India Ink Tattoo

Teachers, like therapists, spiritual caregivers and medical professionals are taught protocols of respecting our and others’ boundaries early and throughout coursework. It is required that we navigate between providing care while remaining at a Buy Amazon shares level of emotional distance. We are trained to provide genuine empathy and sympathy while maintaining a self-protective shield of detachment.

But the reality for most of us is far more difficult. Some days we just soften and fail. And I am deeply grateful that we do.

I discovered today that the very first student I worked with at my current job has died. He was a wonderful young man who taught me much about what I had taken on as a teacher to very ill children. From our first session together until the morning I hugged him goodbye, he was honest, straightforward and generously shared his feelings and opinions. Once he decided he could trust me, he became willing to share his powerful truths, and listen to mine.

When he told me early on that he knew he would not survive, and thought it was “stupid” to read whatever the assigned novel was–I gave him “The Little Prince.” Of course there was initial resistance, but Antoine de Saint-ExupĂ©ry’s tale opened discussions between the two of us that ranged from WWII aviation to the reality of dreams. No, it wasn’t the assigned literature, and yes, we spent less time on taxonomy and Algebra I than we should have.

But we each learned. He learned that imagining was still possible through grueling courses of chemo and radiation, and that silliness is an act of bravery equal to anger. I learned what this job would require of me–and that my first obligation is to listen–always.

As we said our goodbyes, more than a year ago, he gave me two paper sculptures he and his mother had made during their stay. One was a giant spider, the other a proportionately even larger housefly. Absolutely nothing cute about them, they were a dare from him for to me to display them. Which of course I did. I gave him the copy of “The Little Prince.” When he tried to refuse with, “But I already read it,” I think he expected my response: “This is one of those books you read more than once. It’s like having a friend who is always there.”

When I heard the news of his passing today, my eyes went right to the spider and fly still hanging in my classroom. And then to another copy of “The Little Prince” on the bookshelf. And it seemed appropriate that it was raining as I later walked home in tears.

Each day I am privileged to spend my time with children who are very, often terminally ill. I listen to the hopes and fears from the families. I watch the scrupulous medical and therapeutic caregivers who unfailingly provide treatment with gentleness and respect. I am fortunate to both see the successful return for follow-ups, and give over my classroom to families saying their last goodbyes.

This, at least for me, makes the essential visible. There are no boundaries to that.

A lovely gift took me and my youngest to the Per Kirkeby exhibit at the Phillips Collection. A massive show for that gallery, I found most of the work to be interesting–powerful–but with a few exceptions not in a color palate that resonated. Excepting the canvas above.

We stood though, and watched the latter part of a bio-video from 1996 that accompanied the exhibit. A wonderful film (whose title I can’t seem to source) that followed Kirkeby through the process of creating one canvas. And that’s where the resonance kicked in. Watching him build and rebuild, scaffold-squatting as he worked the top areas, bringing other canvases to visually enter a concept, and repeatedly sitting in an overstuffed chair to take in the place the painting had moved to before going at it again–all the while commenting on the process–my head began to nod in agreements. Especially with the solid understanding that building–layering strokes on strokes has nothing really to do with the current buzz-terms of “destroy,” and “deconstruction.” But rather the uppermost layers would never be possible without the under-structure work. Not that the previous is a framework, but a layer of concept that allows the exploration of change.

In this culture we are so trained to strive toward completion, ownership and the demonstration to ourselves and others of our skills that we seem to be losing the essential gift of impermanence. We see a wonderful sandcastle on the beach and are unable to grasp that one of the intrinsic beauties is that the next high tide will obliterate it. We are always a little shocked and dismayed to discover some masterwork contains evidence of reworking by the artist. The term pentimento is the Italian word for repentance or regret. As though the artist has “fixed” some earlier error.

Suppose though, we allow ourselves to think of this process as forward motion. An ongoing process of exploration combined with a joyful recognition of experiencing the present moment of any work. My earliest teachers taught me, respect for supplies aside, that no working at the art is ever wasted–but that no one piece is sacred. How freeing it is to work that way.

More and more often, I experience a powerful dichotomy of emotion in a single day. Yesterday it was all about art, the arts, and young people.

Throughout most of the day, I stood at a multiple college portfolio review, helping my youngest navigate the lines to interview. In the hours I stood I became more and more heartened.

The room was packed with young people toting French portfolios, carefully clutching sculptures or ceramics, wielding laptops–most accompanied by family members as they waited in lines to meet representatives of various college level arts programs. Most of the best known art programs were there, hosted by Virginia Commonwealth University School of the Arts. In each line, I was at some point close enough to overhear the reviewer’s approach and response to a young person’s work. Without exception I heard gentleness, enthusiasm and encouragement from the staff–even when the response could be easily understood to mean “Go home and keep working, you aren’t ready yet.”

Of course I am quite clear that tuition to these institutions is ridiculously prohibitive to many, and that of any thirty kids in line for The Arts Institute of Chicago, perhaps two had a chance of admission. I also considered all the wonderfully gifted students not present. Those without resources, guidance or even exposure to the arts in his or her public school.

But the artistic energy in the room was palpable. Yes, I saw the less talented, less skilled end of the spectrum–but I also saw outrageously exciting artwork. In every genre, every medium. Even more encouraging to see was the young people. I saw ownership, eagerness, and passion. Even those who would surely abandon the idea of an arts degree had a foundation. The urge to create was visibly embedded.

And then I came home and found the trailer for the “Landfill Harmonic” that is circling Facebook. After checking Snopes I watched the video again. The website for the film states, “Landfill Harmonic is an upcoming feature-length documentary about a remarkable orchestra from a remote village in Paraguay, where its young musicians play with instruments made from trash.” The “Recycled Orchestra” is just that–violins, cellos, flutes–created from trash. Trash from the landfill that is home to the young musicians. .

Watching the promo film for a third time I could see the same expressions of hope and creative passion that I had seen at the college fair earlier. “My life would be worthless without music.” This from a young girl in Cateura, Paraguay holding a violin crafted from scrap metal. “I live for my painting.” This from a young man in Richmond, VA displaying his work on a laptop worth several thousand dollars.

None of this is new, certainly not to me. As I watched the video, with the stack of promo material my daughter had collected piled next to me, a quiet thought became louder in my head. It is so very easy to see the disparity of benefits in this world. To become angry, to shed a tear, to post a comment or a video to some social network site. To cheer the efforts of others, to carp and snark about government budget cuts, to justify my own inaction with some statement of my inability to effect real change.

But sometimes, the easier path is to actually do something. To stand up, speak up, and get to work. To try and fail, and try again is always healthier. At least for me. So look out. I may not be able to be stopped this time.

For some reason the word “autodidact” has repeatedly popped up in my reading recently. Enough that I’ve been thinking about the nature of being “self-taught.” The idea of achieving a skill or other knowledge on ones own is certainly something I’ve claimed. But really, I’m not sure it’s possible.

I’ve been on both sides of formal education and training; written resumes that documented degrees, and touted independent, self-taught skills. Yet looking at my collection of learned abilities, it seems to me that I could not have, no one could have learned all alone.

Yes, there is a wonderful human ability to gain skills by both arduous trial and error, and those incredible flashes of insight. At least for me though, I recognize that those sparks of insight are triggered by something that already exists. Something I’ve seen, heard, felt, even smelled moves into my brain–and then shifts into something new. That new idea then is a twist on something that exists. Certainly this has been documented throughout history. Newton’s apple, da Vinci’s translation of the dragonfly to a flying machine, Fibonacci’s sequence plainly visible in every sunflower–all notions that were progress from an observance.

Of course when we trace back to our origins, there was a hominid who first drew on the cave wall, transforming forever a stick into a drawing tool, and the stone wall into an art surface. Whoever he or she was, the designation of autodidact obviously applies. I would love to know, to understand and experience what spurred that first artistic action eons ago. I believe then, that since that first artwork, we’ve been learning from each other.

Perhaps this is something to celebrate and cherish. In a time when formal education is becoming more and more rigidly determined by rising costs, and tightened entrance acceptances, it might be a good time to find ways for each of us to share what we know. We all have a wealth of knowledge to share, we all have a vibrant curiosity for what we don’t know. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all opened our brains, and our hearts and learned from each other.

In a recent post the wonderful Danielle LaPorte asked the question: How do you want it all to feel? One of those enduring questions that can shift consciousness to levels of bright hope, deep fear, and just flat-out confusion. But there are moments when the answer is right there–out loud, just before waking. A clear, absolute statement. Stronger than a message, a full synapse-snapping statement. It shakes you from whatever depth of ennui you’ve been treading like a climber’s hoist into breathable air. And there you are.

This is a place where movement is more than ambidexterity. It’s a full-on state of flow. A constant feel of everything, all at once–but enduring, rather than fleeting flashes. It’s a place for dancing a drawing into the sand. It’s taking the left turn against traffic, knowing even in the crappy car that there’s just enough time, and turning your head to see how close it was–still moving forward. It’s seeing the artwork fully formed, without having made a stroke–but knowing where the materials are, knowing the finished piece may have nothing to do with the flash of concept, knowing that the outcome has nothing to do with the concept.

This is the place where synchronicity occurs with breathing. It isn’t that some cosmic beneficence is popping old favorites on the radio or tinging the sunrise clouds with an especially brilliant hue. It’s that your ears and eyes are at one with the rest of you. All of you. This is a walking, breathing, fully aware state of flow. It can’t be shaken by the minutiae of functioning in the world. Minor irritants aren’t ignored–they are dealt with–with fluid movement and a little humor.

This is a pushed-up sleeves place–where muscle-memory is powered by backbone. It’s a place where intent cannot possibly be shaken by fear, where failure is a learning tool, and the Bandaid box is at least half-full.This is a place for bare toes in the sand, and where steel-toe boots stand next to 4″ red pumps–ready for whatever.

This is a place where fingertips grip the right place the first time, tools have a recognizable heft and balance in the hand with or without gloves–and there’s a constant if mutable rhythm that moves from the ankle, up the spine to the base of the neck no matter where the music is coming from.

This is the place I found in that nebulous place between child and woman. A place I’ve known in extraordinary clarity in childbirth, in painting, in bending torched steel, in loving. This is the place I found again in sobriety after eons of despair. This is the place I’d recently lost track of, but never really feared was lost.

This is the place where I am everything I was meant to be. This is a place of power without any need to challenge. This is the place where I am all I want to feel, and I’m not leaving.