It

One of my classes this semester has me placed with a cooperating teacher so that I may observe his work and teach at least two lessons in the classroom on my own. It's one of the core classes school counseling graduate students must take if they are pursuing certification in IL without already holding a teaching certificate.

Although I have done a lot of teaching, it has never been in a traditional classroom setting for a full year, etc. I find the work incredibly daunting and those who do it well terribly admirable.

In a twist of lucky fate (a blessing, really), I have been placed with an amazing teacher. Sometimes you can watch someone do something and think, "Wow. This person is doing just what he/she was meant to do." They've found their it—whatever that may be.

I felt that way when I saw Ani DiFranco perform live. I felt that way when I saw Dr. Harrawood, one of my profs, share some of her counseling skills in class (she has since moved on to Idaho State... great for them, but very sad for us). I feel that way every time I have a class with Dr. Asner-Self (another prof who is still, thankfully, at SIUC). Or when I read the writings of my fellow Neo-Futurists, or hear my brother playing percussion, or watch my husband working on a play at any stage of the process.

My cooperating teacher displays a similar sort of passion, expertise, and inspired ability in the classroom. And so it's rather wonderful to read about all the things that make a teacher effective—and then see it right there in front of me in action (with middle school students, who can be quite a challenge to reach sometimes). What a gift!

What teachers do is incredibly difficult. And those who are truly excellent at their jobs are one of the greatest assets we have. We entrust quite a bit to them when we send our youth into their care for instruction and molding. Those who honor that trust and give their fullest effort in the hopes of making a positive difference in the lives of their students deserve the very deepest of respect.

If you know what your it is, I salute you. (I envy you.) And I hope it brings you immense joy and fulfillment for a long, long time.

The Pain Game

I can't remember if I've already written about this, but it keeps coming up lately, so forgive me if I'm being repetitive. One of my favorite instructors, Dr. Asner-Self, said something during our multicultural counseling class last summer that has stuck with me like glue and has provided a resounding echo that seems to follow me around in the many contexts in which I operate: student, mother, friend, colleague, counselor, etc.

Essentially, what she said was there is no point to comparing pain with other people. No point in comparing yours to someone else's - or even in comparing one person's pain to another's (friends, family members, coworkers). There is truly no benefit in engaging in such an activity.

It's important in the context of counseling because if you get caught up comparing your own hurts or tragedies to those of your client (be it openly or internally), you are no longer fully able to remain objectively open to helping that person. You end up putting yourself in a competitive rather than collaborative relationship... and your capacity for empathy and a nonjudgmental attitude is severely diminished.

But in a more general sense, I've begun to realize it is just as harmful in an everyday, regular, fellow-human-being context... because it's all relative - and one person's pain is another person's walk in the park. The important part is to recognize we all hurt... we all grieve... we all struggle... and we are all capable of good days and bad days.

Keeping this in mind has helped me identify ways to practice more compassion on a daily basis. To always remember that when most people share their pain (no matter where I might put it on my own continuum or understanding of sorrow), it is in an effort to connect, to be heard, to feel understood, and to be received with love.

To me, compassion is the process of providing that response - and it is a challenge worth posing to myself on a continual basis.

(confession)

Ok... I have to admit something about a previous post... some of you would already know this because you read it when it was originally written in 2002, but the post from April 9 (To Carry Me Aloft) is something I wrote long ago after attending a summer workshop taught by the members of Goat Island through The Art Institute of Chicago.

The summer intensive focused on creative reuse, a term I have utilized and applied to my own writing/performance workshops. It's a rather brilliant concept - and one which ultimately benefits artists, actors, writers, creators, etc. It's all about taking everything around you in and making it into something new. Processing the input you get from other sources and responding to it with your own voice, thoughts, reflections, etc.

I think it applies to counseling as well, in that we often reflect content or meaning, paraphrase, summarize, focus, etc. - and to me... it's often about taking in the information and responding to the client in way that provides feedback, clarity, and focus all at the same time. You are not grabbing something totally new and feeding it into the conversation... rather, you're taking something already there and offering it back in a new way so the client can see it in a new light.

Anyway... I digress. The point of the confession is merely to let you know I was very busy that week and took the easy road out by using something old instead of writing something new; but, at the same time, it was a story that still has no home. Something I have written and love very much. Something that (to my mind) wants a larger life but is not sure where to find it.

I don't know if that's a joy or a sorrow, but it seemed important to share nonetheless.