CHOCOLATE-FUELLED THOUGHTS
Butt In Chair
Start in the middle. That’s what I tell my students. “Mrs. Fanning, I know what I want to say but I can’t figure out how to start.”
“Skip it,” I say. “Start in the middle. Then we’ll go back and write the opening.”
Or we won’t.
Sometimes the best writing just drops a reader down in the middle of the action and tears off without warning.
But as I sit here and stare at the blank white screen and that flashing black cursor, I wonder, “If I don’t know what I want to say and I start in the middle, will I figure it out along the way?”
Writing isn’t a “hobby” and it isn’t like riding a bicycle. It’s a cutting of oneself open and bleeding out onto the page. It’s brain and muscle and sinew and Feeeeelingsssssss. It’s a practice and a discipline. And I haven’t practiced or disciplined it much at all in a very long while.
I thought I was waiting on the Muse to return after churning out two novels. But it’s been a hot minute since I handed those off to the Purgatory of Publishing Dreams and the Muse is the kind of random friend who responds to texts of “Where r u?” with a bubble and three ominous dots that hang on the screen for two years: (…)
I told myself that while I haven’t developed my own writing discipline, I’ve very much developed my practice by helping 150 other budding wordsmiths fine-tune their skills during the school year. And, yes, this is true. But it’s too easy to lose track of my own voice in the clamor of others’ halting tones.
So I do this instead. I black out my screen so I can’t check my email and I tell myself, “Butt in chair. Words on screen. Do it or die.”
Not physical death, no. But the Voice inside will die if not taken out and exercised once in a while. Not for work, not for student feedback, but for no other goal than pleasure.
Ok, I lie.
Writing isn’t always pleasurable.
It helps when I have a good idea and the thing I am writing is just for fun, but, even then there is a discipline to making myself sit down and put the idea into words. In fact, I’m making me write right now and I’m not sure I’m enjoying it at all.
Lying again.
I like it a little bit.
It’s even harder than I remember, but that’s because I’m out of practice and my Voice is all creaky with underuse. This little “essay” is hardly even a warm-up, but it’s the first set of scales up and down the QWERTY keys in awhile, so I can hardly expect an aria to sing out from the page. I’m ok with a painful CROAK at first trill.
CROAK.
CROAK.
CROAK.
(…)
Freedom to Fall
As a parent, I like to think that I’m striving to give my kids opportunities. I want to expose them to new skills, let them explore, try, and find their thing. I pretend that’s my goal when we tell them they should sign up for an activity or buy the instrument they’re fiddling with.
But really, I’m just looking for ways for them to fail.
It’s our dearest wish to see our kids thrive, obviously. But the truth is, trying something new often ends in failure. And, if parents are honest with themselves, it’s in the failure that our little humans-in-training can learn the most.
My son has taken up indoor track. Admittedly, we’ve pushed him into it a bit. His long legs and lanky figure eat up the pavement beneath him. But this is his first chance to run against anyone and, like any kid confronted with something new, it’s been an intimidating prospect. Failure in front of his friends is a very real fear.
We’ve driven him to practice, nudging him along when he didn’t want to go. There have been times I’ve felt like I shoved him out of the car, but he always returned after practice with pride in his voice at what he’d accomplished. He’s learned to take instructions from coaches on something that he’s done instinctively for years. He loves the camaraderie of the team, despite himself.
He had his first meet a few weeks ago. Logistics demanded that only one of us go with him, so I had to be content with clutching my phone and waiting for updates from my husband.
First came the text that he was nervously lining up for his first race.
Silence.
I sat very still and stared at my phone screen.
And then…
“He fell.”
That was all the text said.
“Nooooo,” I moaned at my phone. I immediately tapped back, “Is he ok?”
The next response was a video. I didn’t want to watch, but I did, through my fingers, as my first born son paced at the starting line. He was talking and laughing, but his body language told my mama eyes he was nervous. I saw him kneel down like a pro and I was secretly impressed at all he’d learned in a few short weeks with a coach to guide him. The shot fired and my heart pounded as I waited for the fall I knew was coming… It was maybe 8 seconds into the race. I watched his tall body rounding a corner, passing several runners, and then he just dropped out of sight. I clicked my phone shut and sighed out, “My baby.”
He’ll be devastated to hear I still call him that.
But in that moment, when they fall, they are all still my babies, all six feet, two inches of them. I held my phone to my heart and prayed for my boy, prayed he was ok, that his pride was no more injured than his body. I willed him to not be afraid to run his second race.
The next text from my husband confirmed that he saw our son across the track talking to his friends, so he must be ok. I blinked a bit. He was ok? It looked like he had face planted while running warp speed.
I texted my questions to my husband who replied. “Nah, he’s fine. He didn’t even finish last.”
*record scratch*
He finished the race?
“Yah, didn’t you watch the video?”
I looked down at my phone in confusion. I hit play on the video and watched that horrible moment when my son disappeared, only this time, the video kept playing. He rolled to the side to avoid other runners and was up and running again in one swift movement. I started cheering him around the track, whispering his name and alternating that with “my sweet baby,” only this time it wasn’t motherly compassion, it was motherly pride. He passed three other runners before the race ended.
In that moment, I knew that he’d achieved all we ever wanted him to – in track and maybe in life. He fell… and he got up and tried again.
It’s wretched to watch your kids fall or fail at something – to sit on the sidelines and be unable to stop the crash, or clutch them close to your chest like instinct tells you should. So we sit on our mama hands and cluck encouraging words to our babies under our breath. And then we watch, waiting to see what happens next. And the moment we see them tuck and roll and then bounce off the pavement, tearing forward with determination we weren’t entirely sure they possessed, it is a relief of monumental proportions. Maybe we haven’t failed as parents after all.
We’ve been telling our kids all along that it’s ok to fail, that we want them to not be afraid. But in all honesty, we’re secretly afraid of the first moment they DO fail, certain it will crush their delicate spirits or end their academic career. Yet there’s freedom in this first plunge from the safety of our nest. Because when the fall doesn’t break them, when their GPA doesn’t define their future, when their teammates jump in to comfort and encourage, we see them rise to meet the challenge in front of them. And we realize how much better they are for the fall – for having the worst happen and discovering the world didn’t actually end.
I’ve still got a few more years left of standing by to ply my son with carbs and hugs when he returns home, bruised, maybe, but standing even taller, if that’s possible. And when he really does jump from the nest to his next adventure, it’s a relief to know he’s learned the most important thing: How to get back up.
“The Lord lifts the fallen and lifts those bent beneath their loads. The eyes of all look to You in hope.”
– Psalm 145:14