Poem for the Maybe-Inclined

Open up the world.
See it for its breadth, depth, beauty, pain.
Life is bigger than we think.
Smaller than we scoff.
Go out and touch it.
See it.
Swim in the oxygen that
Sits still unless we take
Staccato breaths
And big steps
Off cliffs, out of boxes,
Where the air is thin and
Meaning is thick.
Reach.
Teach.
Learn.
Burn.
Think not of thriving
Or of dying,
But of all that is
Waiting to come alive.

Imperially Marching to Elmo's Song

With a 7-year old and a 2-year old at home, we go back and forth between the graces of Elmo and the terror of Darth Vader. Watching my two sons be riveted by each, though, the thing that surprises me most is how they're finding joy in the other's favorite.

Last week, before bath time, Tyler and Ben were both in the living room and we were all dancing our hearts out. Initially, we marched and pivoted and jumped and turned and 360-ed in the air as we listened to the Imperial March of Darth Vader's destruction.

Then, we segued into a giddily gleeful romp to Elmo's Song, roaring the words aloud as we cascaded across the carpet.

Each song brings with it a certain amount of engaged interest, and as we danced our way upstairs for bath time, the two songs seemed to synthesize so that we sang a gobbled, garbled mash-up of Elmo and Darth Vader each marching and playing the piano and somewhere amidst the whole big mess laughter erupted.

Though I would never remind him of this outright, my 7-year old son will still sit and be enraptured by Elmo's song. And my 2-year old son can already say "DARTH VADER SCARY!" with big eyes ready to pop out of his head and bo-ing to the wall on the other side of the room.

Their delight in the music of the other reminds me that fun isn't always about what seems 'cool,' or even about what makes sense (as our mash-up taught me). Delight is about finding surprising ways to interact with all that we experience in our lives. Delight is about dancing goofy moves to scary music, and accomplishing some serous tasks--bath!--to the accompaniment of some goofy music.

As a teacher and as an adult, I think I have a lot to learn from imperially marching to Elmo's song. There is joy and delight to be found in rather serious places, and there is a great sense of purpose to goofiness. And maybe our efforts to try to consistently separate the two should be re-examined.

Climbing Mt. Grace (Kind of)

About a hour and a half from us is a Massachuseets State Park called, intriguingly, Mt. Grace. And so, this past weekend, when we were looking for a fun place to explore, something about the name beckoned and two kids + dog in tow, we trekked off towards the small town of Warwick, Massachusetts.

It was a Saturday. A sunny, 80-degree Saturday. And if Walden Pond State Park and Wachusett Mountain State Park were any indication (surefire favorite exploration places for our family), surely Mt. Grace would also be packed.

Teeming with people!

Hard to find a parking spot!

But when we arrived at the parking lot, there were two cars. Two cars and approximately 148 empty parking spaces. I didn't even bother to lean over towards the glove compartment and grab our nifty MA STATE PARK PASS, which allows us to visit any state park for free. No parking fee!

Here at Mt. Grace, though, there would be no parking fees.

Ben woke from his nap, yawned, and then yelled out, "Ball!"

Even though there were no actual balls around, part of the surface of the parking lot must have looked a bit like one. Tyler took off his seat belt and leaned forward, inquiring, "We're here?"

"We're here!" I replied in my jovial Dad-voice, trying to hide the confusion I was already feeling--and the question: But why isn't ANYONE ELSE here?

We all climbed out of the car, and proceeded to read a disturbing sign that informed us of the following (paraphrased):

HUNTING IS ALLOWED IN MT. GRACE STATE PARK. IF YOU DECIDE TO HIKE HERE, KEEP IN MIND THAT YOU MAY BE SHOT AT, AND POSSIBLY KILLED. WHILE THE LIKELIHOOD OF BEING SHOT (AND KILLED, MAY WE KINDLY REMIND YOU) IS NOT EXPANSIVELY HIGH, THERE IS A CHANCE. THUS, WE THUSLY RECOMMEND THAT YOU WEAR BRIGHTLY COLORED CLOTHING AND TRY YOUR BEST TO ACT AS HUMAN-LIKE AS POSSIBLE--WHATEVER THAT MEANS TO YOU. IF YOU SHOULD SEE OR HEAR HUNTERS, WE RECOMMEND THAT YOU SHOUT OUT, LOUDLY, "WE ARE HUMAN BEINGS ON A HIKE! DON'T SHOOT US PLEASE!" WHICH SHOULD ALERT HUNTERS TO THE FACT THAT YOU ARE NOT TARGETS. HAVE FUN! ENJOY YOUR HIKE!"

After chasing Ben down--who was gleefully on his way towards Rt. 78--I turned to Tyler and said, "Maybe we should hike someone else..."

Tyler inquired why, upon which time I re-read the sign, aloud, to him.

Now Tyler was nervous too. And Ben seized the moment to dart towards Rt. 78 again.

We began heading back towards the car, when I saw the sign, "SUMMIT," and an arrow point up a steep path. We had already come this far. Shouldn't we at least try?

This could be a very stupid parenting move OR a decision to not let fear overwhelm my parenting. Aren't there dangers inherent in anything?

We began hiking. I listened intently for gunshots or any sounds of walking as I imagined hunters might walk--stealthily and slowly. I listened for the slow snap of branches, the steady crushing of leaves.

After 20 minutes of hiking, we had seen or heard nothing and no one. I began to shake the fear. Tyler did too. Ben merely looked for ball-shaped objects and Rt. 78.

We eventually did see another human being (and not one with a gun in his hands). Two, actually. A couple were hiking down with their dogs, one of whom frolicked in a particularly goupey muddy puddle. Tyler, Ben, and I laughed.

It was going to be alright. We were safe.

An hour later, we were all wiped. The temperature had risen, our legs ached, and Ben grew heavier on my shoulders. Tyler asked, "Can we go back down without reaching the top?"

My first thought was NO! We've got to summit! And we're so close! But then I remembered that the hike today was about getting out into nature and having fun--exploring, have space to roam and run and be loud. The night before had been a rough one for sleep in the Reynolds home, and we were all wiped.

"Yeah, we can go back," I said and held Tyler's hand as we made our way back down the mountain.

At the bottom, I was grateful and happy about two things: 1) We hadn't gotten shot. 2) There was a huge field just off the trail, where I put down the backpack with Ben inside. And then we all proceeded to play numerous rounds of tag.

Spider tag.

Lion tag.

Kangaroo tag.

Crocodile tag.

Tickle tag.

No-base tag.

And Tyler seemed to forget how tired he was. I did, too. Ben giggled as he watched us run, trying his best to keep up (and even seeming to forget about balls and Rt. 78 for a while).

We stayed in that field by the foot of Mt. Grace for over an hour--running until we were breathless and happy.

And walking back to the car, I kind of felt that climbing Mt. Grace wasn't really ever about reaching the top for us: it was about two things: 1) Not letting fear stop us; 2) Enjoying the journey.

Sometimes, playing and laughing at the feet of Grace is good enough, which is particularly potent for me right now. Maybe 'good enough' is okay--even better--than struggling for a standard that breaks our backs and pushes us beyond joy.

Tyler and Ben hiking Mt. Grace

Everything is a Ball. Or Not.

Benjamin is now 16 months old, and everything is a ball to him. Balls are balls, of course. Basketballs, soccer balls, kick balls, bouncy balls, footballs. But then there are other things about which his pure relish and love of balls makes his little mind transform into balls.

Things like: the round tops of chair backs, the round handle of a toy fishing net, any building with a curved roof, the front of a car.

While Jen and I repeatedly say back the right word, "ROOF ... ROOF" or "CHAIR ... CHAIR" this doesn't seem to matter much. Instead, his bright eyes and gleeful face grow ever wider and he replies to us and to his big brother Tyler (who also helps in the ball dissuasion mission) "BALL! BALL! BALL!"

And then, usually we all laugh because, hey, it's kind of fun to see almost everything as a ball.

Right?

But then I read the news. I open my front door and proceed to go teach my 7th graders. And everywhere I look I see the brokenness in our world. Baltimore. Nepal. Broken hearts. Broken dreams. And I wonder about that question Langston Hughes asked so powerfully and which Lorraine Hansberry brought to life so vividly: "What happens to a dream deferred?"

What happens when we want--desperately--to see the world be peaceful, equal, kind, and instead we see racism, hatred, fear, war, natural disasters, confusion?

What happens to a dream when it is deferred, or worse: impossible?

There is a great scene in Hansberry's play A Raisin in the Sun when Beneath says to her Ma about her older brother, Walter, "There ain't nothing left to love!"

Walter has acquiesced to the racism of the whites in his neighborhood, who have offered to buy out the black family so that they move out of the neighborhood. Walter is broken, defeated man.

But Ma says to Beneatha a line that makes me tremble: "There's always something left to love." Her subsequent speech to her daughter beautiful articulates that when we are most broken, that is when we most need love.

Years ago, I would have my 7th graders in Hudson focus on that speech, and rewrote it about someone in their own life. We would read Hansberry's play and act it out in class, and every time one of my students read that line from Ma out loud, I would tremble. I would cry.

One year, we brought out students to a live performance of Hansberry's play. And when that scene occurred, I vividly remember sitting among my 7th grade students and just weeping. I mean, weeping so hard many of them around me looked at me and wondered how anyone could ever let an emotional wreck of a guy like this teach them!

And my heart sometimes feels so weak. I can't read about the brokenness in our world without crying. And when I cry, I can't help wondering what I can do. What any of us can do against injustices that seem so formidable.

How can we change a deeply entrenched system of racism?

How can we find hope for deeply broken forms of education?

How can we transform lives--our own and others--fraught with despair or fear or hurt?

And I come back to Hughes. And I come back to Hansberry. And I come back to my sons.

Again and again and again I come back to trying to see the world not just through my own crying and weeping and wonder, but through the lens of hope which others show me.

I try to see that anything good--a poem, a play, a word on the blank page, an interaction with a student, a protest, a smile, a plea--is never wasted.

I know that, soon, Benjamin will learn the reality that not everything is a ball. Some things are most definitely not, and are in fact the complete opposite. Life is hard. Life is unjust. Life is fearful and confusing and painful.Life has jagged edges that don't even  approach roundness, smoothness, and a curve towards good.

But there are still balls in the world. And there is still some hope that we might transform things that had no earthy business being balls into balls.

We might use the tools at our disposal to change, re-envision, rethink, and redeem. We might find ways to help create curves of growth and curves of possibility where none seem possible. And though I can't always find the strength to wipe away my tears and work, I find it most often when I realize the truth of Ma's statement.

In all our brokenness, there is still something left to love. There is still something worth fighting for. There are poems, plays, protests, pleas, and purposes which need hands and feet to energize them.

There is always something left to love.

Swimming with Thoreau

Yesterday, after school, Jennifer and Tyler and Benjamin picked me up and we all went to Walden Pond, famed residence of the 19th century advocate of simplicity, nature, possibility, and idealism: Henry David Thoreau. Toting bags of beach towels, snacks, various changes of clothes, diapers, a stroller, and sand shovels, we marched onto the beach and plopped down on a spot near the water.

The heat came in waves, as did the people. Over the next two hours, more and more small children crowded onto Walden's shores, and the sounds of their delight created a crescendo that mirrored each lapping wave.

"Let's build a sandcastle as big as I am!" Tyler yelled out.

"Yaba laba tu-tu!" Benjamin announced.

Jen and I acknowledged both children, and the sandcastle construction commenced. As we layered on handfuls of sand, I kept asking myself, What would Thoreau make of this?  From his small cabin on the other side of the pond, would he look out with disgust as the seeming chaos, noise, and carving out of his shore? Or would his eyebrows rise with glee at the prospect of so much unabashed joy, so much delight from children in the place that so deeply delighted him.

Our family castle grew, and the construction schedule allowed for various breaks to rush into the cool water of Walden, dive under, and glide, then to rush back out and feel the sand prickle and tickle all the wet places on our bodies.

Eventually, we finished, and we became hungry for dinner, and we found a tick on Tyler's belly, and Benjamin needed to nurse, and we realized that our time to say goodbye to Walden had come.

Thoreau once suggested that, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he steps to the beat of a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." I think Thoreau would not be dissuaded from the notion that his pond is enjoyed by children frolicking in great freedom, building beautiful, big castles. Instead, I think Thoreau might even don his swimming trousers, and dive in. After all, those who stand on shore and wonder don't often move to any drummer, but those who see life's invitations and dive in--chaos, confusion, and all--have the sublime chance to swim in different currents, and to feel the sand stick to where water once flew.