It's a balmy, foggy, South Georgia wintery 58 degrees this morning.
I've always
said that walking the silence of the dark, pre-dawn streets is good. As the
dawn painted
the stark shapes in the dark with living colors, I could hear all of its
exhortations to
look forward to this new day more clearly than I have ever before. Nearly
dying from a
cerebral hemorrahage will have that effect. Moving along the streets of
Valdosta on my
three mile fast stroll--I'm not yet up to power walking--I was acutely
possessed by the
feeling that I had to get ready to live this newly arriving day. I walk not
only to keep
in physical shape, which may have saved my life when I had the cerebral
hemorrahage, but I
believe that the day that starts healthy and emotionally well has the
healthiest chance
for me to look well to this day and of having this day go well. If I can live
this day
well, well then, I've shaped today into a vision of fresh faith and hope. So,
for me, the
reason why the sunrise is so beautiful and magnificent is that it sets the
stage for a
positive, joyful, fulfilling, blissful, valuable day. .
This morning, however, I was looking at dark and light things a bit
differently.
I was thinking of two similar but contrasting messages I had received during
this past
week. One was a puzzled "why you survive such a tragedy" from a friend at a
mid-western
university who and then went on to answer her own question with a "you must
have more to
do." I wrote back, "My hemorrahage would have been a tragedy if I died at what
for me is
an untimely time. It would have been a greater tragedy if I didn't open my
eyes wider to
the richness and possibilities of the world about me rather than shut my lids
tighter in
self-pity. But, the truth is that it was a lot harder on Susan being in the ER
and at my
ICU bedside than it was for me lying in on ambulance stretcher or in that ICU
bed." The
other message had an undertone of "why me" from a professor who was bemoaning
that " I
have to have so many students whose performance disappoints me?" And, she,
too, went on
to answer her own question with a "they aren't prepared to be here." I told
her, "I don't
know of your situation, but having had such attitudes for twenty-five years of
my career
Im not devoid of an understanding of the problems you and others face and how
easy it is
to emotionally cash it in."
In the morning's darkness, the words of both these professors seemed to
lead me to
see that when I talk of the dark pre-dawn, I'm only referring to the sky and
ignoring the
host street lamps and porch lights that line my route At this time of the
day's first
light, then, the streets aren't ever really all that dark. They're dark only
when they're
dark. Sound silly? Well, unless the moon is not out, or it and the stars are
blocked out
by clouds, or there is no street lamp, there's always some light in the night's
dark. In
fact, even in the darkest of dark moonless nights and absence of street lamps,
as night
vision goggles reveal, there is always some sort of light. The streets, life
in general,
and the classroom specifically are dark only when you don't notice any of the
light around
you. But, everything on the streets and in life, as well as in the classroom
is a mixture
of dark and light. In fact, the more my pupils opened as I got accustomed to
the dark
along my walk, the more faint light came in and the less dark it was. The
second flash of
light for me, then, is that the more I notice the light, the more I invite the
light in,
the more I show the door to the dark, the more I light up my mood, and the more
I can see
what truly is. So, I saw this morning that if I want less dark in where I am
and what I
do, I should look for some light. No, I'll take that back. If I want less
dark, I have
to make my own light. And, when I make my own light, I see the light in myself
and in
others.
I guess I was thinking about all this because these two messages made
me realize
that everyone who hears what just happened to me volunteers answers to that
unspoken hard
and unanswerable question: "why were you a 5%-er who survived your massive
cerebral
hemorrahage unscathed?" They offer what is to them emotionally satisfying
answers, answers
that make sense of things to them: "there is more in store for you" or "it
wasn't yet your
time" or "you've got more to do" or "someone is looking over you" or "praise
God" or
"knock on wood," or "you're a lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky man." So many
academics do the
same thing when students don't rise up to their expectations. They offer
emotionally
satisfying "it's them," finger pointing "in my humble opinion" or "it's my
belief"
answers, answers that make sense to and exonerate them from any responsibility
to "why
aren't they doing what I want them to do?" For answers they offer: "they're
not capable"
or "they're letting anyone it" or "they don't really belong" or "they want
something for
nothing" or "they're not dedicated" or "they don't know how" or "when I was a
student...."
None of these are really satisfactory answers for me because they're framed in
such dark
and light terms. But, there are answers. People's character is strengthened
if they meet
the things in life honestly and courageously, whether among those "things" is
cancer,
cerebral hemorrahage, or recalcitrant students..
You know, when I had the cancer or when I had the cerebral hemorrahage,
Susan told
me that to her amazement I never asked that bemoaning or angry "Why me?" In
fact, I
haven't raised that sighful question about the classroom--or lived it--in the
over fifteen
years since my epiphany. I have found that the forlorn "Why me," in whatever
context, is
a thief that saps, robs, paralyzes, atrophys, and defeats. People ask it as if
they are
surprised or scared that life does not accommodate them as they would want or
that the
students don't please them as they demand or that the world in all of its
aspects is
fraught with imperfection. For me, then, "answer" doesn't mean reason or
explanation.
For me, "answer" means I am the answer. That is, "what am I going to do now
that it has
happened?" I could not control having cancer or a cerebral hemorrahage or that
student in
class. But, I do have the power to decide how I am going to respond; how am I
going to
use the fact that I had cancer three years ago and nearly died from a cerebral
hemorrahage
three months ago--or, have disappointing students in class--to strengthen my
personal and
professional life and the lives of those around me? My answer is that it's not
enough to
have survived; I've got to live; I've got to fill my life with all the feelings
and
thoughts and words and actions of the most magnificent possibilities of life.
My
perception of life, personal and professional, outside and inside the home and
classroom,
is to open my eyes wider rather than to shut them tighter, to create light in
the dark, to
have an energizing "wow," to drive away the resigned and debilitating "darn,"
to do more
than merely getting through this day, to put myself on a enthusiastic high far
above any
dismal low, to see the light of how much I have to gain by focusing on the
goodness and
beauty that surrounds me while accepting the thorns. It's about being in
control over
that which I can control and influence: me. It's all about learning the
rules so that
I can break them properly. It's about being totally and completely unique all
the time
everywhere. It's about being my own person, not someone who someone else wants
me to be.
It's about being the individual I am rather than just another cog in "the
system." It's
about being an original, not a copy. It's about originating rather than
duplicating.
It's about not being afraid to feel and to think. It's about staring down all
those
demons who would have me say that I am less than I am or can become. It's
about not
letting my dreams and visions and aspirations and hopes slip through my fingers
and
disappear because I think "I couldn't do that" or "what would 'they' think."
It's about
trusting over and over again that still, small voice that says, "This might
work and I'll
try it." It's about not accepting disappointment as normal. It's about having
a deep,
meaningful, and sincere trust in myself. It's about stepping out of fear and
hesitation
into self-esteem, self-confidence, and courage. It's about a smile, a
welcoming "hello,"
a kindness, a consideration, a laugh. It's about truly giving it everything I
have. It's
about doing rather than merely trying. It's about the belief and understanding
that I can
make a difference.
Well, this is getting too long. Though I have thought a lot more about
this, it's
enough for now. Since Susan and I are heading out to the West Coast
soon for some
grand-daughter spoiling, if I don't another chance, let me and Susan wish each
of you a
merry burning of the yule log, a belated happy lighting of the candles, and a
glorious
turn of the calendar.
Make it a good day.
--Louis--
Louis Schmier
http://therandomthoughts.edublogs.org/
Department of
History http://www.newforums.com/Auth_L_Schmier.asp
Valdosta State University www. halcyon.com/arborhts/louis.html
Valdosta, Georgia 31698 /\ /\ /\ /\
(229-333-5947) /^\\/ \/ \ /\/\__/\ \/\
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//\/\/ /\
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/\"If you want to climb
mountains,\ /\
_ / \ don't practice on mole
hills" -
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