Category Archives: Humble Gifts

Each year, the gifts I have to spend time really contemplating, are those that I send to people I don’t know. Family is easy. Children are quick to hand you lists. Your spouse and close relatives are around enough that you know their personal interests, needs or desires too. But strangers. Well, that takes some thinking.

When I had a business and I could slip a donation into the budget, I always sent a cow for Christmas to someone from a third world country. I have a special affinity for Heifer Corp, because it doesn’t send food to starving people. It sends the means to correct the problem of starvation. Self-sufficiency is the greatest gift you can bestow, in my opinion. It gives people so much more than a finite thing like a box of food -it offers a chance to restore pride, security, and a future. But a cow is a big-ticket item and when my donations had to come from our now limited household budget, I had to scale back a bit. Actually, it was always a bit of an issue when I sent the cow from the business, because we operated under a very tight budget, and my Dad, our financial manager, would always throw up his hands and say, “You bought another cow? Stop trying to save the world with livestock!”  He would harass me for it endlessly, but that never deterred me. I bought cows. Everyone accepted that as one of those quirks in my personality.

Anyway, last year, for Christmas, I sent a goat instead of a cow because that was something we could afford. I had purchased a pet goat for our own family, so I thought it would be nice to imagine a goat in someone’s yard a half a world away. Little did I know then how annoying our goat would be. I can only hope that my goat gift fit the family that received it more than a goat fit ours.

What would be meaningful this year? I could have sent a llama for $120, which is in the range of what I spend, but llamas are used as pack animals, and while I know they enhance the recipient’s life, somehow that doesn’t seem as vital as animals that nourish a family. So, this year, I sent a flock of chickens. This way, when I visit our chickens each day, I will be reminded of those less fortunate, whom, hopefully, are living a slightly better life because of my gift. Then, since a flock of chickens are only 20 dollars (about the same as they are in America – go figure) I bought a tree. Now I know a tree isn’t something you can eat, and it is sort of a weird gift. And expensive. A tree planted in a dry third world country (to help soil erosion and to bring life to ravaged soil) is 60 dollars. But as I thought of all the trees Mark brought down and burned in this half of the world, I thought it appropriate to replace at least one on this earth in a place where it is really needed. I certainly have enough trees surrounding me to remind me of the tree far away that is shading someone needy because of us, holding the earth in place and inviting worms to join it to begin the long slow process of healing the land. I had a remaining 20.00 to spend, so I allocated that to a share of a llama for a needy family. I guess I just bought the ears or something. Nevertheless, I will look at Dalai and think of my part in sending a pair of llama ears half a world away too.  In my small way, I’ve made a dent in the problems of the world. Wish it could be more.

 I sent money to my new friend, Meaza, in Ethiopia too. Lord, I hope that makes her smile. Her sad little picture drives me crazy. I’ve yet to write her a greeting. Perhaps I’ll do that today. I’ll send her pictures of our family with our animals. She can relate to that. Um.. I’ll skip our tree pictures. Might shock her considering the ugly American extravagance. I think of that a lot, you know – the discrepancies with human existence. It’s a disturbing reality.

Anyway, those were a few of my gifts for strangers. There were others, but nothing interesting enough to mention. I made something for a few of our ex-students, those that have shown independence and an endearing respect for us, but I won’t mention it because they may not have opened the package yet. In fact, two haven’t been sent ,so I know they aren’t opened. It was just a token. Wish I could send a thousand of those. . . so many children (of several generations) that I love and miss, remembered with such fondness . . .they are all still dancing in my heart.

I have to go. I am making soup. The cold is finally creeping in . . .

The “What should I get Kathy for Christmas” dilemma has been solved. I’m giving her a smile. Literally.

I think I mentioned a few months ago that she found a dental assistant who makes false teeth out of his basement for people who cannot afford a regular dentist. I guess he uses his boss’s office supplies on the sly, sends the impressions out to be processed under the business name or something. For all that his actions may not be on the up and up, I can’t help but think he is offering a very important service to people who desperately need it, so I think this guy is a hero – one with a shadow, of course, but a hero nevertheless. (Moral justification, I know, but sometimes we must break a rule to do what feels right.)

Anyway, two months ago, Kathy paid to have her remaining five teeth removed. It cost her $60 a tooth, which was quite an undertaking on her budget. She then put $100.00 down on this set of false teeth. She was to pay $200.00 when the new teeth arrived eight weeks later. She had a plan for saving the money. She was so proud.

Kathy’s lack of teeth has been a serious obstacle to teaching her to read, because she can’t sound out words correctly when she is attempting to spell them. For example “Jumped” sounds like “Jumpt” to her, or “Bring” sounds like “Breen.” She can’t say the words clearly aloud, thinking about how they are actually pronounced, so she is often off the mark when trying to write them. Watching the learning process and seeing her mistakes on paper makes it clear that diction and poor speech is part of the problem, at least part of the problem of fixing the bigger problem of being illiterate.  

I have been anxious for Kathy to get her new teeth, because not only she will look great and it will improve her self-esteem, but because I anticipate this will helping us tackle her understanding of words. She was due to get the dentures this week, so Tuesday, I asked if she was excited.

She sort of shrugged and said, “Well . . . I canceled the appointment. With Christmas and all, I really can’t afford them now.  I had to buy presents for my son, and I also bought for my brother’s son, because he has been out of work for two months. I spent the teeth money I saved, but that is OK. I’ll get them a few months after Christmas.

This doesn’t surprise me at all. What woman doesn’t put her needs behind those of the family?

I looked at her, smiling at me good-natured, filled with good intentions, and said, “Kathy, Please make the appointment again. I want to buy you the teeth. Let me do that for you for Christmas. I’ve been trying to think of a nice gift for you, but so far nothing seems right. I wanted to give you a gift certificate to a store you might like, but I knew you’d use it for the family, and really, I wanted something just for you. This is perfect. Let me pay off your teeth as my Christmas present.”

She blinked a minute, then burst into tears and sort of collapsed into my arms saying, “You have already done so much.”

I was humbled. I haven’t really done so much – for all that I have given her my time, it has been rewarding to me too on so many personal levels. Her appreciation was very sweet, but I was also a bit embarrassed. Her reaction was far more than I was expecting. The truth is, I’ve thought about buying those teeth from the very beginning, but I didn’t want our relationship to be about me giving her money – I wanted to keep our friendship authentic, based on caring – and I wanted to help her learn to help herself rather than step in like some kind of savoir gracious enough to do things for her (which implies she can’t do them for herself). It has actually been very difficult NOT to offer her money for the teeth. However, in that moment, with Christmas as an excuse, it just seemed natural. Nothing but a thoughtful gift between friends

She cried through half the lesson, holding my hand as she struggled to read the ads in people magazine that I was pointing to. (Funny thing – she has never heard of a Target and her commentary about the antics of stars is remarkably honest. Amazing how silly the world looks when seen through the eyes of someone who has not been conditioned or swayed by commercialism and what is in vogue. That has been interesting.)

In order to downplay the moment, I pointed out that my gift wasn’t so generous, because it was also for me. I knew that her getting teeth would make my job much easier. She flashed me a great toothless smile and said, “If you say so”. I tried to secure that image into my mind, because soon Kathy’s expression will be replaced with a different sort of smile. Both have endearing qualities, in their own way.

This morning, I was putting Neva’s hair up in pigtails for school and she was asking me if I was meeting with Kathy today. She follows my teaching progress and has taken a great interest in Kathy’s learning to read. I’m thrilled by that – I believe we teach our children by example foremost. Anyway, I said that I was meeting Kathy today for the last time until Christmas break was over and that I was going to give her my Christmas gift.

Neva asked what I got her.

I said, “I’m buying her teeth.”

Her face fell. She said, “Mom. How could you? That is insulting. You will hurt her feelings.”

I explained that the teeth were not my idea, but that Kathy had been struggling to get them herself. I was only helping her reach her goals. Neva seemed greatly relieved.

Kids are so sensitive and see things with such clarity. It is inspirational.

Anyway, I am giving Kathy a smile this Christmas. It always feels great when you find just the right present for a friend.

On to the others on my list.  

Yesterday, my lesson went fabulously with Kathy.

Excuse me for sounding conceited, but I think I am the second best teacher I know.

The first is, hands down, my husband. He can teach anyone anything with such insight and patience it never ceases to amaze me. For example, we took an evening class on sculpted bead making and the next week he decided to share the fun with the family. His lesson was ten times better and more thorough than the original.  I learned so much more than I did from the “professional” bead maker. And I thought, “Hey, what the heck? I was with you when you were introduced to this subject, and I heard and tried everything you heard and tried that night, so how is it you know so much about the subject now and can relate the information so well now?????”

He had done some additional research on the internet and mulled the craft over in his mind, but mostly, he has this innate instinct about visual things. And he relates information in such a logical way, using a building block system to lay a foundation of understanding, that it assures his instruction is not only understood, but can and will be applied by any willing student. It’s amazing. He is like one of those computers that teach itself as it goes – his capacity for understanding things by trial and experiment, rather than amassing information by traditional instruction, is almost eerie.

He did it with dance. I had far more experience and formal education in the art, but I always knew he was a better teacher, technically. He could see a body moving through space and it was as if his mind’s eye removed the epidermis so he could visualize the spine and musculature. He could watch a person dance and he immediately knew what was missing– everything that was out of alignment or lacking in the student was obvious to him. He knew how to fix it too – how to impart the necessary information and/or develop exercises to address the weaknesses. He never taught what he’d been taught as a student dancer, for that road was cumbersome and slow. He was innovative in developing a new approach to the universal problem of teaching dance to people, even though they are often somewhat resistant. Always impressed me- his wisdom and insight and CONFIDENCE in his own methods. Others didn’t trust his authority because they needed “credentials” to trust what he taught. But I happened to have those credentials, and I was blown away by his gift. People trusted me because of my background and experience. But I trusted him, and most of what I learned in dance, I can honestly say, I learned from him.

Anyway, his ability to teach anything is remarkable. I watch him teaching Kent to drive now and I can’t help but be impressed. I’ll be freaking out, but he has this unnerving confidence and faith in the kid as the car plows towards the nearest mailbox . . . and in a smooth voice Mark makes corrections and explains WHY Kent needs to incorporate certain considerations when driving. And I watch the improvement in a flash and think, “Wow, he’s good.” (Mark, not Kent – Kent still tends to sway towards the mailboxes when he practices.)

Mark took up wood working with logs only a year and a half ago, but he is now teaching new techniques to the carpenters working on our house (who have been working on rustic interior finish work for most of their lives) and they hang on his every word. He has been asked to help our builder on his next spec house too, because the builder insists he has never met anyone who can conceive of the things Mark can, and then get the workers to understand it and follow through. It is easy to be creative, but hard to make that creativity take solid shape.

Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yea, teaching. My husband is a remarkable teacher – but I think I am good too. At least yesterday, working with Kathy, I felt like a good teacher.

I had planned a cooking lesson. I figured, since Kathy couldn’t read and she lives a rather oppressed life, her cooking skills (and materials) might be limited, so I packed up a pretty, red box filled with everything she needs. I bought all the ingredients (flour, baking soda, sugar, brown sugar, chocolate chips, nuts, etc) and a measuring cup and measuring spoons and said it was her “let’s celebrate your progress” gift. I also bought Kathy a blender and a good cookie sheet, just in case. She told me she didn’t have any of the above and was delighted to be given these wonderful kitchen things. Now, to me, a wonderful kitchen thing is a 400-dollar state of the art standing mixer. The idea that this woman has deep appreciation for my 9-dollar hand mixer is humbling to say the least.

I had bought her a cooking magazine too, filled with recipes to browse through later. I was hoping this project would inspire her to practice more on her own and I wanted us to practice reading during this lesson in that thematic vein. I didn’t want her to memorize the recipe we were working on and fake it later– I wanted her to transfer the knowledge and prove she “got it” when she turned the pages of the magazine and saw other recipes she could read too.

The hardest thing about teaching someone to read (who speaks English as a first language), is that you have certain assumptions – you think everyone in America has shared basic knowledge. But a non-reader has been living in a prison of darkness that stretches far beyond her inability to read books. So, without being condescending, I must always approach things with an attitude that my student is clueless about how the world works. And sadly enough, more often than not, I am right.

I began by explaining how recipes work, showing her that the ingredients are listed first as a sort of shopping list. This lets you know if you have all the ingredients on hand. Kathy smiled and said, “Gee it’s nice that they do that for you.”

“Yes, they try to make things convenient . . .” I said, just then realizing it was true.

I pointed out that the second part of the information is the actual instructions to cook the item at hand. I showed her how almost all products you purchase today have recipes on the back. There is a cookie recipe on the back of the package of chips, and a peach crisp recipe on the back of the brown sugar package, and a recipe for biscuits on the back of the flour package, etc…. She thought this fascinating and asked why they bothered to print all that. This lead into a nice discussion of marketing and how companies work to sell a product – but it also made me suddenly aware of all those recipes I come across in my daily life that I tune out. I don’t pay attention to all that writing on the packaging because, as a reader, I am inundated with information in a given day. I fail to notice what is often before my eyes. When you become aware of that truth, you can’t stop noticing everything around you. Like when you buy a new car, and suddenly you swear everybody in town is driving that brand because you are noticing it for the first time.

We spent a long time going over the recipe, working on the words I knew she would struggle with, such as “Vanilla”, or “Blending” or “Granulated”.

Kathy has never cooked anything that requires a recipe. She makes scrambled eggs or fried steak. She heats up frozen dinners. She has never made a baked good from scratch because that requires “detail” that she can’t presume to guess. I had to walk her through the process of baking – such as blending all the dry ingredients first in a separate bowl, then creaming butter and sugar in a different bowl, then adding eggs one at the time. I had to talk about volume and consistency, etc… And as I did, I was vividly aware once again, of all the things I take for granted that I can do, but that a non-reader can’t. She has never used a measuring spoon or cup so I had to explain how that works. We went through the recipe and I had her point to what spoon was used for “½ tsp”, and what line on the cup denoted ¾ cup. And she struggled with it, because this was all new information to her, and her mind is being stuffed full with so many new things she can’t keep it all straight.

I explained that this lesson was not a cooking lesson – but a reading lesson. I really couldn’t care less how the cookies turn out, but I think it is important we see if she can pull the project off on her own – because practical application of her reading skills is mandatory for ongoing success. And if she likes cooking, she can try other recipes (with Thanksgiving and Christmas around the corner, there is plenty to aspire to) Cooking will keep her working on learning new words. It invites natural practice, you see, because her sitting down to struggle over a golden book everyday might lose it’s appeal. That kind of practice is cumbersome and easier to put off. .  .

I reminded her that I know she is smart and therefore, she can follow directions. If her husband or son helps her by reading the recipe, the value of this endeavor will be lost. She promised me she would make the cookies while she was home alone. Making these cookies is a bit intimidating for her, because it’s more complicated than you realize, but she needs things to do, and the challenge of making cookies like the rest of the world will feel like a great accomplishment. She sees examples of things like this on TV and feels badly about herself, as if the whole world has been invited to a party and she can’t join in. Now, hopefully, she will be like “normal” people.

Kathy said she prays the cookies will come out good, because she is invited to lunch with a counselor from court, and she would love to bring a few cookies as a gift, proof of her progress. I pointed out again what spoon to use for the baking soda (the culprit I’ll blame if her cookies bomb.) She stared at that spoon intently and said, “I’ll remember”.

Ha. That’s my girl!

So, today, Kathy is be home cooking. I am sending her good wishes from afar.

I keep thinking about that lesson – it reminds me to be grateful for basic skills, such as knowing my way around a kitchen without a second thought. I pulled out my sugar bowl this morning and thought of Kathy struggling to measure out 3/4 cup for the first time in her life. . . I guess I’ll never make cookies again without the image of this woman coming to mind. I’ll always wonder if today’s batch of cookies is the first in a long life of cookie baking, or the one and only because, the lesson failed to accomplish what I dreamed it might. . .

I am doing a lot to enhance Kathy’s life, but honest to God, she is enhancing mine in the most poignant ways at the same time. You get out of the world exactly what you put into it.  God’s ultimate balance. I trust it.

But this counts for cookies too. You get out of them exactly what you put in – Gee wiz, I hope Kathy doesn’t screw up the balance and overload the baking soda!

 I had a fascinating lesson with Kathy this week.

She has learned to read three letter words and many four-letter words, but still has difficulty with five letter words and up. The longer words involve rules that are harder for her to remember, such as when you add an E to the end of a word, it changes the vowel sound to a long sound. You also have all those pesky blends like Ch, Th, Br, etc . . .  that make an entirely new sound complicating the task.

Anyway, she is reading some easy children’s books now. I brought a newspaper to our lesson last Thursday see if we could use it in anyway, thinking its content would be less condescending than children’s books. As I lay it out on the table in front of her, it occurred to me that not only has she never read a newspaper, but it’s likely she has no idea what is inside. I asked her if she knew what was included in a newspaper, and she replied “News?” 

“Well, yes, but it isn’t quite as generic as that,” I explained. So, we went through the paper, page by page, as I pointed out what was inside. I explained how the Atlanta paper had national coverage, but our small local paper, published two days a week, was concerned with our community only. That happened to be the paper I was introducing to her Thursday.

We discussed the first page news, such as the fact that the mayor has been arrested three times for cockfights and people think it is time to give him more than a small fine. She had heard of this and nodded as if this was hardly news to her. There are yellow ribbons all around town, and another article explained that one of our local boys died in Iraq this week and his body was being shipped home for the funeral. On Sunday, they asked people to show their respects and line the streets when the hearse arrived. That was news to us both – we both wondered about the ribbons we’d seen along the road as we drove to the lesson. In that moment I think we both made plans to stand outside at 5:00 on Sunday.

Then we went to the second page and I showed her the section where all arrests are listed. Her eyebrows lifted and she said, “Does that mean my name was in the paper?”

I explained that, “Yes, she was probably listed.” This is why her son’s teacher and others knew what had happened even though she hoped no one would know. She was shocked. Embarrassed. She had no idea that kind of information was made public. She looked over the arrest names a bit sheepishly. I wondered if she was looking for people she might know, so I pointed out that she could check it once in a while to see how people she knows from her court appointed meetings are doing. If she read this section, she would know if friends or acquaintances slipped up and went off the wagon. She nodded sadly. 

We went on to the Editorial page and I described how people write letters to pronounce their opinion on things happening in the community. We read a few of the heated letters. She had no idea that there was a public forum for people to vent. She was delighted to learn of it.

I showed her the obituaries. She didn’t know there was a place where those that passed away were honored. She thought that was nice. I turned to the community events page and we reviewed how she could find out about all the nice things happening in the area that she might want to attend, such as the Christmas Bell Ringers concert or lectures or the 2.00 pancake breakfast the Shriners are holding this weekend. I also pointed out that civil services are listed, such as the empty stocking program where children from disadvantaged families can sign up and get Christmas presents. She said once a friend signed her son up for that, but she had no idea where to get information for those kinds of things normally. Now, she does.

We even reviewed the TV and movie listings, and the adds for the local grocery stores to compare prices and see what stores had a “buy one, get one free” deal this week, which revealed where she could shop for the best bargain. We saw what animals are up for adoption at the local animal rescue and reviewed the want ads. She was amazed to see so many listings for employment and the listing of things for sale. She remarked that, “those want ads sure make it easy for someone to find a job or something they want to buy second hand.”

I grinned and said, “Yes, Kathy. Life can be much easier when you just know how to maneuver through the system. Reading takes the work out of lots of things because information and communication is so important for understanding the world around you and all it offers.”

She looked at the paper pensively and said, “I can’t wait ’till I can read this.”

I nodded casually, but inside I was screaming a big, fat, yippee!

Since meeting Kathy, I can’t make a recipe, or read a poster about an upcoming concert that I don’t consider how non-readers miss out. And doing things like putting our Chicken Nesting boxes together this weekend – with directions that were furiously complicated -make me wonder how non-readers function at all.

Kathy followed along as we perused the paper, amazed and impressed with all the information packed inside. She said, “I thought there was just news in these things.”

I pointed out that news includes more than the obvious events, like a bank getting robbed. It includes community services, events and information too.

She took the paper with her and planned to read it on her own to see if she could make out what each section was later, when I wasn’t around to explain it for her. She can’t read it all yet, but she might be able to get an idea of the columns, even with her limited reading vocabulary. She was very interested in learning how to use the paper to her advantage. It made my day.

I was excited, because I know that Kathy isn’t going to learn to read and start picking up Hemmingway in her spare moments. The goal is to teach her to be self-sufficient and to improve the quality of her life, and learning her way around a newspaper brings us closer to that end.

What was best about it all was I had an opportunity, once again, to look at something I take for granted, in this case the newspaper, and see it through fresh eyes. I really never considered how valuable a paper is before. A newspaper, to me, is a disposable thing and I barely pay attention to what is inside, other than to browse through casually. I go to whatever section I think has information I need and ignore the rest.  But a newspaper is a marvel because it has SO MUCH information and it is published every single day (well, most papers) and it is inexpensive and easy to attain. What an amazing service for mankind.  

I think feeling gratitude for our life is one of the keys to feeling content. I may be the one volunteering to help Kathy read, but it is clear everyday that I am benefiting as much as she is from the effort.  Life has subtle, yet special, gifts to offer us, if we take the time to recognize them.

Anyway, I am feeling grateful today. For newspapers . . .  and people like Kathy.     

Finishing what I started this morning . . .

I got my new sponsored child today. Her name is Meaza Zergaw and she is  from Meki town at the Southern Shewa region of Ethiopia. She was born October 5, 2001. Both parents are alive and live together. Her mother is a housewife and her father a day laborer. The family earns 400 a year. They come from the Guraghe ethnic group and they follow orthodox Christian religion. Meaza is in kindergarten and likes counting numbers and reading alphabets, doing errands and loves playing with toys (what 5 year old doesn’t.) That about covers the biography they sent me.

Now, for her picture. This is a beautiful little girl with delicate features and light toffee skin. Her eyes are deep brown, earnest, but her expression is horribly grim. This looks more like a mug shot than a picture of a healthy 5 year old. Considering how sad the picture appeared of the boy they sent me, I wonder if they purposely discourage smiles so potential sponsors feel more empathy for these children. Or maybe the long face is a cultural thing, or photography is frightening to young people who do not understand why they are asked to stand in the bright light. Then again, perhaps the photograph comes three minutes after a medical checkup and the participants were just given a shot or a douse of castor oil.  For one reason or another, taking a picture for the sponsor appears to be a dreaded endeavor.

Whatever – my goal now will be to get a picture of Meaza smiling. I happen to consider myself gifted at making young girls smile, only without dance as a medium to work with, I understand I am up to a challenge.   

I have her picture hanging on the wall by my computer next to my big, steel “It’s all good” sign. Her pitiful little face will remind me to be grateful for my life and all the good things in it. Only, when I look at it, I think I’ll imagine her smiling.  I like to believe, need to believe, all my distant friends are happy. 

   I have been sponsoring Muluken Midesko (a United Christian Children’s Fund participant) for over eleven years now. We exchange letters, and on his birthday and Christmas, I always send an additional 100.00 to enhance his quality of life. Instead of going into a general fund as the monthly sponsorship does to pay for food and education for the children of the community, this money goes to the family personally making it far more intimate gift.
     I think of Muluken often, wondering how different his life is from mine, hoping my small donations do indeed make a difference in his world. Our exchanges, limited as they are, have been fascinating as he asks questions about my world and I try to understand his. 

     It is obvious that the world’s problems are much bigger than any one person can solve, but I think it is vital every person does something to make a dent in the ongoing suffering. It never sits well with me that some people shrug and say, “What can little, old me do about it. The situation over there is awful, but I don’t have much money.”
    Meanwhile, they head out the door to their health club with a walkman and a bottle of water, wearing a pair of new Nike shoes (that for all we know, the Muluken’s of the world labored to make at age 4). The truth is, if we were to see these unfortunate individuals sitting outside our front door, we’d be outraged. We’d feel compassion and we’d take action. But distance allows us to disassociate from grief.  Stories of war ravaged children and starving families seem so far away, and, so storybook horrid, that it doesn’t seem real enough to address in a tangible way. But these atrocities are real, and with the communication vehicles we have today (periodicals, TV, internet, newspapers) the evidence of the world’s disadvantaged is undeniable.

     I am offended by people who have a “we have to take care of our own first,” mentality. Anyone walking on two legs is “one of our own” in my book. I hate all the excuses people make to avoid making even a small sacrifice in the name of humanity. And I don’t think much of people who only care for themselves and their immediate loved ones either. It is, quite plainly, self-serving. For all that one can argue a person is a very caring individual because they take care of friends and family and give a dollar to the Santa ringing the bell in front of Sears every December, I just don’t buy it. We get back something (emotionally) when we nurture “our own”. True compassion demands faith, putting forth effort for those that can’t give you anything back. Not love. Not appreciation. Not even a verbal thank-you.  

     I am on a tangent. Oops. Sorry. The point is, I like to think that one person half a world away is experiencing a better life because I cared. I can’t think of the 20 million people I can’t help, for that will drive me crazy. I just focus on  the one individual I do help. The fact is, sponsoring a child isn’t a big sacrifice. At 40 dollars a month, it involves forgoing one dinner out for people in our socio-economic group. It is actually such a small thing that I am, at times, ashamed I don’t do more.  I mean, I purchase the occasional goat or cow for Heifer International too, but still, I live a pretty cushy life and could do more if I were less selfish. My little monthly donation doesn’t absolve my guilt in letting other children in the world starve either.

     You can bet if our children were starving and we knew that far away others were flippantly spending enough on candy and cookies in one month, as it would take to sustain our near-death children for over a year, we wouldn’t be understanding about it. (Obviously, I think about this stuff a lot. I have this habit of putting myself in another’s shoes, even people who have no shoes, and it tortures me. It is a part of my nature that is difficult to live with.)

      Anyway, this week I got a letter stating I would no longer be sponsoring Muluken. He has “left the system.” His family has moved to another area where better opportunities are available. This notice left me feeling very disturbed. For one thing, I don’t altogether believe this explanation of his falling off the face of the earth so suddenly. Why don’t they tell me where he has gone, or notify me in advance so I can say good-bye? We have been fond acquaintances for many years, after all.

     I am guessing that Muluken turned eighteen and they are excusing him from the program as an adult, or maybe he’s gone off to get involved politically and become one of the individuals creating havoc in this sad country. Perhaps it is worse. Perhaps he died of disease or an accident. I really don’t know if the organization would be honest about these kinds of things, for their only concern is soliciting and maintaining funding. If people like me, comfortable, clueless Americans who appease their guilt by sending a little check once a month, get emotional or disturbed by the reality of what happens with these people, they may decide sponsoring a child is too emotionally disturbing. Some people are in it for the letters and the pictures of the child, after all. And if you feel badly because your little sponsored child hasn’t written a big, fat, letter of appreciation, you might bail.  

     The lack of closure regarding Muluken’s fate is really disturbing to me. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I wonder if he has questions about me. Perhaps he thinks I just stopped sending money. He has pictures of me. Letters. I have to be more than a check to him, and yet, if I was “more” why have I disappeared? If he is eighteen, he may be out of the system, and yet, I could have been given a chance to help him throughout his life. But perhaps that is beyond the mission statement of the organization. It is the United Christian Children’s fund, after all.  And if I were to help Muluken, the adult, it would mean a child somewhere was not getting a chance to be fed and educated and taught life skills with my small donation. Perhaps, my work with Muluken is done. Perhaps he is old enough and prepared enough to get a job and have a family of his own. He doesn’t need me anymore.  Others do.

      The annoying fact is, I don’t know what they told him. Not that I’m implying there is anything malicious about this organization. Only that I wonder if the system is set up to protect the best interest of the collective whole, at the cost of individual intimacy. While I understand the logic in this, it leaves me so unsettled.

      Out of the blue, I was sent a picture of a new, very young, solemn Ethiopian boy to replace Muluken, with a letter urging me to “save” him by continuing my support. A small notice in the letter said Muluken is “no longer my sponsored child”. Unbelievably, I declined. Oh, I didn’t decline helping, of course, only declined the particular child they assigned me without first asking my preference. Guild ridden over the fact that fate may have wanted me to support this particular stranger, I requested a female instead. The truth is, I believe the girls have it far worse than the boys in third world countries, and so, this time around, I’d like to make a personal difference in the life of a woman. I guess you could say, I relate better to the idea of a woman dealing with social expectations and the role of motherhood etc. with limited resources. I will receive the picture and history of my new sponsored girl-child next week.

     In the meantime, I will sip my coffee and stare out over the mountain wondering where Muluken is and what state of health he is in. I will ponder whether or not he kept my pictures or tossed them the day he got them and be curious about whether he has fond thoughts of me, or resentment, or perhaps feels nothing at all. Not that it makes a difference, really. But it would be interesting to know.

    I will begin sending money to a new child this month. I was told on the phone (when I made the change request and the computer spit out a new name for me) that the new child’s birthday is in October. I asked them to immediately take a withdrawal so I wouldn’t miss acknowledging it, and since there is a two-month lag between when a donation is made and when it is received, she will receive this personal “extra” with her Christmas money. It will be a windfall to this family, I’m sure. Since she is young (about 4), we won’t be writing for a few years. But I will send her pictures nevertheless and begin a correspondence just so she knows someone a half a world away is thinking about her. In most cases, it is the mother who you are talking to anyway, and that happens to be the person I worry about most  -the mothers who suffer the painful reality of raising a child without enough resources to do the job. We will be connected by the loosest of threads, at least until such time as the organization decides we are “finished” and they cut our string.

      Sponsoring a child probably makes a lot of people feel good about themselves. But I swear, it stirs up all kinds of conflicting emotions in me. Yet, I couldn’t stop over that. I am committed by nature of my personal morals.

     I’m not going out to dinner tonight, because that is the price of helping one person live better. It is how I will maintain an appetite through all the rest of my meals this month. I could do more, but I could do less. I think what’s most important is that I avoid thinking about the “less” and try to feel good about the “more”. And I must remember that if I can save only one person in a million, it isn’t so important which one. They all deserve help equally.  I must trust that the “one” fate thrusts in my path was put there for a reason. We are meant to be friends, even if it is only for a temporary period of time. 
      The fact is, friends come and go as life pushes us in different directions. But I know that the impact of a friendship

can last long after the active period. Relationships, despite how they fare in the long term, alter your world forever. 

I am always amazed, humbled, by how life experiences alter our world view. I’m not talking about the big, life altering events that impact us with a bang. Obviously things like death, marriage, childbirth, personal catastrophe, witnessing powerful images, experiencing fear, love, fluctuating income, vocation, etc…  will leave a mark our on psyche and shade our view of life. In this case, I’m talking about the subtle things, the tiny encounters and small nuisances that we barely notice, even though they resonate in our soul forevermore. As such, we grow. Evolve. Shift. Our personalities are always being enhanced or diminished, twisted or mellowed by things we see, do, read, or hear.

This is why I don’t feel aging is a drag. I don’t particularly like the wrinkles, but I love how living leads us by the hand to deeper knowledge – about the world and about ourselves. If you are the least bit reflective, you can’t avoid growth. Your soul ferments just by being exposed to living. It makes everyday a wonder, an adventure, and if you take the time to consider it, you begin approaching every hour curious to see how it will unfold. Truly, it’s the tiny things that shape our mind and feed us emotionally.

Details. Life is cluttered with details that collide and jam up our perspectives, until all we notice is generalizations and preconceived assumptions. I guess this is how we filter so much stimulus to remain functional. But, I’ve learned you can – must – note the details. Relish them. You just have to slow down to be receptive to new input. There is beauty everywhere; something to be grateful for in every situation. And people, situations – life in general – can be entertaining if you maintain a sense of humor and shed the tendency to criticize or judge. I am grateful for the hearty laughs I gain each day from unintentional sources. 

 Does anyone really – REALLY- understand everything you do and why, from what coffee drink you order and the tone in which you speak to the server, to what house you live in and who you live with? Does anyone outside of your head know all the millions of comments and events and triggers that made you think and feel and act as you do? Of course not. Yet people judge you without all this information at hand as if they can sum the essence of who you are by one action– which means they “get you” wrong. They may think you competitive or foolish or egotistical or heroic or dull or weak, or a sellout, or adventurous or loving or cruel. When in fact, their perceptions are more about how they feel in a situation and how your existence affects them, than based on any kind of understanding of how you are experiencing life and reacting to its stimulus.

And if others can “get you” wrong, it is only logical to assume so too can you be off the mark when you are critical of another person’s actions or choices. Considering you can’t ever know what life is like from another person’s viewpoint, wouldn’t it just be easier to stop holding them up to your benchmark of what is acceptable by your standards, or noble or admirable, and just witness the grand differences in people? Celebrate flaws. Give the world- the individual, a little slack. Assume the best for once.

Next time a guy cuts you in line to get his donut first, don’t think him a “dick”, feel sorry for him because he values a donut more than polite exchange and wonder where and why he learned that behavior. Interesting.  Perhaps he was donut deprived as a child, or this donut shop is the only place in his mixed up world where he can assert himself because his wife picks his donuts everywhere else. Perhaps his great grandfather invented the donut, and therefore he resents that he doesn’t get special treatment. Who knows why, in this one moment, he is behaving in non-admirable ways. It doesn’t define him. The guy could be remarkable in all areas unrelated to donuts.

There are too many people in the world. We are bound to clash, behave aggressively or competitively. We act out. It is the nature of the beast when cornered or poked at with a stick. Sad but true. Attitude is no one person’s fault. There are just too many people in the world for everyone to live in harmony and since we don’t live in a bubble, we are affected by situations, events, even each other, in ways that contort our personalities.

The trick is to know yourself, learn your triggers and try to live true to yourself and your personal ethics. And, of course, to lighten the load of others who may not be self-aware. Make the world a more pleasant place for the glut of people, even if it means stepping aside with a smile to give the donut aggressor his space. With understanding.

When you can get past the frustration and general big events that happen around you, perhaps you will begin to notice the less obvious details. Like the fact that the donut man is wearing mismatched socks (ah, he is running late today, no wonder he is acting rude,) or the face of the elderly woman behind him when she looks him up and down and snorts. Funny. 

What is my point? I’ve forgotten.  Something must have triggered this, but for the life of me, I don’t know what. Ha. I must have filtered out that detail. I did buy a donut this morning, but no one was rude. I think this began about small things making us change – altering our views.  That must be it. (My mind does ramble . . .)

I am in Boston, and while I am doing something I have done for over 9 years, I’m a different person than I was last year. Smarter. More content. Less physically flexible perhaps, and four pounds heavier still (yes, I’m still counting even though, without dance, it shouldn’t matter. Georgia makes me lazy, I think.) I feel somewhat wiser. Definitely more passionate about what I have to say (regarding dance education). But less committed to the need to say it. Curious about the young people choosing dance now, at the beginning of their long, interesting lives. Curious about the competitive dance environment and how newcomers will fare.  Fascinated by how the dance world is changing, molded, dented by technology, social change, communications, everything.  Proud of my part in impacting it. Relieved I can give up the endless quest to stay current and know everything – what everyone is doing in the field. And yet, I can’t give up old habits either as I listen to gossip about the leaders in the business, old comrades and friends. I still care about the changes taking place in the dance world. I wince and worry about the state of the art.

I have to resist my habit of storing all this information and ACTING on it.  My mind is awash with ideas, places I could take dance now.  I need to go home to my donkey and gentle breezes to shed this churning in my gut to get involved. For I know that I am different, not because I sold my dance empire and moved to Georgia (big things) but because I have experienced little things. I’ve looked a newborn horse in the eyes and run my hands along his fuzz of mane. I have cooed to a llama so he will stand still as I dig fingers into matted hair that an hour later will be laying at my feet. I now pick things – blueberries, blackberries, wildflowers, chickens, when previously, I didn’t have the time or inclination to devote any of my precious waking hours to leisurely explorations. I have paint in my hair, a small slash of tan that yesterday, made my eyes pop because at first I thought it was gray. Then I smiled, because I recognized that it was the color of the inside of my new writing room’s closet. I have a writing room! In it I will think foolish and great thoughts, write good and bad passages and sit staring out the window watching deer instead of focusing on my computer screen. And all of it will be good. Because I write not to achieve anything specifically – just to investigate what I think and feel (And that is probably the best evidence that I have changed of all.)

Yes, I’ve changed – but I wouldn’t say I’ve shed who I used to be. No, it is more as if I’ve crowded a new person into my skin. All these new experiences make a girl more complex. I am not different – I am more.    

Opportunity abounds here. Last night, a crew of dance teachers I’ve known for years (and admire) tried to talk me into teaching studio management seminars. They recently paid 1200 for a two day seminar (6000 attendees!) and were talked into a monthly $180 ongoing consultant fee by a new company that preaches they have the formula for dance school financial success. But everyone is of the opinion that Mark and I could do it better – and we wouldn’t be teaching this material theoretically. Our lives, our success, are proof of what we preach. They insisted they learned more over drinks at dinner with me than they did in the seminar. Interesting.

I couldn’t resist the bait. I called home and said, “Honey, want to get rich? We could do seminars. I have a handful of people ready to sign up – testimonials and all kinds of supporting evidence. I even have formulated an outline for presenting material. We could do this.”

He said, “Come home. Your llama misses you. Write a book.”

He is smarter than I.

I told a friend that what I missed most about my life change was the physicality of dancing everyday. I wish I had a studio on our property. Just for me. Just so I could put on music and let my soul loose.

My friend said, “Why don’t you build one?”

I laughed and said, “My husband won’t go for that. He doesn’t trust me with a viable dance space at my disposal. Thinks that once I have a resource, I am a sucker for the challenge of using it creatively. (He has me down pat.) As it is I’ve hinted at how great it would be for us to develop a serious summer dance camp for fledgling artists. We could build cabins on the grounds and a few studios. We have contacts with all the best teachers in the country. We’ve been organizing dance events for years, designing programs. As such, we could host the best dance camp around. It would be successful and we would only have to work two months a year instead of ten. We’d even be creating a wonderful gift for the dance world.

My friend said, “I have 25 kids I’ll commit right now to sending to you next summer.”
Someone else next to her in the limo said, “I have about 30 that would go.”

(I’m doing the math – hummmm…. great potential here for a reasonable investment.)
Tom, a very established teacher (and friend) on staff here said, “I’ll work for you – and spread the word. There is such a need for that kind of program . Sounds fantastic.”

So, I told my husband we had a clientele for my vision of a serious dance camp.

He said, “Talk like that and you can’t go to Boston anymore.”

Ha. The offhand things we hear set seeds that influence us. See? He knows this.

I told my husband that I want to write a book proposal for a nonfiction book called “The Million Dollar Dance Studio”. A book about studio management and the way to maneuver the minefield of dance education to find success, commercially and artistically. He was quiet and then said, “That would be a good book. Go for it, Hun.”

Wow. He didn’t tell me to go pluck a chicken! Must be that a book doesn’t sound threatening. A book can’t eat your life. It consumes you for a bit, but it’s a finite commitment, a project with an end. Or maybe he was distracted since he was talking to me on his cell phone and I could hear construction in the background.

Anyway, I keep contemplating the possibilities. But the fact that something is possible – viable – doesn’t mean it must be done. How important is it – to me? To the life I want to design?

I miss my donkey. I worry that no one is giving my horses carrots and sugar cubes in my absence and I mourn for all the blackberries that are drying up on vines because I am not home to gather the end of season leftovers. Between dance classes here, I pour over homework and read literary novels rather than contemplate choreography. But home, I can have all this and still write a book about dance. If I feel compelled to.

I got up yesterday and readied for my classes. I put on my funky black, nylon Capri pants and a black sports tank. Put on a sporty black sweatshirt and wore my tried and true black hoop earrings that I traditionally teach in. I laced up my state of the art Nike’s (the only pair of shoes I have that are not stained with red Georgia clay and horse dung) looked in the mirror and thought, I know you. You’re that dance teacher I used to be.

It was so familiar. Such a visual blast of comfortable identity. I just stared a few minutes, wondering why I don’t dress this way still – for blackberry picking or something. But I know why. This surface dressing is evidence of a different me- a me I’ve decided to put out to pasture – figuratively and literally. I get confused staring back at that old me. My identity crisis is hard enough without optical illusions muddying my clarity.

I will not talk about the feelings I’m experiencing when I watch my peers still meshed in the dance scene, unchanged, struggling, pushing forward as master dance teachers in a steadily changing field. The dance world ain’t what it used to be when we were students.

Thoughts cross my mind. Where are they going without me? Did I bail too early, leaving important things undone? Or am I just the first to turn a corner and venture into new horizons? Am I brave? Or tired? Or giving up? Or something else all together? Why am I changing while others I have worked with for years, people with equal talent, experience and passion, remain in the trenches? Are they happy? Am I?

I can relate to them, yet I can’t see life through their eyes. So, I won’t judge or evaluate or speculate or philosophize. But it does make me contemplate my inner changes. Embrace them. I am comfortable with the decisions I’ve made. I honestly believe there are big things I’m destined to do, and it involves closing one door so I can open another.  I met a teacher yesterday who is 87 and still teaching 12 hours a week in her dance school. She is fit. Happy. That could have been me. Odd, that it won’t be. I respect her, yet I am glad I won’t be her. Evolution suits me. But I don’t want to leave dance behind. I want to take it with me. I have to ask myself, How shall I do this?.

I’ve learned slow down and see the world through new eyes. Eyes that take in detail and find humor around every corner. Eyes that come from a place of self assurance and pride in my past – hope for my future. I notice things now because I have the time and the inclination to do so.

I like people again. I no longer feel like a duck in a shooting gallery with a thousand dance mothers waiting in line, pop guns in hand. I am never emotionally tired – physically tired on occasion, but that is usually evidence of a productive day – things accomplished. Sure beats feeling as if the world is stamping on your heart.

It is good to laugh. Good to sigh happily. Good to look into the eyes of someone you don’t know in a donut shop, smile – and mean it. It is good to live an authentic life – even if it is unfamiliar territory and you aren’t the most impressive person in the room. Most of all, it is good to have a donkey sweet enough to truly miss. And blackberries on your vines. And paint in your hair. And the ability to say I can do that, but I can do this too . . . and tomorrow, who knows. I will probably be able to do even more.

I am crowded inside, with all these Ginnys jostling for space. But they are in good company and everyone gets along well at the slumber party in my skin. In fact, all those Ginnys are having such a rousing good time that no one wants to be the first to go to sleep.