built up expectations? Would we find solace in the reality of broken existence? Would we have to stop running from our own flawed identity and begin to make authentic connections through our shared sufferings? Is it possible, however unlikely, that the very thing that unifies us as creation is our desire to hide our true selves? I propose this possible hypothesis sheds light on the increasing sense of alienation we attribute to technological influence. However, it is not the machine that isolates man. The machine is but a means  to our own internal desire; the machine becomes the vessel for the perfect disguise.

PDP/life Update

Hello world,

Well, actually, to be more accurate based on my delightful Google analysis, hello North America, and areas of Europe and South America. I feel empowered by this forum to speak my mind, but also hesitant to embrace this faux strength as it is an acknowledgement of my social discomfort in person. Alas, I digress. I have begun my time as a student teacher in the PDP program, and have been encouraged by the amount of reflection on the menu for the coming year. Reflection is kind of my thing, so that's exciting.

Let's begin.

First, I awake every day to look in the mirror. HA! A joke! How unexpected. Now that I've set you up, you're probably all..."this guy...this guy right here, with his awkward humor." Yes, yes, that's me. Annnyways, let's move on. This program has already started to stir some stuff up in me that I simply must address in a concrete way if I'm to look back upon my progress.

The first thing I've felt, as I began this portion of my life, is doubt. I had received my acceptance letter, started to think about the prospect of myself as a teacher, and felt like I would never be capable of anything so important. I must remind you that this has been my ambition for as long as I've learned to set goals, so such a feeling really shook me. I felt as though I knew I could teach, but there was no way I could be a teacher. The responsibility, the capability, the professionalism, the tact, these were all things beyond my reach that no amount of education could change. I cannot do this, I cannot. This was a fun couple of months (Sarcasm!). On the bright side, I'm beginning to overcome such thoughts, so that's good.

Next, as I began going to the lectures and classes, I came to see a group of people to whom I was having difficulty relating. I felt constantly torn between knowing the importance of socializing and a great discomfort in those social situations. I prayed each day that God would give me the strength to sit in a room of my peers and engage in conversation, but I sat defeated on the outer edges of the group. I know how to talk to people, I know how to make them smile and laugh, but I do not know how to feel comfortable within a group. This has been such a burden lately. How can I point anyone to God, how can I show myself as a Christian, how can I be the man God wants me to be when I feel like running away from everyone I encounter? Is there such thing as an introverted evangelist? Is that something God will fix? Is it to be fixed at all? Can I be used at all? Will it always be this difficult? This has been on my mind a lot this week.

Cue the fresh start. Today, as we ascended Grouse Mountain for a day of relaxation, dancing, snowshoeing and socializing something felt profoundly different. I've been praying all week, was this the time I was to be heard? The art of conversation is perhaps the only art I'd claim any proficiency in, but this is generally merely an adaptation so I don't consider it to be anything special. I had several conversations, as I normally do, without feeling any different. However, after listening to a talk about the Squamish people given by a delightful Aboriginal man, my fears and concerns seemed to dissipate. He spoke of love, he spoke of positivity, he spoke of equality and respect. He made us dance, he raised our spirits, and he lowered my defenses. As I left the lodge I felt encouraged, I felt loved, I felt like this man and the people he represented had insights into God's grace that pre-existed the oppressive pressures of the early European Christians.

I left with questions, I left with thoughts, I left with ideas that had to be settled upon the page. Ultimately, I left with the knowledge that oral traditions do not translate into paraphrased textual interpretations. I felt encouraged. I FEEL encouraged that through the words we use, the body language we employ, and the kindness we embody we can love without ever speaking of such notions. I don't have to speak of God to show love, I don't have to be the center of attention to show I care, with even the slightest of whispers I can captivate an audience with carefully chosen words. I can listen, I can learn from others, and I can seek to embody compassion, loving people where they're at and encouraging them to reach beyond the comfortable.

I am empowered because I am weak, in my weakness He is strong. That's the good news of the day!

The One Who Listens, And Also Does

My soul breathes deeply,
fueled by the compassionate teachings of another it is...

stirred

awakened

filled

and given its mission.

Love all whom enter,
welcome them as family,
treat none as lesser or greater,
but all equally with respect.

Forgive those who wrong you,
brush off negativity at the moment it strikes,
never allowing its cold to weigh upon your shoulders.

Admire those whose presence preceded your own,
learn from their experience,
attend to them with patience,
feel their love surround you, supporting you in your weakness.

Allow their lessons to fill you with wisdom,
a wisdom beyond the realm of knowledge,
not captured in stale texts long since written,
but breathed into life with their every utterance.

Compassion is not an abstract to be studied, but an action to be lived out.