Are We Raising Teacups? (or How Not To Land Your Kid In Therapy)

As parents we have all kinds of goals for our kids.  The more ambitious among us may want our children to grow up to be President or a superstar athlete.  Some may want their kids to make a ton of money.  Others may want their offspring simply to be happy.  How many of you want to make sure your kid ends up in therapy?

I don’t see many hands raised.  And it’s not that counseling isn’t necessarily a useful tool.  It’s just that we would prefer that our kids don’t find themselves in situations where getting psychological help is needed or justified.

You can imagine my intrigue when a friend sent me an article entitled: How To Land Your Kid in Therapy, published in last summer’s The Atlantic magazine. 

As an educator and a parent I was hooked immediately. The article is long but well worth sitting down for 20 minutes and absorbing, and discussing with your spouse or a similarly minded group of parents.  And don’t be put off by the f-bomb dropped in the opening lines.  As I mentioned, it goes for the early hook.

Written by renowned author, therapist, and mother, Lori Gottlieb, the article’s central tenet is this:  we want to raise our children to be productive, happy adults.  It’s what parenting has always been about – what our parents wanted for us, what our grandparents wanted for them, and back into eternity.  But how we are going about it may be different.  According to psychologists, many parents will do anything to avoid having their kids experience even mild discomfort, anxiety, or disappointment - “anything less than pleasant,” - with the result that when, as adults, they experience the normal frustrations of life, they think something must be terribly wrong.

Gottlieb asks us to “consider a toddler who’s running in the park and trips on a rock. Some parents swoop in immediately, pick up the toddler, and comfort her in that moment of shock, before she even starts crying. But this actually prevents her from feeling secure—not just on the playground, but in life. If you don’t let her experience that momentary confusion, give her the space to figure out what just happened (Oh, I tripped), and then briefly let her grapple with the frustration of having fallen and perhaps even try to pick herself up, she has no idea what discomfort feels like, and will have no framework for how to recover when she feels discomfort later in life. These toddlers become the college kids who text their parents with an SOS if the slightest thing goes wrong, instead of attempting to figure out how to deal with it themselves. If, on the other hand, the child trips on the rock, and the parents let her try to reorient for a second before going over to comfort her, the child learns: That was scary for a second, but I’m okay now. If something unpleasant happens, I can get through it. In many cases the child recovers fine on her own—but parents never learn this, because they’re too busy protecting their kid when she doesn’t need protection.”

As a parent, this is hard stuff to consider, because every ounce of our being wants to go and scoop up our child and not have him suffer.   Those same toddlers grow up and go to college where a growing number of college deans have dubbed them  “teacups” because they’re so fragile that they break down anytime things don’t go their way.  According to parenting expert Wendy Mogel, who spoke in Colorado recently (see my earlier blog entry), “Well-intentioned parents have been metabolizing their anxiety for them their entire childhoods so they don’t know how to deal with it when they grow up,”

The good news is that most of us are doing a great job of parenting.  We don’t have to be perfect, just good enough not to screw up our kids.  We should give them confidence, but not over-praise; protect them from real danger, but allow them to fall and to fail; or in the words of Wendy Mogel, “Please let them be devastated at age 6 and not have their first devastation be in college!” 

Sounds reasonable enough to me.

(This article originally appeared in a slightly different form in Among Friends'.)

Let That Boy Boogie-Woogie, It's In Him, And It Got To Come Out

Earlier this week, I was at Graland Country Day School in Denver to witness the treat that is Wendy Mogel. Best known for her two best-selling books on parenting young children and teenagers, Blessings of a Skinned Knee and Blessings of a B Minus, Mogel proved her worth as a presenter.  She was hilarious, poignant, thought-provoking, and wise.

Among the audience of 500+, I recognized many faces.  Friends and colleagues from around the independent schools of Denver.  A few folks from my own school in Boulder and lots of people from Stanley.  All gathered to think about our children – those we teach and those we tuck into bed at night.

As parents we could all use a little guidance every now and then. I cannot hope to convey all of Mogel’s ideas and perspectives in these few words (you’ll have to go buy the books for that!), but I am able to share a few nuggets that might get you thinking….

I’m a good parent, I think, and I believe you are too.  We love our kids and would do anything for them. And we’re all a little guilty of over-parenting, over-scheduling, and over-protecting them.  Faced with a barrage of the 24-hour news cycle, we have every reason to be fearful for our children in this crazy world, yet we need to be careful and we should examine how much our creative imagination may lead us to an eensy-weensy bit of paranoia.

Our kids need to learn to swim in the river of life – not just when the weather’s great and the water’s perfect, but when there are rocks or fast currents or ice cold water making life hard.  Our kids need the time to play, to foster their natural curiosity, to go on adventures, and sometimes they just need time to goof off. 

Mogel told one story of a father she saw in a park who prevented his young daughter from touching the snow on the ground until she had her mittens on.  She suggested that the child needed to figure out for herself about the cold, and the dad would have done better asking the child about what would happen if she held snow between her fingers, or looking at the flakes on her sleeve, or throwing it up in the air and seeing what would happen.  We can lead by example by being naturally curious ourselves and giving ourselves permission to play and to goof off.

When our kids come home from school, we ask them about their day, the good and the bad. Mogel advises that we shouldn’t always take everything our children say at face value. “Their job is to cover their butts!”  There is certainly another side to the story and it would be in our best interest not to get too caught up in the drama. Our kids will have great days at school and not so good ones.  We must be careful not to mistake the snapshot of a child’s single day with the movie that is their whole childhood.

It’s okay that our children experience disappointment.  In fact, it’s essential.  They’re hard-wired for competence and they’ll be just fine, in most circumstances.  We can guide them by asking questions like, “Have you ever experienced something like this before?  How did you handle it?  What do you think might be a good idea to try this time?”  Trust them to handle it.  The benefits are endless.

Our kids are wonderful, but they’re also ordinary.  We should let them do ordinary as well as extraordinary things.  They are like seeds that we’ve been given.  We don’t know when they’re going to bloom, or what kind of flower we’ve got, but if we feed them, water them, and love them – and pull away the really big weeds once in a while – we’ll soon enough see what kind of seed and flower we’ve been given.

In the immortal words of blues singer-songwriter John Lee Hooker:

One night I was layin' down,

I heard papa tell mama,

let that boy boogie-woogie,
it's in him,

and it got to come out.

And I felt so good,

went on boogie'n just the same

Thanks Wendy Mogel for an inspiring evening.  My kids are very grateful.

My Teenager and I

My little girl turned thirteen a few months ago. A teenager. That dreaded eight-letter word that all parents are expected to fear – here comes the eye rolling, the disowning, the body piercings, the rebellion and the rejection of everything I stand for. Right? Wrong.

I took my daughters, my teenager and my ten-year old, on a short trip to Telluride last week. As we were strolling through town, Emma, my teen, reached out for my hand, held it for three blocks and said, “I love you Daddy.”

And that’s all I need. Right there in that moment. Even though I’m not with her every night, I don’t think there’s been a night yet in thirteen years, when I haven’t told her that I love her and she’s told me the same.

Emma and I play soccer and basketball and foosball together. We go bike riding and hiking, camping and skiing. I’ve directed her in countless theater productions. I think I’m number two in her texting sent box after her best friend Erika. We read together, laugh together, cry together, and sometimes have long talks in the dark well past her bedtime.

She’s told me that I’m not funny, I’m not cool, and I need a haircut. But other than that, I think we’re doing okay, my teenager and I. And I’ll take that for as long as it lasts.

New Website

Laura has launched a new website called Counseling for Women and Moms for her private psychotherapy practice. It's very cool! Please visit by copying www.DenverCounselingForWomen.com into your browser or clicking on the link in the Links section further down this page.

Seven Thousand Miles

April 1975. Summer term at a traditional English boarding school. A former mansion, tucked away into the thick woodlands of the southeast. The greystone edifice perched atop a hill casting a foreboding eye on all it sees. A small and sensitive seven year old is left for the first time at the grand front portal as his parents, young and unknowing in the ways of child development, drive away. He would see them every other weekend while school was in session - for the next eleven years. He is trying hard not to let others see the fear and hurt in his eyes.

It is a school where rote learning is standard; where good study habits mean copying pages off the board verbatim; where the art teacher gets angry if the boy doesn’t do it her way; where he is told to stand facing the wall for two hours after getting caught talking after lights out; where he must wear shorts even on the most biting of winter days; where no one knows his first name, only his last; where bullying is regarded as an acceptable form of character building; where missing chapel results in a beating; where untrained teachers rely on the pedagogy of their own post-war school experiences. The small and sensitive seven year old has no opportunity to find out who he is. He simply hides himself away.

That same April 1975. Seven thousand miles away, at a small school attached to Montview Church in Denver, Colorado. A teacher, trained in that same post-war England, is watching and listening to children. They are just returning from spring break. The sun warms their faces. All around her there is joy and laughter. A few of the children are seven, small, and sensitive.

These children, however, are painting glorious pictures; they are pouring water and digging in the sand; they are reading and writing - anything they want; they are sewing, building and gluing; they are playing dress-up and make-believe; they are learning math with blocks and color; they are learning how to give and take and share; they are celebrating each other’s successes; they are hugging and being hugged. The English woman does everything in her power to help these seven year olds find out who they are. And they sparkle.

The teacher’s name is Carolyn. She has recently arrived in Colorado, from England, with a young family of her own. She is in the process, although she doesn’t know it at present, of founding a school that would later grow into a beloved institution, educating thousands of children. All of them touched personally by her strong principles, her guiding hand, and her love.

The boy’s first name is Steve. Me.

Everyone calls me that now, even my students.

Fifteen years after those humble beginnings, I stumbled upon Carolyn’s school. She hired me and I have learned. I have been a teacher and theatre director here for almost twenty years, the length of a childhood. Her school, now known as the Stanley British Primary School, has taught me well.

I invite you to walk into my classroom. I am proud of the joy to be found. Children feel safe, knowing there are clearly defined limits and high expectations. They are free to be themselves, to explore while learning, and to find success. They are encouraged to take risks and they are guided as they learn from their mistakes. We work together to find out more each day about what kind of learners they are. They learn to articulate their strengths and they work to strengthen their weaknesses. They know they can make a positive difference in numerous ways. They are supported, trusted and loved. They are on the pathway to discover who they are.

I think of John, a third grader who has been diagnosed with a severe form of dyslexia. Reading is an immense struggle, as he meets familiar words for the first time again and again and again. His writing is almost impossible to read. Letters are misshapen or reversed. He occasionally forms entire sentences in mirror image from right to left. Expressing himself on paper is the hardest thing anyone has ever asked him to do.

The class is studying pre-Revolutionary War America. One group decides to make a dramatic presentation of the events surrounding the Boston Tea Party. John is one of the kids volunteering to play the part of Sam Adams. This needs to be improvised. They have been given ten minutes to produce a skit. There is no time for further study. To my surprise, his peers pick John for the role. I am unsure of what he knows. The kids know better.

With barely any practice, John gives a fluent and knowledgeable oration, recounting all the reasons that taxation without representation is unjust, why the tea on the ships floating out in Boston Harbor represents all that the colonists found so wrong with British rule, and what steps the American militia should take to unseat the occupational forces. It is an extraordinary moment. John has since gone on to star in theater in high school. Learning lines is still hard for him, but he has figured out that if he records his part and plays it back, he can memorize without too much trouble. He knows who he is as a learner.

My classroom is a place where parents feel welcome, included and appreciated, where they are free to give opinions, ask questions and participate fully in the education of their child. Their questions are answered honestly. Knowledge about child development is dispensed freely and without judgment.

I think of Lisa, the parent of an only child, a librarian by training. She grew up in San Francisco with a deep-seated phobia of math and no confidence in her mathematic ability. She mentions to me that she is struggling to help her daughter with her homework on subtraction and borrowing. She knows how to do it, just not how to explain it. She and I spend a delightful hour, one afternoon after school, playing with base ten blocks, looking at subtraction from various conceptual angles, and talking about the differences in experience and learning style between herself and her daughter. Homework now breathes more easily in Lisa’s house.

I invite you to come to a play rehearsal or to see children performing in one of my productions. Anywhere from thirty to one hundred and thirty kids working in harmony towards a common goal. As in the classroom, I am proud of the joy dancing through the theatre. Children are encouraged to reach outside their comfort zone, to strive for something they did not know they had inside them. Humour and delight abound.

I think of Katie who, a few short years ago, squeaked out a couple of barely audible lines in Peter Pan. She later starred in a major role as Alice in Wonderland, to rave reviews. I think of Will, who in the past has lacked confidence and brought a slight awkwardness to social situations. He recently played the lead, all 400 lines of it, as Sheridan Whiteside, the outlandish curmudgeon, in The Man Who Came To Dinner, and emerged as a true leader among the cast.

There is a unique spirit at Carolyn’s school. It recently hosted a statewide meeting of independent schools heads. Administrators from some of the finest schools in Colorado entered the front lobby of the school and the reaction was universal: “There is such a feeling of warmth.” Later, they toured our campus. More comments were heard: “What a delightful place this is; how happy the children are; look how the children’s work is everywhere; there is such a relaxed atmosphere; the campus is beautiful; the students are so comfortable in their environment; there is a spirit here I haven’t experienced elsewhere.”

I am overjoyed to have been a part of growing that spirit. Yet, more importantly, I am overjoyed at how the school has been part of my growing spirit.

It has taught me how to watch and listen to children. It has taught me what a joyful place school can be. It has shown me that the process is more important than the product. It has helped me understand what it means to be a lifelong learner. It has surrounded me with color and creativity, laughter and friendships.

While my formal schooling in England taught me dates and facts, Latin and Greek, competition and one-upmanship, there was so much I did not learn. I never learned about support, justice, cooperation or trust. I never learned joy, gratitude or love. I never learned the importance of play. I have learned these things at the Stanley British Primary School. I have learned them from Carolyn, from colleagues, and from parents. But most of all, I have learned them from the children. I watch them and listen to them and they teach me. Every one of them. My first class of five year olds as an intern twenty years ago, my current class of third, fourth and fifth graders, and the middle and high schoolers, many of them former students, whom I direct in theatrical productions at the school each summer.

I now know that I did not stumble upon Carolyn’s school. I was guided here for a reason. Within this safe, warm and inviting space, I have at last experienced everything that Carolyn’s kids were participating in, and that I was missing out on, all those years ago. This school has quite simply allowed me to experience my childhood.

It has brought me out of hiding.

I have finally discovered who I am.

Past Present Future

If you’re on Facebook, you know all about “25 Random Things About Me”. It’s become such a phenomenon that the New York Times recently wrote a feature about it. If you’re not, allow me to explain. Someone, anyone, writes 25 statements about him or herself: childhood memories, current beliefs, high school crushes, favorite books or movies, quirky information. He or she posts it on their Facebook profile for all their friends to see.

When I first saw one, I was amazed at the openness. I loved learning about a small slice of my friend’s background. It was fun, thought-provoking, and enlightening. Over the last few weeks, more and more friends have bared their souls. Never feeling like I was reading TMI, too much information, I have been pleasantly surprised at how carefully I’ve been taking them in. Windows have been opened and wonderful discussions have followed. I have learned things that I would never have discovered over coffee.

Inspired by my friends, I have just finished writing my own. It has been a fascinating process. What information would people want to read? How can I narrow it down to 25 things? Is this supposed to be a summary of my life or of my current thinking about the world? Should I be sincere, humorous, vulnerable? What would people think? What I discovered in the course of writing is that one ‘fact' flowed into the next. It doesn’t matter what people think and it’s not a résumé. It is simply an exercise in taking a little time, going inside for a short while, checking in with me, and seeing how I am doing.

I also discovered that looking backwards and looking inside isn’t enough. My random things are about my past and my present. As I wrote, I realized that where I really want to go is my future. So I have also generated some thoughts about where I’m headed. I have spent some time dwelling on where I want my life to go, and creating a vision for myself. I’ve called it Living My Vision.

Both my 25 Random Things About Me and Living My Vision are posted here. I have written them for me. But I post them here because I hope someone, maybe you, will enjoy them enough to be inspired. Perhaps inspired enough to go inside for a moment or to create a vision of your own. It has been a wonderful pause in my journey. Enjoy.

25 Random Things About Me

1. Being sent away to a traditional English boarding school at the age of seven has affected my adult life in more ways than I have previously cared to admit….

2. Negative impact: child abuse is never ever ever okay under any circumstance. Intimacy and trust are damn hard. But I’m working assiduously on both.

3. Positive impact: it has become very clear that my entire life has been and will always be about creating safe, happy spaces in which kids are free to grow.

4. Emma and Leah are the essential elements in my life. When I watch them sleep, I understand what is meant by ‘love hurts’.

5. Laughing with them brings me my single greatest joy.

6. I’ve never taken a class in theater in my life. I’ve acted in three plays, one in elementary school, two in college. All three were terrible. I was the only native English speaker in one – The Importance of Being Earnest – it was hilarious, but still terrible.

7. I am passionate about directing. Bringing a story from script to production is an awesome experience.

8. But not as awesome as seeing the light go on for one child.

9. I’m directing four plays this summer, bringing my total to 27 full-scale productions in the last ten years. My theater colleagues are among the most creative people I know.

10. I am an artist. I think I’ve always been one but nobody told me until a couple of years ago. I see the world in pictures. Books on tape are really hard for me.

11. I am grateful for those who see my artistry. You know who you are.

12. Writing is my thing. When the newspaper published my first essay, I wept. I plan on getting out there more. I know more about blogging than I ever thought I would. When I sit down to write an essay, I rarely know where I’m going. I believe that the Creative Spirit works through those who let her in.

13. I believe in Spirit. I am beginning to trust. I am learning to get out of the way. I’ve been here before and I know I’ll be back.

14. I believe religion is the root of much that is wrong with this world.

15. I love water – drinking it, listening to it, floating on it, walking through it, watching it, crossing it, standing under it, swimming in it. My best ideas come in the pool.

16. I am not a fan of movies or TV. I’ll go see live theater as many times as the budget will allow. Though I watch and know more about sports than anyone thinks.

17. I fantasize that one day I’ll still be teaching but earning the salary of a profession I value less.

18. Every year, I take the stage in Stanley’s Annual Deadbeat Coffeehouse. It is an amazing event involving the most incredible people. Every organization deserves such a night, a boost to the community spirit. I feel like an amateur compared to other performers. I am in awe of my musician friends. I wish I could sing like that.

19. I’ve played a lot of rugby, squash and water polo in my time, but I find it almost impossible to button the cuff on the right arm of my shirts.

20. At one point I was fluent in French and reasonably useful in Russian, Italian, Greek, Swahili and Latin. I have discovered that Colorado is not the place for honing those skills.

21. When I was small, my father owned the toy shop in our village. It was heaven for a little boy. I still feel guilty for stealing a plastic miniature Greek soldier. Sorry, Dad.

22. Some likes: Newcastle Brown, Brussel sprouts, Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, beach vacations, kind people, Wings Seminars in Eugene, baseball.

23. Some dislikes: celery, beets, peanut butter, traffic, thoughtless and/or mean people, crowded places, shopping malls.

24. I don’t consider myself a material person, but I know that one day I will be the proud owner of a Mini Cooper S, a red one with a sunroof.

25. I didn’t plan on writing these, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how wonderful it’s been reading those of my friends. However writing what’s been before will never be as relevant as creating a vision of what’s to come. See below.

26. I’m not very good with rules (see #1), so I just had to write a 26th random fact – just to be difficult.

Living My Vision

I know who I am. I am grateful for the past and I know where I am going. I trust that I have everything I need for the journey. I am energetic, playful, humorous and kind. I am fully present and I dream big. I am courageous and adventurous and I take action, even when I am fearful, creating the results I want.

I am abundantly healthy, exercising at least twice a week and choosing a nutritious and balanced diet. I feel great in mind body and spirit. I always have choice and I am living a life of integrity. I am honest and joyous, celebrating my openness and vulnerability. I am emotionally connected to those I love. I am in a loving, supportive, mutually respectful relationship and I enjoy a close caring relationship with my girls, at all ages.

I work in a creative environment where I feel valued. I celebrate the artist in myself. I am writing and publishing, with positive reviews and strong sales. I am passionately involved in theater. I am assisting others to know and trust themselves, and I support them in pursuing their dreams. I am growing my wealth, investing in myself, my family, and for the good of the planet. I have enough money. I live in a warm and cozy house, where simplicity and comfort reign. I drive a car I love. I enjoy relaxing and exciting vacations at least twice a year.

I am a lifelong learner, seizing and embracing opportunities to grow. I trust the process of intention. I recognize the uniqueness and sacred in everyone. I know in my heart that each of us is capable, lovable, whole, and magnificent. I am building a culture which celebrates and honors children. I embrace service to my world and the people in it. I live in gratitude and bring joy and passion into my life and the lives of others.

I celebrate the happy carefree child and the wise guiding adult.

History starts now….

A Lesson In Real

I stop at yard sales. I enjoy poking around other people’s cast-offs. I’m softhearted when it comes to haggling over price, but I’ve picked up some wonderful books and great costume items for my theater productions. I like going with my young daughters. A trinket catches their eye, they ask a price, and invariably the kindly people trying to dump this stuff give it to them for free. If only I was that cute.

The best kind of yard sales feature a cherubic-faced child selling lemonade and cookies. I always buy, even if the lemonade is over-sugared and over-priced. I’m a sucker for misspelled signs – Limonaid 50 sents. I can’t resist. And I’m still waiting for that once-in-a-lifetime bargain. The painting for which I shell out $10, that I then take to Antiques Roadshow and discover it’s worth thousands.

The hardest sales to stop at are estate sales. A lifetime of memories at discount prices. Quite often, the family of a lost loved one has kept the choicest items, leaving the things nobody wants on the sale table. ‘We loved grandma, but none of us had a need for the crocheted bedspread or the china swan statuette.’

In some cases, there is no family, or none nearby, and the estate has commissioned an independent company to swoop in and sell off everything. These are sad sales. They’re great if you’re in the market for some antique crystal or collectible vinyl records, but I find it depressing to find price tags on a framed wedding photo or on the cans of soup or half—used garlic powder in the kitchen cabinets. You can feel the presence of the deceased. It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels as if they’ve just taken the dog for a walk.

I was at one of these sales recently. It was the last day of a three-day event. The antiques had been snatched up, the jewelry sold. The estate sale company was slashing prices – there were bargains to be had. Not much inventory left. Knick-knacks, some linens, assorted kitchen utensils, a box of Christmas decorations. I scored big on a circular saw that I found on a shelf in the garage.

On a table in the living room, between a silver-handled hairbrush and a porcelain creamer, was a small pile of papers bound in a rubber band. The hand written note on top caught my eye: “In Case Anyone Wants To Write Our Family’s Story, Not Just Last Names”. Clearly in the hand of an older lady, the invitation intrigued me. I picked it up and revealed a few newspaper clippings and a dozen or so envelopes containing letters dating from the years following World War Two. I was intrigued. An invitation from the past. A collection of correspondence which might reveal anything. My imagination soared. The old lady knew she had a story here and she just needed someone like me to come along and share it with the world. As a writer, I could not pass up the offer and secretly hoped for something juicy, a story I could turn into a series of magazine articles or, better yet, a bestselling book. An author’s version of the garage sale find on Antiques Roadshow: scandal, fame, fortune, love affairs, treachery, deceit.

The sellers gave me the papers for nothing, threw them in with the power tool. I was excited to open and read my findings. What kind of story would I find? I retreated to my favorite coffeeshop, almost drooling with anticipation. As I sat down with my steaming latte to unveil the package of papers, my eye caught a poster on the coffeeshop wall. Cups and words intertwined with the phrase: “Behind every good cup of coffee is a barista and a good story.”

How true this is. Behind everyone, there is a good story. We all have great stories. Some folks may lead more adventurous lives than others, some may be more widely traveled, their days populated by more colorful characters, but when we sit down to listen to each other, when we ask the right questions, when we take the time to be interested and to dig a little deeper, we all have good stories.

Turn on National Public Radio. For every David Sedaris, with his tales of Crumpet the Elf from New York city in SantaLand Diaries, there is a Bailey White, a small-town first grade teacher from Georgia who lives with her mother. For every news reporter painting a picture from the front lines of the war-torn Middle East, there is a new father telling tales from the front lines of Diaperville. Stories are not about the breadth of our experiences. They are about the richness that we choose to experience in our everyday lives.

A retired friend of mine bemoaned the fact that, despite owning aspirations to write, he may not have followed through, in his words, ‘due to the somewhat limiting outlook under which he lives’. I think that’s just an excuse. Not only are there interesting observations and stories unfolding every day in his walks in the countryside and in the characters he meets, I happen to know about quite a few hair-raising adventures in his lifetime. He’s told me of them. Great stories, all of them. When I tuck my children into bed at night, they are just as thrilled by the seemingly mundane true stories of my school days, as by the crazy capers I invent.

Robert Fulghum once wrote a whole book based on the premise of asking people to open up about their stories. He sat in a bar with a sign around his neck asking people to tell him their tales. He got spectacular results. I think about the ways that stories have come to us – from cave walls, animal hide, parchment, ancient scrolls, and simple oral tradition. It is hard for me to imagine writing my stories with out my computer, but the greatest books of countless generations were either handed down by word of mouth or written out in long hand. Everything from Homer to the Gospels to Laura Ingalls Wilder.

And now, sitting at the coffeeshop, I had in my hand a potential treasure trove of stories, found on a table where everything must go with an invitation to a writer. I opened the envelopes and read.

What I found was simple delightful sharing to a mother from her recently married only daughter. A newspaper clipping informed me that the mother, Lillian, was a twin born in 1891. Her daughter Betty writes often giving her news of her growing family. The letters are filled with benign chatter about everyday life in the late 1940s and early 1950s. There are frequent references to the state of the garden – how high the peas and sweetcorn are, how well the radishes and asters are doing.

Mother and daughter are clearly close, often seeing each other at the weekends despite the seventy miles separating their homes. Betty enjoys telling her mother about the social functions she attends and the clothes she wears to each. She writes about her young sons and the challenges of new motherhood. Both the subject matter and the language hark back to a simpler time. Some samples: “What are you going to do the fourth? We aren’t going anywhere because of so much traffic.” (June 28, 1949) Little did she know what was coming to the area over the next decades.

“Our trip to Dinosaur was less than we’d hoped for…about three days of driving for a 2-hr look in the museum. The scenery was horrible, the heat worse, the roads even worse, the dry ice in our refrigerator carbonated the milk, the campground was full, both boys were sick, we forgot the camera; other than that, it was swell.” (July 17, 1951) I laughed when I read this. It helped me appreciate how much simpler it is to take the family on vacation today.

Many parts of the letters were about the weather or the seasons. “Gee, I hate to see autumn come. Life is so simple in the summer.” (September 5, 1953) and “This beautiful spring weather sure makes me eager to get out and do yard work.” (February 4, 1954)

Later on, Betty became a little more feisty in her opinions. “We also enjoyed the Republican dinner. I was sorry that Michaels couldn’t be there, but this Edwin Bridges spat the vitriolic phrases about as well.” (February 22, 1954) or “I’m back to reading Steinbeck again. He’s nowhere near as vulgar as you would believe (Grapes of Wrath possibly an exception) and as a craftsman he’s unexcelled in my experience”. (May 1, 1954). I was pleased to read these – it put a little more meat on the bones of Betty’s character, although she also shared the sensibilities of the typical housewife of her era. After a visit to Central City, Colorado: “They’ve re-decorated a lot of the Teller House – you’ll really enjoy going up just to look. That’s the thing about those Victorian rooms – they’re swell to look at with their carving and brocade and satin – but what a chore to clean!” (May 13, 1954) Always thinking practically!

The adventurous writer in me was disappointed. There were no real stories here. Just the daily ramblings of a young mother sharing her life. It was not what I expected or hoped for. The letters were not exciting or filled with intrigue and mystery. In one sense, their greatest value may be the collectible 3c postage stamps on the outside of the envelopes.

However, in another sense, these letters are priceless. The surviving family may have chosen to discard these artifacts of their past, but here they were in my hand. Concrete evidence of a daughter’s love and her commitment to staying connected.

As I log onto Facebook in 2009 to stay in touch with my family and friends, as I send out another batch of impersonal e-mails into vacant space, I wonder when was the last time I put pen to paper and truly shared about my life in longhand, in a format that could stay with the recipient forever. It’s been a long time.

One of my favorite stories is Margery Williams’ The Velveteen Rabbit. The rabbit yearned to become Real. His dream only happened when he had been around a really long time and had been truly loved. The wise old Skin Horse had experienced life. He knew all about being Real. He told the rabbit “You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

It’s the same thing with the author and recipient of these letters. Betty and her mother Lillian may not have lived the adventurous life of the Skin Horse, but they were around a long time and they knew love. Perhaps their descendants or the folks from the estate sale company didn’t understand. Their letters are a gift. They did not provide what I initially imagined, but they lead me somewhere else. An appreciation of what is real and what lasts.

Author's note: The photograph shows the pile of papers I found. I have changed the names to protect the innocent....

Painting Pottery

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it! Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!” – Goethe

One of my all-time favorite quotes. It came to mind recently as my family was planning a day out for my daughter’s birthday.
She was turning 11, a big deal. It’s a wonderful family tradition that whoever in the family is celebrating a birthday gets to pick the day out. For my 40th, it was test-driving a Mini Cooper and Indian food. My kind of fun.

She was struggling to come up with an idea that she thought we would all enjoy. Her top choice, skiing lessons for the four of us, would have been great fun, but became a victim of the post-holidays budgetary blues. She just wasn’t quite sure what to choose. So I, ever the helpful paternal figure, put forward a number of exciting alternatives: bowling, ropes course, swimming at a pool with one of those giant slides. The stuff of champions, a day devoted to getting the blood pumping and the muscles churning. “No, Daddy,” came the reply. The women in my family, aged 7, the last days of 10, and somewhere north of my age, had come up with a plan. We were going to spend the day painting pottery.

Now I pride myself on being the kind of dad who gets involved with anything and everything my daughters love. I attend dance recitals, I drive to horseback riding lessons, I sit for hours and help with piano practice. I’ve even been to one of these paint-your-own-pottery studios before. They frighten me. Shelf upon shelf of empty white vessels awaiting the vision, the splash of color, the deft stroke of the brush. Everything I don’t have.

Even the colors are out to trick you. They look a certain way when you disgorge them onto the palette. They appear completely different when you apply them to your gleaming white nut bowl or postage stamp dispenser. And then, four days later, when you return to pick up your piece after it has cooked in a kiln, the colors are something else again. What you thought was going to turn out crimson and daffodil is in fact now puce and ochre. Not what you had in mind.

But my oldest daughter was only turning eleven once and I am a trooper. This was her day and I could do this. My initial alarm subsided to crafty plotting. Rembrandt I am not. Painting without numbers was out of my league, but I did think of a way I could participate. I’d bring along my trusty laptop and practice my form of art. The girls would paint. And I would reflect, record the momentous day by crafting words, and occasionally help out with useful comments. “Yes, sweetie, those colors match perfectly.” Actually, I knew they would never ask my opinion on hue or tone. They long ago figured out that I have no clue about the difference between mauve and burgundy, but I would celebrate their work and enjoy my own.
Then, at the last minute, as we were preparing to leave, one of those really good parenting moments came to me. It happens once every so often. What kind of dad doesn’t fully participate in his daughter’s birthday fun? What kind of party pooper am I that I couldn’t set aside my ego for a few short hours and take a risk? The computer stayed home and I ventured forth, minivan full of family, to Ceramics in the City.

We arrived. There were squeals of delight. My older daughter picked out a framed mirror. On previous visits with friends, she had already completed the horse head piggy bank, the wacky penguin statuette, and the handy pot with the puppy on the lid. My youngest immediately fell in love with the snowman placard with “Let it Snow” in fancy lettering. My wife, already a pro at this paint-your-own lark, gravitated towards a truly complex mosaic project.

And me? Left wandering, staring at all those blank slates, wondering what on earth I was going to do? What shaped bowl would I pick? Did I actually need a bowl? What color would it be? What design? Could I design? Why is bisque, apparently the name for unfired clay, named after lobster soup? Would I still be pondering these questions when the creative womenfolk in my life were finished and out the door?

With internal tension rising, I did what I know helps – a few deep breaths and a prayer to the Lord God Almighty – helllllppppp! Then I remembered the words of Goethe. I also figured that if this didn’t kill me, it would make me stronger. Who was I to disappoint my only eldest child?

I opened my mind and came across a small oval bowl which I felt I could handle. Well, it’s not really oval but I’m not so hot on my exotic shapes either. I perused the three ring binder labeled ‘Ideas’ and came across some stencils. Perfect – I had been formally trained to stay within the lines. Armed with this new safety net, I poked my nose above the wall of comfort and began. I created – in a medium other than words. Slowly, bit by bit, the scary stuff evaporated and I began to relax. Have fun even.

I selected my colors, I designed a background, and took meticulous care over my final design and finish. I used purples and yellows and greens, smooth textures and rough. I painted a gorgeous butterfly and a happy little caterpillar. I scripted three words which I aspire to be: connected, trusting, passionate. I loved this project. I was in the zone. No one could stop me now. When I next looked up, my wife and daughters had washed their brushes, put on their coats and were heading for the door. Two hours had passed by. “I’m not finished,” I wailed. They were gracious enough to wait, but they were ready for tea.

The bowl now sits on my writing desk, a messenger from a place called risk and a monument to my own boldness and creativity.

My own photo.

Tradition

I often wonder about tradition. It is a comfortable blanket in which we wrap ourselves, savoring fond memories of times past and lost loved ones. It is a time for connection to the essence of who we are. It can also be a barrier to innovation and progress.

In my own family as I was growing up, Christmas was the season of both giving and ironclad invariability. I loved the warm cozy feeling of climbing onto my parents’ bed to open the presents tumbling out of my stocking. I also remember, years later, when my wife, a newly arrived outsider, dared to make a slight, ever so slight, modification to the Christmas dinner that had been passed down for generations. Twenty years later, my family has still not quite recovered.

I recently attended a Bat Mitzvah, an important ritual to mark the passage from girlhood into adulthood in Judaism, one of the world’s oldest religions. I felt blessed to be invited by of a former student, now a young teen, whose parents were kind enough to indicate that I had been a reasonably positive influence during their daughter’s formative years.

I was honored to be asked to read, in Hebrew, a blessing before she read from the Torah. I was initially alarmed at the thought of reciting in public in a mostly unfamiliar language. However, my beautiful wife, with forty-odd years of Jewish wisdom and custom behind her, served as an excellent coach and I managed to get through my few Hebrew sentences embarrassing neither myself nor the young adult in question.

A Bar or Bat Mitzvah is a huge deal. I have been to a few in my time. Some are simple affairs with close family and friends, words of love and respect, with a light lunch to follow. Others are marked by lavish parties that surely cost ten times what my wife and I spent on our wedding. Bands, magicians, limousines, extravagant parting gifts for the guest list of hundreds, the works. All over the country, at this moment, twelve and thirteen year old Jewish boys and girls are hard at work studying the history and tradition of their people, practicing the portion of the Torah that they will have to chant before the assembled masses.

I find it quite fascinating that this pivotal occasion occurs at the exact moment in human development when young teens covet nothing more than not to be noticed, when boys’ voices squeak between octaves, when adolescents are trying on the wings of independence, when the last thing a thirteen year old wants is their mother gushing ad nauseam, in front of their eighth grade friends no less, about how special they are and how grown up they look.

For this is exactly what happens.

On this particular occasion, the mother began her address by stating that she had promised to her daughter that her comments would be “neither long nor cheesy”. She promptly amended her remarks, again assuring brevity, but stating, in not so many words, that a full load of Gorgonzola was coming right up. It was all the daughter could do not to roll her eyes. After all, Grandma had flown in from Florida and the Rabbi was standing right there,

Mom spouted effusively about her only daughter: the toddler years, the first day of kindergarten, lying in bed together reading stories, recent trips to the mall where the two of them, by the mother’s estimation, gadded about like teenage girls. The girl of the hour made it pretty clear, by her facial expression, that she had a different take on the whole business.

And then it was Dad’s turn. He took full advantage of his opportunity at the microphone, so proud of his precious bundle, in awe of the beautiful young lady in front of him. He was loaded with wise counsel for this next part of his daughter’s journey into womanhood. One particular gem had been passed down to him from his own grandfather. An Emersonian ideal, it had been reduced to the simple “Leave the campsite better than you found it!” Truly words to live by, though the wider significance seemed to be lost on the great-granddaughter.

I hope Dad had paid someone to record the events of the day. I know that this particular thirteen year old, fortunate to be so clearly loved and cherished by her family and friends, won’t remember everything spoken to her that day. I hope that she will look back to her time in the spotlight and come to understand fully the gifts presented to her during the time of her coming of age. Not the material goods, the menorahs and the iTunes gift cards, but the stories handed down by an adoring family for whom she represents life itself. I hope she will recall and contemplate the pearls of wisdom passed down in the proud tradition of her forebears. These are the moments of true living.

How many of us, outside the Jewish faith, have such an opportunity? Every family, every religion, has its traditions, the ways it celebrates the passages of time. I love the lines spoken by Tevye, the father in Fiddler on the Roof: “You may ask, how did this tradition get started? I'll tell you. I don't know. But it's a tradition.” We may not know where are own traditions come from, but they are important. They matter and they present opportunities for us to teach the next generation. Of course, the next generation may not be ready for the lessons, but as guiding adults, we can only hope that they will sink in with time. For time and experience have been such powerful teachers for us.

I left the Bat Mitzvah service that day thinking about my own children. We are not raising them in one particular faith. We are what some call an interfaith family, although the faith, mine in particular, is somewhat limited. My daughters may not have a formal opportunity to participate in a religious event which marks their arrival into adulthood. When they are thirteen years old, a few short years hence, they may be happy that we spare them the sheer embarrassment of being up on stage listening to their mother and I wax eloquent about how long it took to potty train them or their first swimming lesson. I do have quite a collection of stories, some with photographs to match. But they may also miss the chance for us to tell them, in the presence of the most important people in their lives, all that they have brought to us, the absolute joy and love in our hearts.

When my daughters were babies, their mother and I designed non-denominational Naming Ceremonies for each of them. We wrote them ourselves. We had the extended family, the candles, the gifts, the festive food. We spoke from the heart, as did their godparents and grandparents. We promised to raise them as best we know how, to love and cherish them for all of our lives. But they were a little preoccupied at the time with the things that are steadfastly important to the under-three-month crowd: sleeping, nursing, filling their diapers. They missed the message.

But in the years since, another tradition has been born. Like Tevye, I don’t really know how it got started. Must have just happened one day, and then another, and another. No pomp and ceremony of a Bat Mitzvah. No distant aunts and uncles or hoopla or kreplach. No dancing teens or rolling of the eyes. Something simple. Something that hasn’t cost a cent. Something filled with meaning and sincerity and love. It goes like this.

At night, in bed, after the lights are out. It is dark. It is quiet. The toil of the day is becoming a distant memory. The bedtime story is read and put aside. We talk. My wife and I alternate. I spend part of one evening with my older daughter, the next evening with my younger. We talk about her day and mine, the fun, the successes and the struggles. What happened in school, which friends were significant, and what they had for lunch. Sometimes we tell jokes and sometimes we sing.

Sometimes we’re just quiet. But most of all I tell my girls what they mean to me, how much I love them, and they tell me the same. It is a sacred time of talking and listening, opening up, and truly hearing one another. We even have our very own special words for saying goodnight. The same exact words, repeated every night for years now. I would not trade this time for the world.

Like all traditions, this one started out small and turned into a routine. Now it is an essential part of life, as important to my family as the candles on the Menorah or the penguin on top of our Christmas tree. Yes, the penguin’s also a family tradition, but a story for another day.

As adults, as parents, we cannot control tradition. We have no say in whether our values and customs will be carried forward by the next generation. But we can lay down the tracks and try to start the train rolling in a positive direction. Our children will, in all likelihood, veer off course for a while, but we hope we have given them enough to be able to get themselves back on track. And we don’t necessarily need a party or a public forum to hand down our wisdom. We do the little things. We teach them, we hold them, we love them, and we let them go. And that is a tradition I can live with.