the more I see the (more and less) I know

I don’t consider myself a fan of pop culture.  I appreciate art, music, drama and like many people my taste’s fluctuate  but simultaneously stay the same.  I have a mark, a code that calls and describes me.  I follow some artists and the interest usually wanes.  I rarely attach much meaning to one icon.  
  
But I’ve got to admit that I’m a fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  Sure, like anything, I’ve lost interest and the guys have certainly had their share of drama.  But who doesn’t love Blood Sugar Sex Magik?  They played from the gut terrifically tapped into the primal. And now as they age, they play with a softer edge buttered with insight.   

This year, I have a burning desire to see them in concert.  I booked tickets to my husband’s delight this November.  I can’t wait to see Anthony Kiedis and Flea and expect an unforgettable show. 

I have so many memories attached to these guys; high school parties, broken hearts, Southern California surfing, college road trips, unforgettable odysseys , mountain camp outs, ferris wheels, rich evergreen forests, red canyons and deep swimmable springs. 

And now, parenting?

As I drove Dana, Snow played on the radio.  Anthony Kiedis sang:

The more I see the less I know, the more I like to let it go.

Dana exclaimed, “What! That’s not right.  The more I see the less I know?  It should be the more I see the more I know.”

As in many parenting moments, many things went through my mind. 

·         Crap, my daughter is really listening to the lyrics of songs.  I’ve got to edit some of our favorite Pandora playlists that stream through the house and get rid of songs like Lily Allen’s “Fuck You” 

·         What?  My daughter is really listening to the lyrics of songs!  I shudder to think about what is she learning from pop media's cultural bombardment and misaligned values. How can I get the funds to buy that island we will live on until she is 21?  Please help.

·         What?  My daughter is having a conversation with the lyrics of songs?   Not only is she listening, she is processing and aligning those lyrics to her own meaning making and amazingly her own meta-cognition, she is thinking about how she is thinking.  And if it doesn’t align, she resists it and attempts to correct it.  Anthony Kiedis got the lyrics wrong and broadcast them publically.  Shame on him.   

·         Dana is right.  In her world, the more she sees the more she knows.  That is the way a six year old learns.  The sponge analogy is accurate.  She absorbs every experience and extracts the learnable moments in the instant.  She is building a knowledge bank filled with writing, reading, vocabulary, math, geometry, science, history, culture, love.

·         Anthony Kiedis is right.  The more I see the less I know.  Adulthood is a process of unlearning all the assumptions and habits of mind we acquired in childhood.  Personally, I have unpeeled an unknowable number of layers of assumptions.  When I learn something new it simultaneously uncovers that I know very little.  I’m learning how to let assumptions go and just be open to the world.  It is a process with an unwinnable goal.      

I told her that she was right.  But It will happen when she is an adult.  The more she sees the less she will know.  It is a way adults learn. 

I wonder when that happens?  When do we switch from acquiring knowledge and assumptions to unlearning them?  There can’t be a singular moment.  But can it be identified? 

Likely, it is like the ebb and flow of the ocean waves.  As the tide rises we acquire knowledge and as the tide lowers we unlearn and deconstruct meaning.  Then the tides of acquisition rise again and we create new buildings of meaning only to be wiped away by another tide.  We take two steps forward and one step back.  Learning is a process of construction and deconstruction. 

Dana had a conversation with Anthony Kiedis and it opened up her understanding of the world and how she interacts with it. Maybe it widened her understanding of her learning, meaning, adults, songs, and her mother.   It certainly deepened my understanding of the learning process.    

And I have a new memory of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

Turning to Each Other

Yesterday, I let someone get to me and I was angry. Really angry. I felt my heart constrict, my muscles tightening, endorphins kicked in and I was ready to fight. As I tried to control the impulse, I lost focus. Frustrated, I forgot my point which compounded my angst.  I precariously tread a thin line between passion and anger. It is one of life’s gifts, a consistent reminder of my challenges.    

 Afterwards, I ranted, fumed and gestured. It put me off balance for the day. I forgot myself. It took me twenty-four hours to regain equilibrium.

 In hindsight I know that the person's behavior was not a personal attack but a private story acted upon. My anger stemmed from my own acquired stories and meaning making. Our stories clashed in a meeting room. Extract those stories and the event was only words that missed each other across a table. A damaged but shared act of unheard phrases and broken dialogue.  Something fixable.

When we throw the private stories into the scene our worlds explode into unsolvable riddles.  Menacing words are dropped like missiles at war; disrespect, uncaring, rude, prejudiced, incompetent, horrible, unjust, unfair, unsupported all punctuated by expletives.       

These personal stories, the private reality we build in which good are good, bad are bad, we are victims, they are aggressors, all the reasons we or they can’t change, all the explanations why we can’t have our dreams.  All the ways we draw lines around ourselves, our society, our workplace, our family.  These stories are the destructive force.  None of it is true. 

The truth resides when we turn to each other and engage.  When we deeply listen, we dialogue and freely enter into a conversation that explores the biggest questions, they whys, the things that matter, the passions, the humanness of existence.  We leave the stories behind, suspend limiting assumptions and open ourselves.  These connections trigger meaning, creativity, innovation, deep paradigm shifts and ever deeper appreciation of being.    

This is the life force.

I have a lot to learn about it. 

      

Flipping Opposites

Is there really such a thing as opposite?  Rather what appears as two extremes only comes back to itself, full circle. Opposites entirely observed are the same and contrary simultaneously. 


Black is empty of light expressed as a color.  White is light’s full spectrum encompassed in one.  They are both expressions of light neatly facing each other.  They dialogue, expose their weakness and reveal a different option.  Personified, they giggle while riddles expose their inconsistencies.   Neither right or wrong.  The same but different.  In reality, they tell us they are more alike than dissimilar. 


It struck me recently when a colleague said “this is a good example of her strengths being her weakness.”  And it was true.  In context, her strength is a weakness.  What a strange truth.  Context can flip our abilities, suddenly the reason we succeed is the reason we fail. 

What are my strengths?  What happens when I flip them? 

Most would say that I am fiercely independent. 

 I like being alone and enjoy time to reflect.  I observe, read, study, reflect, discuss but come to conclusions independently.  What emerges is original thought, uninfluenced by groupthink.   What emerges is also incomplete. 

I am a self-starter.  I can point myself to the next priority and begin without external direction.  I can map my goals and forge their pathway.  I enjoy this process’ inherent ambiguity.  I don’t like being told what to do. 

I love to travel alone.  The inexplicable freedom of feet traversing on new ground and eyes on novel sights is exhilarating.  My perspective crystalizes and the world’s expansiveness unfolds around me.  It is inspiring and isolating. 

I love to read, paint and write.  The moments when I live for being, thinking, mindfulness, and creativity are grounding.  They place me in the center of myself, a place where love clarifies everything.  But these are solitary endeavors.

What imbalance? 

The opposite of independence is community, family, friends, connections, relationships, shared visions and collective wisdom.  There is equal power in it. I respect them. I believe in them. But it isn’t my first calling.  I’m drawn into myself first.  Maybe this is selfish, but I seek to bring myself fully to my endeavors before searching out others. 

But community is a blessed testing ground for reflection, ideas, arts, networks, adventure, relationships and action.  My passions cannot rest solely in my domain; eventually they are birthed into the world and shape our community.  My fierce independence bumps into society whether I like it or not.  Independence and community fluidly circle back.  If I don’t embrace this, I will miss the point of my own gifts.   

I’m resolved to flip my strengths and explore their weakness.  This is a challenge that requires my full attention and as I’m writing I feel fear.  Can I really do this? 

I’m resolved to ask for help.  I promise to call my friends when I am lonely.  I’ll explore multiple voices and conflicting ideas.  I will pursue the tension between my goals and others. I’ll seek shared adventures where compromise creates the journey. I’ll seek complexity of networks.  I’ll build intentional community.

Ultimately, I’ll pursue the balanced tension in opposites because I suspect the rewards will be exponential.    

     

Dharma: The pursuit of life purpose

I love teaching and learning but at times it has treated me like an unfaithful lover, broken my heart, kicked me around and forced me to choose heartache or disengagement.   Lately, I have struggled with two choices:  

1.      leave education entirely 

2.      co-create a culture that would support the passion every teacher has for their profession. 

I surprised myself when I chose number 2. Actually, I did not mean to do that. Number 2 chose me. 

Thursday, April 19^th 2012. I accomplished my biggest breakthrough professionally.   I presented the culmination of my professional and significant learnings  which exposed my raw heart with all its passions and heartbreak.   For me, it was momentous. 

This presentation represented a moment in my life when everything came together; the heartache and pain, the victory, the hopes.  I suddenly understood why I had bared the hardship and exhilaration at work. Why I read dearly loved books and studied concepts of transformation, social change, leadership, sustainable business, learning, education. 

My passions converged into what I term a pedagogy for a sustainable future based on hope, transformation, inclusion, action, empathy, connections, shared authority, lifelong learning and technology.  The pathway to which necessitates establishing trust, integrity, inclusiveness, relationships and renewal.  This requires a renewed appreciation for our profession.  Teaching and learning is a decidedly human endeavor, we do it because we love our disciplines, students and process.  We are motivated by love. 

As I spoke, my audience eyes welled with tears.  These were colleagues, faculty, deans, presidents, students.  Those shiny eyes made it hard to not break down.  I touched hearts and bared a glimmer of communal truth.  It was powerful. 

Dharma is the pursuit of life purpose.   Teaching and learning is my purpose.  For over ten years, I’ve been dedicated to my professional love.  That presentation represented a new level of my dedication and a renewed understanding of educational institutions and systems.  It reignited my sense of my purpose.   It realigned me with dharma. 

Why the presentation?  Potentially, a new job.  It is an entrepreneurial endeavor and an opportunity to reignite enthusiasm for teaching and learning on campus.  It is a chance to help faculty find, keep and fuel their passion.  I want it.  I realize now, that I’ve been prepped and pointed to it for most of my adult life.

But now I wait.   

Regardless of whether I get it or not, I accomplished a lot.  I touched people.  I challenged colleagues to think differently.  I placed a framework down that offers faculty a rejuvenated workplace and students a life as informed, engaged, empowered and courageous citizens. 

Afterwards, colleagues approached me and confessed that they want my vision and hope it can happen.  I want to prove that it can.  It is worthwhile challenge and exciting in its dynamic possibilities.

And more importantly, even while facing disillusionment and systemic apathy, I followed my dharma.     

Shed Your Skin

Dolphins shed their skin every two hours.  They do this to remain fast and uncatchable. Newer skin is silky, smooth, it feels firm but gel-like and glides their aqua-dynamic body through the water efficiently like a torpedo.  I know this because I touched a dolphin in Puerto Vallarta and the trivia was shared with us by our guide on the encounter.  Of course, the thrill came mostly from the magic it spun on my daughter who says that it and the monkeys who pranced on her head and jumped into her arms were highlights of our trip.

Like a dolphin, I shed my skin in Puerto Vallarta.  Like my kids, it is a magical experience.  It is renewal.  Now that I’m home, I’m strategizing how to achieve rejuvenation with dolphin-like frequency.  Every day I wake up, I have an opportunity to renew myself.  I know this, but don’t practice it.  However, I achieve reflective and permanent transformation when I travel.  

Travel leaves all the personal and emotional debris floating at home.  Without the garbage and confronted by a new context, I can see clearly; my values, my goals, my kids and family come into sharp focus.   I’m not complaining.  I love life in Seattle.  But work, kids, routines, the constant planning and projecting and the grey Seattle winter can combine to push me down like a weight if I’m not careful to seek balance.  I need space to forget and reflect, reconnect, remember where I came from and how I got here.  I need to blow it off it me spiritually, emotionally, mentally, physically and allow myself room to reimagine me. 

And I love Mexico.  It feels like a written prayer when I see the words.  I love Mexico beyond the beach, margaritas, the pools, hammocks and tourist traps but I confess I even love them.  I love the vendors on the beaches who fuel my idleness by bringing the shops to me.  I love the grinning men, shouting Spanish insults and puffing up their bellies at each other as the wrinkles spread around their eyes and over their ruby cheeks.  I love the way the women move, quick, surefooted and easily distracted by a belly laugh. I love the people’s curiosity and kindness as they gaze at my blond daughter in wonder as she rattles off a sentence in Spanish.  I love the salsa, spicy and fresh, guacamole from the sweetest avocados and grilled camarones and mahi-mahi, fresh and local.  I love the way the people break into song on a whim and merengue move only needs a heartbeat and a smile to commence.  

This isn’t Seattle’s spirit.  It is a refreshing, spontaneous, joyful and caring reminder.  It is a blessed counterweight. 

This vacation was pure all-inclusive resort heaven.  It was full of sweet, idle moments and indulgence.  We succumbed to nothing but succumbing.  

It was endless summer heat and the breezes picking up salty Pacific scents and throwing them across the sand.  It was small hands building, burying, digging, splashing,  eating, molding, reimagining, creating new worlds and entering new ones.    It was macaws,  egrets, pelicans, dolphins, sea lions, fish, monkeys, crabs, clams, donkeys, tarantulas,  beetles, ducks, and tigers (yes, tigers).  The butterflies playfully flashed a treasure of iridescence; emerald, crimson, saffron, aquamarine, amber.  The scattering of coconut, banana, and papaya trees were street side offerings for a self-picked breakfast.  Live mariachi reconnected me with fond memories.  My kids tested their Spanish and won friends.     

I have returned more complete than when I left.  I love my family more lightly.  I offer inspired work. Blugh and I are strengthened.  My children have new wonders and memories unseen in Seattle. 

Gratitude.  Love.  Life.  Amazement.    Everyone must shed their skin. 

be a girl

My daughter is a girl’s girl.  Her head is full of floral dresses, pink ribbons, pirouetting dolls, porcelain fairies, flying unicorns, bouquets of roses, peonies, foxglove, carnations, delphiniums, daisies and pink frosting curling atop a vanilla cupcake.  These icons are code.  They tell the language of girlhood, a language of friendship, a mutual language she utilizes and manipulates. The cypher goes something like this: We are girls. We like these things. We have mutual interests.  We can be friends. 

She likes bugs, worms, caterpillars, pill bugs, loamy dirt.  She explores and uncovers the filthy world with zest.  Fearlessly, she rides her pink fringed bike up hills and down, sometimes forgetting how to brake.  She has a mean throwing arm and a talent for hitting a ball with a stick.  She tackles the world in carefully planned pink outfits, skirts with flounces, dresses with ribbons, and a tiara of flowers. 

It is shocking.  I did not grow up accepting this ordinary girl lexicon.  I was a tomboy independent of girlishness.  In my childhood, Barbies were decapitated, thrown out the window and sometimes burned.  I fought with boys.  My hair was a mess of knots and my jeans were proudly torn.  I was often dirty and rebellious of dresses.   I didn’t trust girl signals.  I forcefully rejected them and many of the girls that embraced them.  I was a five-year-old dissident. 

Our five-year-old perspectives stand at opposite ends. 

“Mom, you don’t wear enough dresses.”  She says to me.  She is dressed in a pink polka dotted dress and a headband with a shocking pink rose.  I’m wearing jeans and a warm well-loved carrot-colored jacket. 

It is true.  I don’t wear dresses. 

Ironically, it was motherhood that robbed me of my few feminine conceits.  Since kids, I’d forgone makeup, wore jeans, baggy sweaters, t-shirts.  I hid my jewelry from groping baby hands that broke locks and painfully pulled at shiny loops in my ears.   For similar reasons, my hair was hidden in a bandeau or ponytail.   This was my new, more mature lexicon of a proud, hard-working mother.  I had outgrown my girl-ness. 

Childbirth is the ultimate feminine.  I respect and love my woman-ness.  It does not deserve a puffed up pastel colored fairy on a cupcake. 

Beyond childbirth, moms work hard at the planet’s toughest job.  We run an extreme business.   We plan kids’ lives to details. We worry about happiness.   We worry about futures.  We worry about relationships.  We worry about right action when we know there is absolutely no right answer.  We commiserate and strategize.  We evaluate and test repeatedly.  Mothers straddle a delicate balance of potentials; work, home, friendships, marriage, children and at any moment if one collapses the rest will sink into a black hole.  There is no more precarious profession. 

Motherhood is never-ending and relentless.   It is a tattoo suddenly and perfectly imprinted on each one of my heart’s chambers, never dislodged, forever permanent.  Its mark is a scar, a war wound, a blossom, a blessing, and a flawless circle.  Pink’s frivolity doesn’t belong near it.    

But Dana has complained more than once about my girl-less-ness.  She doesn’t understand how we can connect without a common girl language.   

I look in the mirror.  I remember a time when fashion was a personal badge.  I expressed myself in color, patterns, fabrics, textures, metals, shine, powders.  I carried a collection of jewelry on my body.  I believed in romance.  Fairytales nourished and fed my imagination. Magical unicorns unlocked a hidden world of possibility.  All forms of beauty were serene and life giving.   I like being a girl. 

Maybe girlhood and womanhood are not in battle and they can embrace each other. 

I like lipstick, mascara, shiny sunglasses and colorful earrings.  I could write to the moon about bikinis and own more than a girl from Seattle should.  I have an extensive collection of necklaces thanks to Blugh.  I’ve always wanted a crocheted dress.  Scorching ardent crimson bewitches me.  Vanilla bliss, not floral, but spicy and spirited scents ground me. I love lingerie with playful icons; hello kitty, snoopy, polka dots and stripes.  Romantic comedies make me cry.  It is fun to turn a head or two, but more fun to surprise my husband who witnessed and supported this journey and has proclaimed me beautiful every day and on my worse days. 

And it is delightful to witness my daughter’s expression when she sees me in a silk paprika-colored dress.  We enchant each other with our girl-ness.          

Hide and Seek

I forgot the thrill of hiding.  It is exhilarating to be crouched in a corner, body scrunched as small as it can be, waiting and praying for invisibility.  It is easy to forget to breathe, difficult not to giggle and delightful when the hunter passes by so close I can see their arm hairs yet remain safely unseen.   Other times, it is amusing to find the perfect spot, hiding in plain view but unnoticed by my seeker.  I love to hide under the seeker and peek up through bench lattices as she counts. I giggle and even scream when I am suddenly and surprisingly found. 

Today, my belly turned over when a curtain pulled back unexpectedly.  I squawked and she jumped.  We locked eyes, seeker and found, electrified.  We burst into laughter.       

It is routine for Dana and I to play hide and seek at the community center pool while we wait for Daire and dad to finish their class.  We made new friends with 8 year old twins, Megan and Kelsey, towheads with large inquisitive aquamarine eyes.    The four of us roam the lobby and locker room looking for perfect hiding spots and amusing onlookers. 

Who would have thought that watching a game of hide and seek would put a smile on so many faces, both young and old?

There are nights when I don’t want to play.  I’m tired.  A lot on my mind.  Crappy work day.   Too much to do.  The garbage of adulthood haunts me. 

Dana insists.  She loves our time together. She loves making friends.  She loves laughter.  She vividly remembers the thrill of hiding.  I concede.  Within minutes I forget the rubbish and remember what Dana never forgets; everything worth keeping is subject to play’s gravity.  The rest can float away.