Play

Last night, Carey Price, goaltender for the Montreal Canadiens, stopped 43 shots en route to a 2 – 0 shut out of the Ottawa Senators to clinch the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, four games to two.   Given that the second Montreal goal game at 19 : 58 of the third period into an empty net, Price and his teammates faced unrelenting pressure from the Senators in the last three and a half minutes of the game.  To ratchet the normal level of frenzy up a few notches as a desperate team endeavored to catapult the game into overtime, the Canadiens had to kill a penalty until just over a minute before the end of regulation time.   Coach Michel Therrien admitted after the game that the last minute seemed to stretch forever, and he couldn’t wait for the final siren.  Price saw the end of the game differently.

After the game, reporters asked Price, too, about the stress of the final minutes of the game.  “That’s fun,” Price replied.  “It’s not stressful.  When you’re living in the moment, it’s just fun.”  Maybe he sees it as getting to block shots in a maelstrom rather than having to.  What a ringing endorsement for the benefits of play, not just in the hockey world where  it seems that people get paid just to play, but for the rest of us as well.  If we bring a mindset of play to what we perceive as our “work,”  we, like Price, can be in the zone, shielded from stress beneath an umbrella of positive energy.  Imagine the  possibilities if our talk changed, if we got to teach a lesson, rather than having to, or got to mow the lawn or clean the bathroom, or sort through boxes or prepare reports.  How might our lives be transformed!

Indeed, Marsha Sinetar describes Price’s zone of play in very similar words.  In Developing a 21st Century Mind (1991, New York :  Villard Books), she says:  "Those who can play with self-abandon, who can put their whole bodies and minds into an activity, rid themselves of tension.  Time, space, and self-consciousness evaporate." (p. 49).    Sound familiar?  She goes even further than stress relief.  When we play, she says, that is, “stop trying, competing, comparing, intellectualizing, criticizing, judging and brutalizing ourselves and others” (p. 50), we can experience a rebirth of our creativity, gain needed insights in the very field of our work-turned-play.  Imagine the power.

For many years now, I have been on a mission to turn my “work” into play.  I began slowly.  I  ironed (in the days when I still ironed) while watching a movie.  I compacted my “work” into small bites interspersed with variety.  I focused on the smile on my face, no matter what I was occupied with, even if I had to paste it on at the start.  At school, my playful mentality brought rich rewards.  There, too, I inserted movement breaks between focused sessions of  what students perceived as ”work.”  We group-juggled small soft balls, played ping pong with styrofoam plates,  and shot arrows with styrofoam ends to understand the elements of the plot of a short story.  I added zany options to exams. Inspired by Kyle MacDonald’s attempt to trade up to a house from a red paper clip, I used the gambit  to help students understand bartering.  The day a student from another class thanked me for doing the paper clip activity, I had yet another confirmation, had I needed one, of the power of play.

Now, my own focus for play has expanded just a bit.  I apply it consciously to my music practice and performance, to my writing, and to my contract work.  I strive to let go of the judgment, the censor, and the comparisons, so that I can concentrate only on the joy of the moment and the task at hand.  Time dissolves; insight trickles through, and my mind sees only the image I try to capture in word,  sound, or deed. 

Hats off to Price for figuring out the power of play while still in his twenties.  You can’t argue with the results—more wins than any other goaltender in the storied history of the Montreal Canadiens.   Thanks to his generosity, the rest of us can benefit from one of his secrets.

For(Back)ward

On the road again, it’s time to fuel up and change drivers.  I take the service road off the freeway, curve along its length, around the mall, past Boston Pizza, to the pumps.  We take care of business, and my husband takes the wheel.

Immersed in a square of my Sudoku puzzle, I don’t notice my husband has turned left, east, back the way we came, instead of right, west, further along the service road in the direction we are headed, to rejoin the highway.   

“Why not go right and continue on the service road?” I ask, as we wait at the traffic lights, facing east, ready to turn and double back onto the highway heading west.

“It’s about the same thing,” he replies.  “The other way, you travel more slowly on the service road, make a left turn, and then yield and merge onto the freeway.”

“So you can go backward to go forward,” I comment.

“Seems that way,” he concludes.

After that exchange, my Sudoku puzzle forgotten, I mull over his statement.  Does that apply in other contexts, I wonder.  Can you move forward by going backward?  Even more important, can you move forward only by going backward?

The examples I generate look like this:

·  In the teaching, it’s critical to access the learner’s prior knowledge and to help the learner make connections to lived experience as he or she interacts with new knowledge.

·  With each lesson, it’s important to give the learner the opportunity to reconnect with what has just come before.  These key steps assure the learner’s progress.  Omit them to move forward more quickly, and, ironically, you can expect to move backward.

·  A thorough knowledge of history helps decision-makers avoid the errors of the past.  Time spent looking backward helps societies move forward.

·  Demolition of a space precedes its renovation.  Once the debris is clear, new construction can begin.

·  Mess and chaos often accompany deep cleaning.  To overcome the feeling of moving backward when I sort, I must keep my eye on the progress that will inevitably follow.

·  Leaders that come into an unfamiliar environment, be it a school, a parish, a company, an organization or a business, sometimes want to move forward quickly with their vision for the future, without taking time to understand the context in which they find themselves.

·  I wonder if the adage, “Things have to get worse before they get better“ grew out of analagous situations.  

It seems, then, in my experience, that going backwards can be an important factor in moving ahead.  Sometimes, we fixate on the goal and forget the steps needed to get there, the first of which might be a step or two behind the start line.   If we neglect the key backward look, any forward progress we might make can be illusory.  That progress can be fragile, not having the underpinning of a solid anchor in what is already known.

The solid foundation that a look backward provides can even justify the conclusion that time for a careful analysis of the past and an orientation to the present context is vital to move forward.  Although it was the humorous look at typical Saskatchewanisms that sent it viral, the Insightrix video made an even more important point, as far as I’m concerned.  The original focus group facilitators represented in the video, not having taken the time to understand the Saskatchewan context, failed in their mission to acquire the information they were sent to collect.  They tried to move forward without taking the time to lay the groundwork that would assure success, that groundwork being a knowledge of Saskatchewan-speak.  In the promotional video, Insightrix, the rival company, took that time (or already had the knowledge, the video doesn’t clarify).  The final scene in the video implies the success that strategy assured.

An ordinary driving decision and a corresponding simple question, then,  led to a conversation that reminded me of an essential truth:  To move forward, take the time to lay the groundwork for a project, even if that groundwork might appear to be a step back.

Mystery

“Keep me safe,

O God,”

I sing.

“Keep me safe;

you are my hope,

my God.”

I sing

“Keep me safe” in the shower,

while I bake muffins,

at the wheel,

why, I don’t know.

I’ve just learned the hymn

for the Triduum,

and it itches in my head

unsoothed.

I sing, though, without expectation

of protection for myself.

I don’t find Christ

in the trappings

of the traditional Church—

icons,

images,

gold-fringed red collars,

crystal toppers for candles,

a large monstrance.

Heresy, maybe, to some,

I know.

Impiety, at the very least,

that forfeits petition.

I do find Christ in people—

my husband’s killer questions,

my son’s integrity,

my daughter’s strength,

my son’s courage,

my colleague’s compassion,

a student’s struggle,

the lab tech’s kindness,

the cashier’s fatigued eyes.

No worries.  It’s all good.

But him,

your servant,

who preached your mercy

for decades,

opened people’s hearts to you

and opened his own heart to them,

why?

Why not keep him safe?

I wonder why,

my God, my God,

why have you abandoned him?

Leadership

Everyone is a leader: the four-year-old in a play group, the adolescent at school, the teacher in the classroom, the politician on the stump, the quarterback on the gridiron, the orchestra conductor with bâton poised and the section first chair, the consultant in the office.  Our actions and decisions have the power to influence others, for the better or for the worse.  In that they reflect our values and character to the world, those actions and decisions are the foundation of leadership.   

Given that all of us lead through actions, then, it is critical that those actions match the values we preach through word and deed.  So, for example, if I expect my French Immersion students to speak French at all times in class to me and to each other, I need to do the same with my French-speaking colleagues in the school, whether there are students present or not, or when I attend meetings, sessions, or conferences where French is the language of facilitation.  In the same way, the dress code in the school applies to me as much as to students.   Otherwise, I am guilty of a double standard.

My responsibility extends beyond the classroom and the school to activities outside school hours where I still wear my teacher hat and represent the profession.  Should I be participating in a teachers' hockey tournament, could I agree to a team name that masks profanity, a name like “Falcon Awesome”, for example, given the very good chance that a name with similar lewd connotations would not be allowed to designate a team in a school-sponsored context?   As an educator, whenever I expect behavior from students to which I myself do not adhere, I lose credibility.  My actions do not match my talk.  I abdicate my responsibility as a leader.

We are leaders because we are people. No matter our age, state of life, or line of work, we must strive to align our words, our practice, and our values.  Any less is not worthy of us as human beings.

To remind myself of the goal, and to express my conviction in another form, I have reposted a poem (Mis/Alignment) I wrote on the subject, added to this blog for a short time, and then removed for reasons that seem quite cowardly now.  Alignment requires discipline, mindfulness, and courage.  We can’t lead without it. 

Mis/Alignment

At a workshop for school division leaders,

the facilitators

preach

and

model

alignment.

With planned redundancy,

they emphasize that

strategies known to enhance instruction

must be the very same ones

that drive school division

practices, meetings, sessions.

They themselves walk the talk.

Participants converse,

move,

give feedback,

within a flexible structure.

Technology funnels questions

and respects privacy;

charts list demonstrated strategies

for application in the local context;

every voice can be heard that risks expression,

thanks to embedded opportunities and techniques.

For the last activity bridging to lunch on the final day,

we are lined up, one hundred strong, along three sides of the room,

having voted with our feet in answer to

“Where would you rather be?”

Our chosen spot has sealed our destiny for the next hour.

Anchored rock solid in the present,

I head for a spot in the room’s front right corner.

Here, I acknowledge the three men on my right with whom

fate?

a penchant for the moment? 

indecision? 

discomfort with change?

has partnered me for a reading and synthesis task.

One of them, a fortyish fellow on the end,

avoids eye contact.

Article and notebook in the right hand,

left hand in his pants pocket,

he floats away from our foursome,

like an untethered canoe on undulating water.

Nonchalant as the groups form, 

he rides the waves

into the crowd and a more

amenable? comfortable? known?

entourage. 

We, the rejected three,

let the elephant be,

find a space to work,

introduce ourselves,

reshape the task for our failed quartet.

All the while,  I percolate.

I want so much to believe 

a positive presupposition that

a student in similar shoes,

matched with workmates in that same teacher’s class,

and, like him,  seeking a more

amenable? comfortable? known?

entourage, 

would be allowed to slip unchallenged under the radar,

hooked up with friends rather than classmates,

no matter the ramifications for others.

But, from deepest recesses of my being,

a word surges, defying suppression.

It pulsates in bright neon behind my eyes:

Not.  Not.  Not.

Transfiguration

I’ve sat on my interpretation of the story of Jesus’ transfiguration on the mountain for more than thirty years. I reflected on the transfiguration for a class on the New Testament I took long ago, while on leave after the birth of our second child.  My thoughts, germinated from the class discussion and fertilized by a presentation on spirituality and further reading, crystallized in a paper, the essence of which I share with you today.  I’m a little late—the transfiguration was last week’s Gospel, for the second Sunday of Lent—but I’ll forge ahead anyway.

A quick refresher might be in order.  Jesus takes three of his disciples, Peter, James, and John to the top of  a mountain (some say Mt. Thabor), and there, the story goes, he is transformed into “a dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleanch them.” (Living with Christ Sunday Missal 2014 – 2015: Novalis) and appears along with Elijah and Moses.  The spirit of God reminds the disciples, “This is my son, the Beloved.  Listen to him.”

My ah-ha about the transfiguration occurred shortly after I became immersed in creation-centered spirituality.  This view of our relationship with God is anchored in the Jewish scriptures and the writings of fourteenth century mystic Meister Eckhart, among others, whose work was translated and propagated by Matthew Fox, a Dominican priest, later ousted from his order by Cardinal Ratzinger (later Pope Benedict XVI).  I had the good fortune to meet Matthew Fox at a conference in the spring of 1983.  What he had to say changed my life.  

Creation-centered spirituality, according to Fox and Eckhart, has four stages.  The first celebrates life and creation (Via Positiva), the abundance in the world God has created.  The second stage requires letting go (Via Negativa), divesting oneself of all that gets in the way of our relationship with God; the more we let go, the more room we make in our hearts to be filled with the divine.  

This is the key phase, in my view, because, whatever pain letting go might entail, the pay-off is huge.  To the extent that we liberate ourselves from things or states of mind, and allow ourselves to fall into God,  we experience a breakthrough to unimagined creativity (Via Creativa) and self-actualization. 

Letting go and creativity partner up to continue their work in us in a reciprocal exchange that maximizes human potential.  The result would be a transformation (Via Transformativa) as children of God consumed with compassion and social justice.    Imagine the potential of that pathway for human beings.  As inspiration, we have a model: Jesus.

It’s the path of letting go that I would like to focus on with respect to Jesus.    When he accepts, at his Baptism, the mission he has discerned as his calling from God, Jesus flees into the desert and stays there for forty days, fasting and praying.   Already then, there is letting go of the preoccupations of everyday life, and a surfeit of food.  Later, at the end of the forty days, tempted by the devil, Jesus renounces the opportunity for a comfortable life that the devil promises him.  He abstains from relief for his hunger; he  refuses absolute power in the world; he is also strong in his trust in the power of God, and sees no need to prove that. 

These categorical instances of letting go merge with the implicit references:

·  Jesus leaves his family to preach the Good News.

·  Jesus separates from many legalistic tenets of the Jewish faith that, he says, are being transformed in the Kingdom of God, where love of neighbor is paramount.

·  Often in the midst of thousands of people, Jesus finds refuge in his inner circle of friends, as the community of Nazareth sees him as a radical presuptuous enough to proclaim himself the fulfillment of the ancient prophecies.  The people were “enraged,” the Gospels say, “filled with wrath,” or “furious,” depending on the version you read, after Jesus closed the book, and said, "Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

·  This separation becomes more pronounced as Jesus confronts some cultural norms : 

o   the place of women, in speaking to the women at the well, and acting on behalf of the woman caught in adultery, soon to be stoned;

o   the class hierarchy, in associating with hated tax collectors and Samaritans, and healing the feared lepers.

·  Jesus gives up the stability of a home.

·  In the end, he lets go of his life for others.

Jesus is our model, then, of how to let go.

Now, what happens, I asked myself, when the four-fold path of spirituality and Jesus’ life are superimposed?.  My theory is that, as Jesus practices this letting go, he experiences the Breakthrough into unbridled creativity (witness the miracles), and becomes transformed.  Long before the revelation on the mountain,   Jesus had already let go and been filled with God more than humanity had ever known.   At the moment of the transfiguration,  Peter, James, and John have the blinders removed.  They understand for the first time that Jesus has been transformed, that he is the son of God, and they realize that they need to listen to him.

Jesus even promised us that a transformation like his can be ours, as well.  What do we have do to?  Let go, to the same degree that he did.  Give up everything.  What will happen when we do?  A breakthrough in creativity, and eventually,  our transformation into children of God consumed with compassion.  Jesus’ promise is clear:  “Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these.” (John 14:  12 – 14)

Now, by extension, could letting go be the catalyst for the transfiguration of our entire society?  A friend of mine thinks so.  When we can bring our letting go the level of Jesus, he says, that’s when the lame will walk.   Powerful story, the transfiguration.

Genes

“Just thought I'd let you know that [your grandson’s] tooth cut through! Just noticed this morning,”   read the text from my daughter-in-law.  That was a week ago. 

So the drool was in fact the precursor of teeth, even at three months, in January, when I first proposed the idea that our grandson might be teething.  Signs of teething, at three months.  Could it be?

Well, yes.  His father was also a drool machine at three months.  He cut his first tooth at four and a half months.  Our beautiful boy was five months old on Tuesday.

 

His length and weight also eclipse the norms for his age.  By five months, his father, my son, had mushroomed to twenty-two pounds.   Could this be just coincidence?  Or rather some evidence for the critical role our genetic inheritance can play in our lives.

I’ve always believed that nurture affects our nature more than, well, nature.  The environment in which we are born and raised determines to a greater extent than our genes our propensities and physical characteristics, I have staunchly maintained. The jury seems to be out on whether nurture or nature has the greater effect; both work in combination to produce the human each one of us becomes.

Still, unexpected events give me pause.  My father-in-law, a very social and sociable man fascinated by everything in life, adored conversation.  He engaged every fibre of his being in the exchange, eyes riveted on the other person, a smile on his face.  When that person’s contribution to the conversation extended what he himself knew or had heard on the subject, his smile would widen, his head lift a tad, and turn a few degrees to the left and back again in amazement.  Almost two decades later, while talking to his grandson, our younger son, I stopped in mid-sentence.  My son’s eyes riveted on me, a smile on his face, his head lifted a tad, and he turned his head a few degrees to the left, and then back.  In fact, I was the one amazed.  My son was born five years after his grandfather’s death.  He never knew him.  Chalk up another one for nature.

Those images consume me as my son and his wife discuss their son’s physical development and his evolving tastes.  Turns out our grandson loves music from the fifties, to the point that his father has begun a playlist of his favorites on Rdio.  Now, one would surmise, he might be getting this preference from his dad, who plays bass guitar in a band.  The only thing is, the band doesn’t play fifties music.  At all.  His father just exposed his son to a variety of musical styles, and noticed a heightened response for rock and roll from the fifties.

Here’s the thing.  His grandfather, my husband, thrives on music from the fifties.  When we travel by car, he keeps the radio on the Fifties station.  (House rule:  The driver chooses the radio station.  In fact, that propensity has motivated me to assume my share of the driving, but that’s neither here nor there.)   He grooves to the songs while driving, slapping his knees and the steering wheel to the beat.  It’s happy music, he says.  A person just feels upbeat when it’s on.  Apparently, his grandson shares that opinion.

Add to that our daughter, the artist.  My husband doesn’t draw.  Neither do I.  My mother, though, had a gift.  Now, her granddaughter brings it to life.   Yes, these observations are unscientific.  But they astound me nonetheless, and, as I watch our grandson develop,  I marvel at nature and our genetic inheritance all the same.