Balance

Ari's skeleton book report.

Early this morning, a mom dragged her two children out of bed to be at violin lessons by seven.  The eight-year-old boy was so determined and so focused during his lesson.  As his teacher, I was proud.  At past lessons, I had seen shame on his face when he played something wrong, and I had tried to eradicate that feeling from our time together.  After the lesson, his mom confided in me that he is struggling in school.  She showed me his workbook, with lengthy notes scrawled on every page by the teacher.  "Juan isn't listening.  Juan needs to focus more.  Juan didn't finish his work.  Juan is too wiggly.  He never finishes anything.  He needs to do better."  His poor mother!  Her son struggles with ADD, and she is at a loss.  I told her, "Juan is smart.  Juan is good.  I love Juan."  Her eyes filled with tears and she said, "You see?  You know?  Thank you!"  As if it were a gift to her that someone could see her son's intelligence and spirit.  And it is a gift.  It is a gift that every teacher has to give every student in some way.  Last year, I felt like Juan's mom with Freestone.  Every day at school was full of negative reinforcement and the message, "You're not doing enough.  You don't listen.  You're bad."  Turns out, Freestone is a great student and a fabulous reader, and his grades were almost perfect.  Why did he and I have to feel like such miserable failures, even as he succeeded?  There is enormous pressure not to be the kid whose homework packet is unfinished, or worse, left home on the kitchen table.  It seems like everyone else is doing everything perfectly, all the time, and both the kids and parents are afraid to drop even one ball for fear they will all come crashing down.

Last night at ballet, my dancers choreographed and performed a Halloween dance in groups.  As they danced their creations, the infinite worth of each girl just overwhelmed me.  I could see the light that is in each one of them, and I understood for one moment that I have stewardship over that light when I teach them.  My primary responsibility is to keep that light alive, not to force a perfect tendu from each girl or make them feel in any way inadequate.  These are small children who are working very, very hard.

I love that my kids have homework and practicing, and I want to help them push and learn and achieve and do a good job.  At some point, though, I have to take a step back from the constant drive forward and tell them the simple truth:  "You are good.  You are smart.  Your worth can't be measured in worksheets and can't be diminished by missed spelling words, wrong answers or bad scores."  Those things are superfluous to what really matters, which might just be gathering acorns with your brother and using the cheese grater to turn them into dust while your homework sits neglected.

This morning when I got home from teaching, and from my conversation with Juan's mom, my children somehow looked more fragile and innocent, just like Juan, whose teacher had labeled him "bad."  Here were these small people, fixing themselves breakfast, getting their things ready, worrying about being prepared.  I sat down to practice with Freestone and his eyes were sad.  The task seemed too overwhelming.  After a crazy internal battle (Am I ruining music for him by pushing him?  Yeah, but am I spoiling him if I let him off the hook?  Am I being mean or am I teaching discipline by demanding results?), I put the violin away and washed away his sad and worried eyes with a hug.  I told him, "Violin is a fun thing I like to do with you.  You're really good at it.  If we're not having fun, we'll just put it away.  OK?"  His relief was palpable, and he smiled.

Tomorrow I'll be the demanding mom who insists on 100% practicing and homework completion.  But today?  I think we might just have time for some acorn gathering.