The Fine Art of Stilt Walking

On a crisp November afternoon, four of us made our way to the mini-soccer field armed with some strange looking wooden objects. Tyger carried two long wooden planks with ropes spouting out of them while Sara and I had two pairs of stilts which were heavy enough for some bicep-curling activities along the way. Mr David Chandler, occasional D & T Teacher and black-belt stilt-walker, strolled behind us, waving a camera and whistling.

This was to be Lesson 2 at stilt walking… the first having been conducted outside the AV Room where I walked the entire width of the corridor (all 10 feet of it), screaming in terror that I suffer from vertigo, supported by Mr Chandler the whole time. So, being the dare-devil, willing as always to risk life and limb to learn something new (well, I know I was only two feet off the ground, but can you imagine how terrifying it was to not have Mother Earth under my feet?) I signed up for Lesson 2. The clan wanted to be part of the action. Did they want to learn too? Not necessarily. "It'll be great fun watching you fall off," they said. So much for filial loyalty, hmpf!

Tyger was set the task of walking on the skis (that's what they turned out to be, only they were made of wood), and Sara told to have a go at her stilts by herself, and ah, I thought, I'm going to be able to try this out without wild cackling from the offspring… Mr Chandler turned to me. First came the theory. "You get onto the stilts, hold them like this," he demonstrated, "then take short steps. Keep your legs close together, and keep your steps short." And finally, most importantly, "Don't worry, I'll be holding on to them."

For a while we tried this on the grassy slopes, occasional stumbling caused by the hidden bumps and crags. Then he decided to take the exercise to the paved path next to the field. "It may be easier to do this here since the surface is firm." It was, and we went down the path, turned, walked back, turned again. The whole time he held on to the stilts. I think on the couple of instances that he did let go, I must have screamed, "Don't let go," and I felt the reassuring support again. I fell off many times, then got back up again and gave it another shot. I don't clearly recall what he said the whole time, just that they made me feel that I had to keep trying.

When I took a break, he went off to help Sara, then Tyger. The three of us got onto the skis together and faced the challenge of walking all the way to the other end of the field. We even successfully attempted climbing up a short flight of steps.

Finally, I got onto the stilts again, this time with Sara supporting me while I swung myself on, and with complete ease and to my utter amazement, I walked at least 10 steps before jumping off.

Then came the epiphany. For several weeks I had been struggling with my Grade 9 IGCSE students, deconstructing poetry and analysing it. We were all up to our necks in literary devices, knew them backwards, were able to identify them accurately and give examples ad nauseum. But, here's the catch, when it came to analyses, we were always looking for an explanation from the teacher… i.e. yours truly. "But how do I write this?" I had been asked many times. Providing them with a structure for an analytical essay had not helped. They were still paraphrasing like the dickens, not responding or commenting. "What do you FEEL about this? What does this image make you feel?" I said repeatedly. And mostly, what I got [not in discussions, of course, but in their written work] was "I don't FEEL anything - except that I can't figure out what to write." Fear stared starkly each time they approached a clean sheet of paper on which they had to put down their wise words of deconstruction.

So, what was I doing wrong? Or, what else did I need to do? It all became clear that afternoon:
First, demonstrate and give clear instructions. [This I had done, but what needed to be done next was way more important.]
Second, give them many chances to try it out, make mistakes.
Third, if a certain way [surface] wasn't working, change it and find a new way.
Fourth, most importantly, don't let go of the stilts till they came to an independent decision to take off by themselves.
Fifth, applaud every little victory and encourage them after every fall.
Sixth, do something fun and achievable every once in a while.

I went back into my Grade 9 class on Monday morning, full of renewed vigour and energy, bubbling over with enthusiasm. We were about a week from the mid-year exams and they were terrified. But everything else was suddenly different. I began by telling them about the stilt-walking lessons and what I had learnt from it about teaching them. They were appreciative. "So now, we are going to make a lot of mistakes, but it really doesn't matter because each time we will learn something new. What I want you to do is stop worrying." That week was amazing in terms of the response I got. Some of them managed to improve in leaps, others strolled along but no longer fearful or lazy. Most importantly, we all started enjoying this whole deconstruction thing. Have they all cracked it? No, of course not. Are they all now willing to try? That's a resounding YES!

Hats off, Mr Chandler, you taught me so much more than stilt walking that afternoon!

In Search of a Fairy Tale

… and what the dewdrop calls the end
the Master calls a new day…
But what of the dewdrop when it melts
is absorbed by the earth and
everlastingly lost to itself and obscure now
to the world?
And what of the leaf which had clung
to the dewdrop,
- the possibility of love -
for when love broke through the fog
the dewdrop evanesced into its heat
And left the leaf
lonelier, if possible, than before.

[With apologies to Mr Bach, for distorting the original "what the caterpillar calls the end/ the Master calls a butterfly".]

What happens when a year, a decade, a millennium, a moment, or a relationship, [or to be honest, the possibility of a relationship], comes to an end?

That's what most relationships are, aren't they? They contain the possibility of relating, the seeds of relationship, just as life brings with it the possibility of living. Who can say with complete confidence and assurance that they have a relationship, a rock-solid one which is unshakable in the storm? Who can say without hesitation that they are really LIVING, not merely existing, from sunrise to sunrise? Who has found love that came with a "guarantee" sticker? Who has found immortality, the possibility of endless living? Mostly, love and life come with a "use by date". And even if, as sometimes happens, the relationship goes on till the physical end of life of one or the other, who knows how deeply they related at all? That they didn't spend many years losing themselves in the habit of co-habiting, where questioning the foundation they think is rock-solid would have exposed fissures that run deep into the earth that seemingly grounds them? That didn't go from one chore to the next without wondering "why am I doing this" till the final moment of truth when they had to face the question "Did I really live"?

What may happen then, is that you are left with a panorama of memories, visions if you like, of scents, textures, sounds and togetherness. You may find yourself reaching for the vision only to have it dissolve in your arms. You can choose to erase, efface or even deface those memories - for hidden underneath that warm, remembered glow, is pain born of the longing for it to repeat itself. You can choose to step back, step out, step away, but are inexorably drawn into the longing again and again and again. But the moment is gone, the chance lost, and neither love nor life really offer you second chances. You can, of course, frame the memories and look at them from time to time to help with a desolate present.

There are those who look carefully at the "use by date" and consciously create memories to sustain them in the future. They are able to live entirely in the present, ignore any intruding thoughts of consequences, and in the final analysis are able to enjoy the snapshots because they came with the fore-knowledge of the fore-told ending. They do not approach opportunities with hopeless hope that anything on this earth is but ephemeral. They are secure in the knowledge of the epitaphs on their tombstones: "He lived, whenever he could; he loved, whenever he could; at all other times, he was useful and productive." They have the wisdom to live entire lifetimes in just a few moments, the ability to find meaning in life as it comes to them and not reach out to life and imbue it with meaning. They have my sincere, humble and heartfelt admiration.

But what if you are not equipped with that wisdom or ability? Perhaps you choose to climb into the tower, lock the door and throw away the key. For, you're not going to let your hair down for just anyone who comes riding by; you will only let it down for the Wicked Witch called "loneliness".

And, of course, you forget in such painful moments, that after sunset the soothing night will rise again, bringing with it perhaps another dewdrop or two, another hope that in spite of the loneliness of most parts of the journey there is always the possibility of a relationship; that in spite of the lifelessness of existence, there is always the possibility of living it.

You can, finally, choose to approach the situation armed with your omnipresent sense of humour: laugh at human follies and the fallacy of assumption; grin at the way in which this fairy tale ended. Oh yes, I've written some really weird endings to many fairy tales - ones in which the princess kissed the prince and he turned into the Toad, or the Beast; ones in which he flew off and crashed his plane leaving the princess wondering "what if"; and, of course, the ones in which the prince rode off into the sunset to rule his kingdom of chores!

And you smile indulgently at the heart's need to keep on writing fairy tales! May the future, then, be prolific....

The Parenting Double Bind

Between stimulus and response, there is a space.
In that space is our power to choose our response.
In our response lies our growth and our freedom.
--Viktor Frankl
As quoted in: Promoting Responsibility & Learning #114, January, 2011, http://www.MarvinMarshall.com

Early this morning I received an email from my friend, Nats, with a link to an article on Chinese parenting [the word "Chinese" here refers to the traditional philosophy of parenting followed by the Chinese, as clarified by the author in the article]:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html?mod=WSJ_Books_LS_Books_2

Not having a "life" [it's confirmed now - officially, Cathy has no "life"], I read the article, wrote back to Nats, who was still up on the other side of the world, shared the link with a group of friends that I explore family therapy with, received a response from the group leader, Shelja, read her blogpost on the same topic, responded to that, and then began to rapidly put down random-stream-of-consciousness thoughts that occurred in that irritatingly random way. Why is it, I wondered, that thoughts cannot be linear, logical or even literate? Not that I'm a control freak, of course, as I tell all my friends [and some day I hope that this will be true!], but wouldn't it be so much less incoherent if thoughts followed logic? Why do they go back and forth, ad nauseum, sometimes pendulum-swinging, at others roller-coastering, but never, ever, following a pattern that one can grasp, interpret, understand, and draw conclusions from?

Well, anyway, as it emerged, the thoughts centred around the problem of sibling friction as posed as an endless challenge to my mothering skills by my two offspring, Sara and Tyger. On this chillingly windy morning, the walk posed a challenge which, however, paled in intensity to the problem of: how do I help them to get along with each other? No, cancel that, how do I help them to co-exist? For, Sara, the in-the-throes-of-adolescence fifteen-year-old finds everyone and everything "irritating", especially her little brother. And Tyger, just out of the sensorimotor stage, wants to simultaneously emulate and reject his elder sister.

When they are deadlocked in some sort of combat, one has two impulses: the first, to tell them to have it out with "...and I'm not going to play the referee, either", possibly to flounce off to my room or a work-out at the gym; option two is to enter, full-force, into the situation, get them to talk it through, find a solution, help them be at peace with each other, at least till the next conflict erupts.

They say that children learn from their siblings to resolve conflict, a life skill they carry into adulthood. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, but you really want me to leave them at it so they can bash each others' heads in? On the other hand, the more I referee, the less effective I am as a parent - for, both end up feeling that I took the other's side [even if I remained completely and mindfully neutral!], retire with feelings of anger - but at least no one's head needed stitches. Which instantly reminds me of battles with my elder brother, in which my parents intervened only if we got too loud or noisy, and which [being of superior strength and older] my brother always won. Therefore, it's that much more difficult to remain in a position of neutrality, since Sara is approximately twice the size of Tyger, and naturally, I empathize with the one that will not come out on top. However, I do know for a fact that my greater affinity to the status of the younger, smaller sibling, is a myth in the mind of the elder - since, and I have this on record, Tyger also always feels that I'm on Sara's side!

So, here's the double bind: if I do nothing, one of them will definitely get hurt - and can I therefore, as a conscientious parent, allow a situation to develop to its logical conclusion; on the other hand, the more I intervene, the less chances they have of finding solutions that work for them. To compound the problem, I am practically allergic to high-frequency screeches delivered at 120 decibels or more, almost continuously through the conflict by Tyger - who, being a little lion, mewls like a cross between a cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof and an owl-going-for-the-mouse-in-the-field. If he didn't screech like that, I often feel, I may be able to approach the situation in a more stable-headed way. What does happen is that the yelling pierces my brain cells, each one pierced separately, or that's what it feels like, and I lose the ability to think at all till everyone is somewhat calmer. And here's the news, it doesn't get calmer since the issue is not resolved!

Anyhow, stepping back, an exercise that is often touted as the panacea but very difficult to practice with pierced brain cells, does afford a bird's eye view of what is really going on. So this is my meta mirror exercise. And instead of stepping in with a response, the Frankl Space [if one may be allowed the coinage] comes in handy. In that space, here's what I see:
Sara: You idiot! If you don't know how to play the game why do you want to play it? Mamai and I will play it without you. (what she really means, probably, is "I wish you were older and we could enjoy each others' company more." or "I miss the days when I had my mother all to myself and didn't have to share her with you.")
Tyger: (screaming and throwing his arms around) I'm not an idiot! I know how to play! I don't want to lose! I want to win! (that's probably exactly what he does mean)
Sara: You can't win unless you know how to play the game! You're an idiot! (Why couldn't you be older and more sensible?)
Tyger: I can win! I can! I can! (exactly that!)
Sara: I wish you hadn't been born. (exactly that!)
Tyger: I wish YOU hadn't been born. (ditto)
Sara: Ha ha, you can't wish that! I came before you! (You've divided our mother into two. She has to care for you as well, now.)
Tyger: I can! I can! I can! (exactly that)
Me: TIME OUT! (Stop yelling, both of you!)
There is silence for a second or two before it starts up again.
Sara: I'm not going to play with you if you can't be a sport when you lose. (It's bad enough that I have to share my mother with you; you can't even be a good loser!)
Tyger: Then I'm not your brother anymore.
Me: Hey, this is not happening. (Really, that's what I mean - I can't have you both dissociate like this from each other. My breathing has quickened, I'm very nervous because I really want the two of you to get along with each other, be friends, because I'm not going to live for ever; and I would really like to die feeling secure that the two of you are there for each other.)
The Stepped Out Me: There are no guarantees in life. They may end up on different sides of the world. They need to be able to form relationships with other people as well.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): Well, how are they going to form meaningful relationships with other people if they can't co-habit this house? If they can't get through a game of Uno without sticking knives into each other?
The Stepped Out Me: It's not always like this.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): No, because she's locked up in her room and he's playing in his. Whenever we play or have a meal or are in any way near each other, this erupts.
The Stepped Out Me: Well, it hasn't always been like this.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): True enough. But it just seems to be getting worse. And I feel so ineffective, so helpless. In this situation I'm the adult around; it's up to me to help them get along.
The Stepped Out Me: Who decided that?
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): Sorry? I mean, isn't that a given? I'm their parent. The most important lessons they learn are at home.
The Stepped Out Me: That's an assumption. It may not reflect reality. They could be learning a great number of important lessons when they are playing with friends, or even by themselves.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): So what should I do? Let this carry on?
The Stepped Out Me: Why not? Unless they start hurting each other physically.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): But what about emotionally? What Tyger said just now was really hurtful.
The Stepped Out Me: Do you think Sara believes that for a moment? Even if she did, at the moment she probably doesn't give a jot. And when she does, she will have forgotten that he ever said it.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): How do you know that?
The Stepped Out Me: You remember anything you said to your brother when you were kids and fighting or stuff he said to you?
Pondering.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): Not really. But I grew up feeling that he was the most awful bully.
The Stepped Out Me: Presumably you don't still feel the same way.
Me (to The Stepped Out Me): No, but it took an awfully long time.
The Stepped Out Me: I rest my case.
Me (to the kids): Would you guys like another game? Tyger, I know that you'll get better the more you play. Sara, perhaps you could shuffle the cards, or do you want me to?
Sara : I'm not playing with him!
Tyger: I'm also not playing with her!
Me: OK, no problem. Maybe we could try this again tomorrow. (And I'm OK with this. We can try this tomorrow. Maybe it'll work - perhaps we will have more fun than conflict. This is not the end of the world and tomorrow is another day.)
Sara: I never want to play with him again.
Tyger: I also never want to play with her again.
Me: Fine. That's not a problem at all. (I really mean it. If the two of you want to lead separate lives now or in the future, I have no issues with it. I've taught you to swim, so even if you find that you can't cross the bridges you come to, you can certainly try swimming across the river, or tarzan-swing or whatever. You're both beautiful and strong kids, and right now you are physically dependent on me for many things, but you will grow up and be independent because that's the way I'm bringing you up.)