Showing Up

 

            In this time of chaos in our country, what stories do we tell ourselves and how do we show up? Are we doing a decent  job of communicating our origin stories, the ones that teach us how to behave in challenging situations? Of modeling how to be engaged in civil, civic society? Or are we floundering? Holding back hoping someone else will step forward? Giving up? I’ve been doing a great deal of puttering in the garden and greenhouse this year (and it looks quite nice, if I do say so myself) while contemplating these questions.

            Mark’s origin story is the Bible, as read by southern Methodists. He grew up with the stories; he wanted, deeply, to save the world. He wrestled with how to be a good Christian while also believing in evolution and evolution won. And, although I was raised as a working class Irish Catholic, those stories did not stick in my mind, although the rituals remained. My origin story comes from my roots in New England, in Boston. It started with Johnny Tremain, which led to the Freedom Trail, a masters degree focused on 18^th century New England, and a deep understanding of the economic drivers of revolutions. Along the way, I learned about Mother Jones, The Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee, and the Suffragettes.

            We are in a time where we are clearly struggling to articulate clear solutions. Maybe it is the overwhelming barrage of changes coming from the federal government, changes announced on social media that shift every few hours.  Maybe it is because the problems feel so massive and so interconnected: climate change, inequality, immigration, racism, isolation and addiction. Maybe we believe that if we just wait it out, things will get better. Maybe we are waiting for someone else to step up and do the hard work so we don’t have to. Or, maybe, we just don’t know where to start.

            So I look back.  Maybe you have your own origin story to consider, but mine is the history of our country. And this is what I know:

            People in power will try to divide us, usually along racial lines. While they hoover up the entire cake, they start arguments about who should get the crumbs left behind. Follow the money.  Call it out, clearly and loudly.

            There is power in  unions. Labor unions brought us the weekend, the end of child labor, and the 40 hour work week. There are also two types of unions—the official union, which negotiates contracts and wages and the unofficial union, which supports its people in times of stress. Even though there are two official unions in public schools—classified and certified—we are stronger when we work together and show up for one another with time, love, and cookies.

            We have to share the hard work. It’s fun to show up and wave signs, to plant trees, or to watch and discuss a movie. But, behind those fun actions, there are hours and hours of work that is not so fun. There are chairs to move and bike racks to haul. There are press releases, and planning meetings, and permits to fill out, and task forces to build consensus on the message. There is maintenance of buildings, gardens, organizations, clubs, people…. There are bills to follow, lobby for, and support.  Someone has to do all of this work, usually on top of everything else in their lives and we will go further if we all share to load. Free labor is the only way we will move forward.

            Persist. The world is run by those who show up. Show up for the hard, boring stuff.  Over and over and over and over and over.

            Finally, Question Authority.  Vote. People have died for your right to do so. Do not throw their lives away.

And maybe we should turn back to our founding documents: :”And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

 

 

Mark's Away!

 

                Mark has been visiting family for the last two weeks. As always, with him gone, I am struck by how much I get done. I think it is because I have longer stretches of time to focus on the task at hand—answering emails, planting tomatoes, cooking dinner and washing the dishes….I work in larger chunks of time and, in the long run, spend less time online, at least.  I have been able to:

·         Mow  and trim the yard twice

·         Bump up 116 tomatoes

·         Tidy up the side yard

·         Keep the house clean and do the laundry down the street at the Laundromat

·         Eaten several amazing grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner

·         Answered emails in three accounts, read the news every evening, done some research on several subjects

·         Read several books and watched quite a bit of Call the Midwife

·         Had long, detailed conversations with at least one person every day

·         Added many rows to a knitted shawl

I have always loved living by myself; I can spend hours in my own mind, or reading or knitting, listening to the radio, watching the birds and talking to the cat. Every time, though, I realize that it’s not really healthy; I tend to obsess over controlling the small details of my space. I need someone around to keep me in balance.

 

Faith in Potato Planting

 

                It’s spring. Potato planting time. I like to get them in as early as possible so that they can grow on rain water rather than city water. In the ideal world, I water them twice from the hose and then let them dry down for harvest. Then, one bed sits idle for months and maybe hosts the chicken coop first in September while the other is planted with fall greens.  As I was laying out the spuds, I considered the faith that farmers—and teachers—have. We plant potatoes and start new classes on opposite sides of the yearly calendar.

                Potatoes are just lumps in April. The ones I have kept in the larder since late summer are so wrinkled and sprouting that I lay them in trenches quickly, trying to not knock off the long, wandering tendrils while I work. Blue and white worms poke up from the dirt when I am done. The new chunks are dusty, but just beginning to sprout from a week in the greenhouse sunlight. I dig them in as well. We don’t know what will happen. Will we have weeks of cold rain, stunting the growth? Will it dry out too soon, forcing me to water more often? Will something come in and munch the new potatoes, like the moles in the old community garden? With Climate Change, it is harder to know. It’s a risk. A small risk for me; a much bigger risk for the small organic farmers that surround us in the valley.  We will know if it pays off months from now—just about when we are all getting ready to go back to school.

                Students are just symbolic lumps in September, unknown and not sprouting. We move back into the building, sit through days of “training” and wait for students to pour back into our lives. We plan, and hope, and dream of where we will go this year, how far our students will grow and develop by the late spring.  But so much growth is (or, sometimes, is not) happening under soil of high school. We don’t know. We see small signs of learning, flashes of understanding, moment when we stand still in awe—but almost all of the development is under the surface. We have to have faith.

                And, right about the time that I am putting in the potatoes, they begin to show what they have been doing in the dark. Papers have a thesis and paragraph structure. Discussions flow with students adding a new idea, rather than just repeating what someone else has said. A kid who has refused to read the book decides to give in and read…and suddenly, they know what is going on in class. Imagine that! We laugh.

                It is good that the two actions balance each other out, every year. When I am doubting my potatoes, my students display all of their growth. And, before I go back to the building to start a new year, I pull my harvest from the ground, reminding me to have faith, always, in what is happening underground.