Starfish

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There is a story you’ve probably been privy to sometime in your life. In fact, I can remember writing a post about it a few years ago. The basic idea is that of a man walking along the beach; he notices a boy picking up starfish. These creatures are slowly withering in the sun, so the boy tosses them back into the ocean where they can survive. When the man gives the boy the news that even his best efforts will be in vain—that there are simply far too many starfish to even begin to think that he could make a difference—the boy tells the man about how change comes to each as an individual.

As a teacher, each year I feel that I am that boy. I walk along the beach throughout the days, and I throw starfish into the vast ocean of knowledge. I relish in the thought that—while in my classroom—they are becoming so much more than what they once were. That they are being instilled with basic things that will help them to become who it is that they will one day be.

I’ve noticed that there seems to be a group of starfish that I have to keep throwing back into the ocean. Then, despite my best efforts to keep them in a place where they can survive, these same creatures crawl out of the life-sustaining waters and lie on the scorching sand where they again begin to wither away.

I pick them up over and over, throwing them into the blue waters; then, before I know it, they are again crawling out. My strength is redoubled as I center my attention these half-dozen starfish that seem to have a secret death wish.

It’s exhausting.

I also discovered that I usually don’t give near enough attention to those starfish that are floating about in the shallows, and nearly nothing to those who are out in the depths. After all, I know that those starfish will be okay. These are the urchins that will make it. These are they who will survive.

The school year ended today. My two and one-half dozen students left the classroom. They had walked in this morning as fifth graders, and left as sixthers. An entire year had flown by as fleetingly as the tide.

As they filed past me, I handed them their classroom placements for next year, and I looked at each one of them as an individual starfish. I thought of the progress each of them had made—or hadn’t made—during the year. I looked at those I had worked the hardest with—but who still left the classroom pretty much the same way as they came in. Despite my best efforts, these were they who were content to laze in the blistering sands.

It was hard to watch them leave, knowing that in nine months I had so little effect them; that they were so obstinate that they were happy staying the exact same as they were.

As a teacher, I want all of my students to be successful. I want them all to achieve. I want them all to thirst for knowledge. I want them all to want to give nothing but their personal best.

Sadly, this is not to be.

Over the years I’ve learned that each must decide on their own what it is that they will do and who they will become. When I talked with a friend earlier tonight, she spoke about measuring successes in life not solely on the outcome, but on the efforts put into the endeavor—our partial successes and achievements. We should never feel that our energies are wasted when trying to help another.

As a teacher, I want my students to achieve. I would love for each of them to always do their personal best, and I will continue to help them as best as I can.

I am a thrower of starfish.

Even to those who don’t like the ocean.

The Wall

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There are days I know I’ve given my all.

I arrive to work long before the sun comes up, and usually find myself leaving when it’s completed its journey down into the fiery blanket of the western skyline.

I thought about this tonight.

I thought about my life.

I thought about the people that you just can’t seem to please, no matter what…despite the hours you put in, heedless of the amazingness you try feed into the day, there are those who just don’t seem to feel that your efforts have merit; it seems that all they are capable of viewing is that which you didn’t do.

You know those people I’m talking about, don’t you?

Of course, my greatest archenemy is probably none other than I, the scrutinizer extraordinaire. No matter what we do, it never quite seems to be enough for us to feel good about who we are…there’s always one more thing we should have gotten accomplished before day’s end.

And so today, I hit the wall.

No, not literally, but figuratively.

It was akin to finding yourself standing in front of a brick roadblock that is far too high to climb, and too step to traverse. You sit before it, dejected, and know that you are beaten as the rain thunders down from a vortexual sky.

There’s no point in going any further; there is nothing you can do.

You feel your weakened resolve as it begins to crumble, and you succumb into apathy.

It’s then, in that quiet moment that you make the decision not to give up, you realize that it is the wall that will come down.

It must.

A brick is pushed loose and the entire peak comes crashing down in a heap of dusty rubble.

And when the dust clears, you stand, straighten your shoulders, and you keep on running.

Moments that matter

Pin It There are moments.

Moments that occur in our lives which can define us.

It is through these little instances that our lives become intertwined with others, where we mix the colors of our life sketches together for short or extended periods with those which may or may not be family members. It is in these small, perhaps seemingly insignificant moments that we mold ourselves—or even those around us—into the type of individuals we will all one day become.

These are the moments which matter.

I switched on my computer this afternoon and logged into my Facebook account—I wanted to check the activity on the site when I noticed that an old student and boy I’d mentored several years ago had tagged me in a photo. I clicked on the link and was a bit surprised when I was greeted with this image:


I scanned the photo and started to read over the descriptions; as I moved the mouse over the picture, I noticed that names would pop up—squares which had been tagged by people, as friends or acquaintances of theirs who’d fit the description of said box.

When I scrolled over one of the boxes a name popped up I recognized.


The name was mine.

I sat, staring at the screen for several moments in bewildered silence.

I was speechless.

I hadn’t seen the young man who’d done the tagging of this particular image for quite some time; but I thought of many of the experiences we’d had in the mentoring program over the years—all of the good times—as well as the struggles and hardships over the five years I’d worked with him as a young boy growing into adolescence.

I have not been his mentor for a few years now. I have not been his teacher for even more of those years—yet there was something I did which made a difference, something he still remembers.

I am still speechless.

I am reminded of what I said a while ago when someone asked me what my future goals were in regards to my life; to this I responded: I plan to one day take the ultimate photograph, to have a student come back after graduating high school because I made a difference in his or her life, to see each kid in my class feel a sense of belonging, and to get up each morning with a smile on my face and project that into the lives of those around me.

These are the moments…

The space between

Pin It There is a space.

A place where asphalt meets concrete; you’ve seen this space before I’m sure. Oftentimes, this is the area where new life tries to push forth, eager shoots feeling their way toward the sunlight from narrow crevices in the tarmac jungles of the city.

Each day I pass by the assorted weeds sprouting through the narrow cracks without so much as a second glance—after all, they’re simply weeds: Dandelion shoots, grass tendrils, and wild morning glory; all growing noxiously through the fissure—soon to feel the sweltering heat of the sun as the summer moves in with its searing temperatures. Some of them will survive the intense heat while others will simply expire, leaving behind lifeless remains to be blown away by the wind.

As I passed on one particular morning, I happened to notice something different growing there—it was a sapling; the small seedling of a Locust with its miniature twig-like branches reaching upward to the sunlight, nestled in amongst the weeds.

I passed over this small plant and went about my day, but it was on my mind; in fact, for the next few days I thought about it—and looked at it every time I passed. I knew it would die where it was. After all, it was growing in a zone where it would be cut down, run down, stepped on, or crushed. At such a young size I knew that I could probably pull it up; its chances were much better with my doing this than leaving it to fend for itself in a position of such precariousness where the inevitable result would be fatality.

I waited a few days, until after we’d had a rainstorm. On my way out to my car I paused to examine this small plant. I took it firmly by the stem—one day to be the trunk—and gently pulled.

The roots held determinedly to the packed earth in the fracture where asphalt and cement united together. I didn’t relent, but instead kept steady pressure; suddenly I felt the plant come way quickly. However, that’s when I noticed that I’d snapped the taproot.

I was worried that I’d killed it.

I brought it home and put it in a container of water in the sunny kitchen windowsill and checked it each day. At first there was no change; then it began to look sickly. A few of the little twigs wilted, browned, and fell away.

I was now positive that I’d destroyed it.

I had to remind myself that it was doomed where it was growing—it would only have been a matter of time before a school bus or other vehicle would have crushed it—there was a much greater possibility that it would survive with what I’d done.

I would wait.

After a few weeks, I saw that it was starting to sprout new shoots; tiny roots were also starting to emerge from the whitish base.

It was starting to adapt.

It was going to make it.

After a few more days it the roots were much longer, and even more branches had begun to develop.

It was healthy.

It had survived.

The day of grandeur came two days ago when I took my small friend out to a place away from oncoming cars and the feet of small children; to a place where it will have plenty of room to grow.

I planted it in the rich, warm soil.

It now has wide-open spaces, far away from that small crack where it once found itself; forced to grow—and before summer’s end—would die.

I think of the times in my own life when I am content to let myself survive day to day in a small crack in the ground; a place where life does not thrive and will one day be doused. Sometimes, it takes a lot of courage to move yourself from this little chink in the asphalt to the wide open space where the fields of possibility become yours. At times this move may hurt, old branches may wither away, but new branches will eventually grow to take their place.

Let us not be content with the space between.

Let it rain

Pin It My head is full of reflections tonight; these tumble about in my head like the crystalline rushing of a mountain stream over a bed of smoothly-worn stones of thought.

I’ve come to realize just that life is much too short to live in apprehension, cowering with the fear of rejection, and listening to the whining of that little incessant voice in the back of our minds which whispers, “You just can’t do it.”

Who’s to stop me?

Probably just me, after all, I’ve done it numerous times before. I’m good at it too…too good to be exact.

The waters rush on as I stare at my computer screen tonight. As I do, I realize that there will be so much more to consider in the waters, what with the oncoming of the rain in the distant mountains.

Luckily, I do have an umbrella.

Let it rain.

Success

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A friend and I went to this oriental restaurant this last week and this was my fortune. I guess I just need to make some plans now, right?