March 17, 2011: As a child, I was hyper and full of boundless energy. I tell my students I would probably be labeled ADHD. But back in the 50's my elementary school teachers gave me U's (Unsatisfactory) in Citizenship and Cooperation. I wasn't a troublemaker; I simply enjoyed talking and sharing stories. I also had a hard time sitting at a desk for long periods of time, which is still true. At the beginning of a writing session, I find I get up three or four times to recycle newspapers, empty a trash can or feed a cat. But when I finally settle in and focus, the words on the page act as a tether to my ecstatic energy. But I digress.
It took my third grade teacher, Mrs. Miller, to figure out my problem. Her solution was to keep me busy, so, 1. I'd use up my excess energy and 2. I'd quit disturbing the class with my running commentary. She gave me classroom responsibilities, which to a first born is manna from heaven. I became the class cloakroom monitor. In those days we actually had a large walk-in space where coats, hats, gloves and bags were kept. And I became the art monitor...gathering and cleaning up the supplies for the weekly art projects. To this day I have fond memories of Mrs. Miller because rather than punish or demean me with low grades, she made me a productive member of the class.
I can be a quick learner and with teachers and grandparents telling me to shut up, during my latter elementary years and throughout my adolescence I became shy and deathly quiet. My mind was alive and well, however, and when I did meet the teen girls who appreciated my talents, I let down my guard and my words blossomed. At home I continued to tell bedtime stories to my younger sister and to blackmail her, making her my slave in exchange for getting to hear the endings of my stories.
Entering adulthood, I started talking more, and experiencing uncontainable enthusiasms for thought provoking books and philosophical discussions. Then my life just seemed to speed up: college, living and traveling abroad, graduate school, teaching, marriage, raising a daughter, teaching, more traveling; I was always rushing off to somewhere. I was always standing or moving rather than sitting. I kept journals and wrote sporadically. I talked, responding more than listening to almost everyone except my students. Then and now, my students slow me down. My students bring me a deep focus of caring which makes me want to take the time to look inside and understand their world. And nine times out of ten I am able to enter and walk in their tennis shoes. I cherish and am eternally grateful for this gift of empathy I have.
Lately, I have been writing about and observing these precious days I'm being given. Lately, I've been sitting more and slowing down. I hate to think I'm slowing down “on time” as a sixty-three year old woman. I don't want to find I'm doing what “I'm supposed to be doing.” I tend to be a rebel at heart. I'm fighting growing older with all my might, for example, by continuing to talk up a blue streak, walk fast and hang out with inspiring, young people. Though slowing down can happen to anyone at any age, I've always had this tendency of being a late bloomer. Perhaps, however, this major development in my life's span is happening exactly when needed.
For me these days, slowing down is taking a moment to grab onto each and every one of life's beatitudes and to cherish them. It used to be unfathomable to me why people would get up at five in the morning to go for a bird watching walk. This happened multiple times while my daughter and I were in Costa Rica. Because I was traveling, and when I'm traveling I feel compelled to try everything I don't usually try, I got up and tried watching birds. Then I wasn't that excited. Now, though I am not a birder who devotes early mornings to bird watching, I look above me and find birds fascinating as I observe their expansive and delicate wings swooping and swirling through the sky. I remember one road trip to Portland where my eyes became glued to a group of faraway geese. They were flying across the freeway, gathering together and forming a huge V across the sky. How do these birds know to do this? What must it be like to be part of such a graceful flock? Simple questions and simple observations, but oh so meaningful.
The circumstances of our lives can pull us toward slowness. My daughter lives in Portland and is winging her way to total independence. I work part-time with three homebound students four days a week. My husband and I have one car between us and one small house located in a “with it” city that eats granola rather than Wheaties for breakfast. Even my dog, who will turn fourteen this May has been dragging me to relax and pace myself as I take her on her walks. In fact, it is Lacey, who is currently my greatest teacher of slowness. I want to trudge merrily down the neighborhood streets and she wants to meander and smell every clump of grass and fellow dog remnant. I literally have to pull her along to even be able to walk a complete block. She wasn't this way in her youth. We used to be dog-walking race champions! Lacey was exercising me! I tell myself to be more patient for Lacey is nearly ninety-eight in people years. But I am irked by her stopping every few feet when I simply want to walk a steady gait.
Lacey never gives up her fight for a glacial stop-and-go gallop and when I picture myself at ninety-eight with my caregiver dragging me along to move more quickly, I start to understand. Lacey has lived up to her breed by being extremely loyal and protective. We are her tribe and she continues to look out for us. She deserves to be my teacher/master instead of I hers. What she teaches me is this: I need to look at the myriad details of sky and landscape presented to me while I can; I don't always have to be in a hurry for I will get there when I get there; there's more to life than reaching a destination. No doubt I could write volumes about what my dog or cat or friend or family teach me. For growing up never stopped me being a student. And I can't just go on one slow walk with my dog, but I have to go on hundreds before I catch on to her wisdom. Did I mention I am a late bloomer who has to be hit over the head with her daily lessons? I guess at least I have achieved slowness in one category.
In writing this essay I have, like Lacey, been wandering around in a circle, sniffing this memory and sorting through my mind's chatter on my theme. There is no conclusion to why I'm wanting to accept my need for smelling the pine trees, feeling the rose petals or viewing the flight and stillness of winged ones. Maybe my elementary school teachers were right to push me towards a realm beyond words. Maybe they were just trying to get me to observe and listen more than speak. But then I had to speak to learn and though I am again by choice quieter, I need a visible voice; I need my words to understand the deeper purpose of my human living. We each bloom not late but right on time.
Yes, right on time. Elise
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