He's Making Stilts

At 7:30 AM, I'm drinking coffee at the breakfast table and attempting to grade papers.  Our neighbor (the one who stops by occasionally and says, "I should probably stay for dinner") comes in.  He's the type of 9-year-old who carries a little cage with him in case he finds critters.  When we walk in the woods, he's equipped with nets, cages, wading boots, and all his fishing gear.  He's prepared indeed. 

He is, after all, a Scout. 

He has a zeal for living I wish I could bottle.  He approaches the breakfast table and pulls out an order form for popcorn.  He's a Boy Scout (Not yet, he tells me.  He's still at the Webelos level.  He's a Cub Scout eagerly preparing to be a Boy Scout), and he's selling popcorn as a fundraiser.

At 7:30 AM.

I'm not surprised at his early morning sales pitch.  He's an entrepreneur if I've ever seen one.  His lemonade stand grossed a fortune in July. 

As he folds the order form neatly, he says, "I'm going to earn a new badge for building with wood."  He pauses, creating anticipation.

"What are you going to make?"  I ask. 

"Stilts!"  

He confirms that he's already very skilled in stilt walking. 

Stilts:  those wooded structures that we attach to our legs to walk high about the ground. I read later that shepherds in France, mounted on stilts, could do extraordinary things--walk through the rivers, run across dangerous marshes, and forge trails otherwise blocked by thick brush.

The stilts make a way through the wilderness.  And at that height, stilt-walkers see with a new perspective. And this little boy knows the places he can go with them strapped to his legs. 

I want stilts.  I want to be a stilt-walker through this day:  rising above obstacles, forging trails.  There's no path cleared in this territory.  It's a life of faith, and I need my stilts.  I mount up by faith, I see the blocked path, and I walk on.


(Photo:  "The Stilt Walker of Landes," Sylvain Dornon)

I'm Taking You with Me

This morning, I dread that one student who looks me in the eye and says, "I just don't care."  He's required to take this class to graduate, and so far nothing interests him.  Not even short stories.  Not even poems.  Not even semicolons. He actually responds to a question I have about a story with, "I really just don't care." 

You could hear a piece of chalk drop from my hand and roll back towards the chalkboard. 

It happens every semester.  Some students just don't care.  And I can't make them.  I can just showcase the wonder of the subject matter and pray that they connect.

And I can bring donuts.  This is my secret weapon. 

So this morning, I burst into the classroom bearing treats.  It's going to be a great class.  I'm going to inspire!  I'm going to make that student fall in love with poetry!  I'm going to fight apathy! 

And that student doesn't show up to class.  I deflate and wilt at my desk. 

My secret weapon mission fails.

I'll try again on Friday.  I'll have a new strategy that might involve Starbucks.  

Whatever it takes to get students enthused, I have to try.  There's so much to experience; there's so much to learn and do.  I can't handle apathy because I've lived in that land.  It's a partial death. 

Generating enthusiasm means I continue the pursuit of that one person who doesn't care.  With indifference, lack of emotion, and lack of concern ruling the day, nobody moves.  Nothing changes.  We ignore others and lose the passion in our own lives. I can't go back there.  And I'm going to drag students, family members, neighbors, and friends with me back toward the light. 

If I have to tempt you with treats, I will. 

Living with flair means we fight apathy with whatever weapon we can.

Bravo!

I've been known to applaud students right in the middle of class if they say something something great.  I've been known to cry "Bravo!" and actually rise to my feet.

When I grade papers, I write "Bravo!" in the margins when I see flair in any form.

Why that word?  The word bravo derives from the Italian word meaning brave.  Originating from 18th century Italian opera, the word isn't as common as it once was.

But it should be. 

We cry out to celebrate after a strong performance because we recognize something great.  What did we see?  I wondered this morning if that "something great" relates to acts of bravery that we recognize and respond to.

Every great act requires bravery.  What fear, what challenge, what opposition did we rise up against to do this thing we are doing?  For some of us, waking up and making it to the bathroom is a courageous act.

I imagine a chorus of invisible witnesses who cheer us on in our daily toil.  The excellent performances of simple folks who rise up against whatever enemy deserve our applause.  I rise to my feet; I clap my hands for you.  "Bravo!  You are brave!  You are brave today, and we recognize it."

Bravo!