Frankie & The Post-It Notes

Frankie had a problem in my class that would keep her from being able to write on the current page of her packet. I grade by counting full pages, so leaving one unfinished would hurt her grade. She said, "I can't fill that page because I can't go back to the memory of what I wrote there." My first thought was to say, "Come on, Frankie! Get over it!" but that's obnoxious. That's me bullying, saying I don't care what she thinks and feels. That line teaches her not to care what I think and feel either. It's not the lesson I want her to learn.

Another option is to say, "It's okay, Frankie. Leave that page blank." Though that shows I've listened I don't like teaching her to give up. Surrendering to a challenge is missing an opportunity. Learning (like writing) requires some courage and school should foster that.

Which brings us to the option Frankie and I chose: we fixed the problem. Instead of reacting ("get over it" or "skip it") we responded. Frankie didn't want to see the ten lines atop her page so I grabbed Post-Its and covered the offending passage with them. Frankie liked that well enough to feel comfortable on the page. She started writing.

I hope Frankie felt heard and respected. I know she wasn't bullied or ignored. She didn't take an easy way out, but the way forward was not difficult. She might have even felt some pride at getting through the situation.

Whatever she felt, we both learned something. Who would have expected that ever to happen in school?

Not The Hardest Thing

After the dentist I went home to my daughter who had had trouble with a hawk. Really. Home from school she found a hawk (a juvenile sharp shinned hawk according to a friend who knows these things) sitting in our driveway refusing to move. My daughter was supposed to put the garbage cans in the spot occupied by the hawk but you know how hawks are. I agreed with her not messing with it. No way. She went to have a snack while I changed into running clothes. I had just enough time to squeeze in a run before making dinner.

Ten minutes later I started jogging down the street. The air felt colder than I had expected. Maybe I should have worn the tights and damn, I left my gloves on the kitchen table. I hate running with cold hands. This is going to be tough, I thought.

A quarter mile into the run I felt rain drops. Big ones. Rain plops. Few and far between. Some snow flurried in there too. Wasn't it supposed to be forty-something degrees? Felt more like thirty. The rain plops came harder. The sky was dark, dark grey, like dusk in early afternoon. I had my reflective vest. I wondered if I shouldn't have grabbed my blinking LED lamp. I kept going.

At around three quarters of a mile rain really came down, filling the shoulders of the road and soaking through my vest and shirt. My hat dripped. That rain was cold, let me tell you. It went through me. I blew into my fists but was missing those gloves I'd left in the kitchen. I wondered, how long does hypothermia take? Surely longer than I'd been out, but maybe I should turn around.

I'm trying to accumulate mileage. I want to get in shape and am making a game of how many miles I run this year. I know the average miles I need to run per day. It's not many, but it's more than I had run. A car drove by and I caught some of its splash. I think the driver waved an apology. I waved back: It's fine. I kept going.

I ran through the worst of the rain and what seemed like all of the puddles. By the time I had my miles in the rain had slowed, the sky had turned a lighter shade of grey, and my hands weren't that cold. Maybe it was forty-something degrees again. My feet and clothes were soaked, I was beginning to chafe, and I was still cold. Then this thought came to me:

This isn't the worst thing that's happened to me today. This isn't the worst thing this week. This isn't the worst thing that will happen this year.

Cold, wet, chafed, tired, worried about hypothermia, my job, my weight, and money, I thought, this isn't the worst thing, and felt a little better. I knew I could keep going.

I don't recall the worst thing that happened that day. I don't know the worst thing so far this year. The worst thing didn't happen on that run and isn't happening now. I may never know the worst moment, but compared to whatever it might be most everything feels like something I can survive by putting one wet foot in front of the other. It turns out the puddles aren't that deep and sometimes it's not as cold as it seems.

Robert Galbraith, Lethal White

I really don't know much about mysteries and so am no authority on British mysteries for sure, but as the old Genesis song says, I know what I like and I really, really like J.K. Rowling writing as Robert Galbraith. I've read each of the Cormoran Strike mysteries and they are all a great ride. I just finished Lethal White five minute ago and am already thinking about re-reading the three previous books starting tomorrow and then re-reading Lethal White.

If nothing else, maybe this time I would be able to put two and two together. Though, in fairness, given the complexity especially of Lethal White it's more like putting the limit as x approaches infinity of the quantity one plus one over x all raised to the power of x together with...well, you get the idea, it's complicated.

That complication didn't bother me one bit as I read, racing through the last three hundred pages (and not just because my wife was desperate to get her hands on the book). I was never going to guess the killer or the motive or really understand things even after all was revealed, but none of that matters because I love the characters of Robin and Cormoran and now Sam Barclay. Mostly it's Robin I find enthralling and so very real.

Rowling is brilliant. There is no doubt she's one of the great writers working today. I am simply amazed at her talents and, as it was between Harry Potter books, can't believe that I will now have to wait years for the next installment. I might survive, but it won't be pleasant waiting.

Letter Of Recommendation: Scooping Cat Litter

My daughter has been too busy to some household duties. She's a good kid so I pick up the slack largely without complaint. After all, I was doing these things before she was born and for most of the time she was an infant. (I made her change the motor oil at fourteen months). It's no big deal to take these things on and so each morningI have been scooping the litter box. It has turned out to be at least as good for me as it is for the cats.

Maybe you think scooping cat litter isn't your cup of tea. It's kind of gross to think about. The smell isn't great. Is the litter radioactive or carcinogenic? I still recommend going to the litter box early each morning, sitting on a stool, and scooping the litter with a small smile. Scooping the litter turns may not be the way to joy, but it is surely one way toward contentment.

I scoop litter after morning meditation. That has helped make it a practice rather than a task. It really does seem like raking a Zen garden. I sit on the stool, sift for treasures, drop them into a bag, add clean litter, and drop the bag in the garbage can. I'm in no hurry. There's no reward. Aside from this essay, no one would ever know I'm doing this. (Well, the cats might notice, especially the black and white one who likes to watch.)

Scooping litter is performing maintenance which makes the world go round. Doing the practice every morning means the box rarely smells that bad. The practice is quiet, clear, and done in solitude. I'm not exactly mindful but it is the kind of meditative act in which I'm not thinking to conclusions or to get anywhere. I am simply there, on the stool, scooping the litter, being at peace.

I've had similar experiences doing dishes and laundry but there is something special about the litter box. I think it's that the litter falls like sand through the sieve of the scoop like sand passing through an hourglass. It feels timeless.

This morning, after I had finished scooping but before I stood up from the stool, I closed my eyes and felt myself bow to the clean litter box, to the bag of dirty litter, to the scoop hung back on the wall, and to this daily practice of maintenance in solitude. I hadn't intended that bow, but it felt right and good.

The black and white cat was watching. She stood still, her entire being the very definition of composure. When I moved to the garbage can to drop the bag of dirty litter, she remained still and her eyes did not follow me. It wasn't until I went up and rang a scoop of dry food into the cats' metal bowls that she ran pell-mell upstairs as if I was a monk striking a bell signaling the end of meditation and the beginning of a new day.