“A saying from the area of Chinese medicine would be appropriate to mention here: ‘One disease, long life; no disease, short life.’ […] Once you face and understand your limitations, you can work with them, instead of having them work against you and get in your way, which is what they do when you ignore them, whether you realize it or not.”
                -Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh

                I’ve been diagnosed with piriformis syndrome, and it’s wonderful. I mean, okay, the actual having of it is a bit of a pain: a little pear-shaped (hear the latin? Piriformis?) muscle in my butt is too tight and inflamed, so it rubs against my sciatic nerve, and ouch. But still, it’s wonderful. Because as far as I can tell, I got my piriformis in a bunch by slouching at my desk, hanging on muscles instead of supported by bones, and carrying my backpack on one shoulder, and stressing so much at work that I stopped doing other things. You know, like walking. Like moving through the trees near my house, and noticing that the junipers nearby have something called cedar apple rust (which is gross, and beautiful, in a weird way), and that once every year a happy crop of baby spiders sail through the sky on silk strings, land in fields, and leave a world webbed with tracing light. And there are foxes. And friends, sometimes, to go walking with.
                By the way, the spiders fly by using electric fields.
                “One disease, long life; no disease, short life.” I’m a little uncomfortable learning about Taoism from someone named Benjamin Hoff, but all the same, ever since I read that line it just makes sense. I think I might well have gone on obsessing about work and forgetting to move for weeks at a time if a little pear-shaped muscle hadn’t have started saying ow. But it did. Now, mostly, I remember to walk, and when I don’t, there’s a building ache that says go do that. And then I realize that the ground is thick with today’s rain.
                Perhaps being hurt, being imperfect, being limited isn’t so bad. If I understand my anatomy (and I don’t, really, except in as much as a certain piriformis is explaining it to me), it’s the rigidity of bones and the pull of muscles that lets a body move. Or to put it another way: when he was teaching us to write poetry, Richard Wilbur said that a poetic form would be a cage when we started. And then, at some point, the cage would become a scaffolding in which we could build.
                Look at that (says Hoff, or Pooh): we all come with our own cages, our own bars beyond which we cannot go. And those bars can be the ladders we climb.

                “Mr. President, we and you ought not now to pull on the ends of the rope in which you have tied the knot of war, because the more the two of us pull, the tighter that knot will be tied…”
                -Letter From Chairman Khrushchev to President Kennedy, October 26th, 1962

                “I don’t agree, Mr. President.”
                -Llewellyn Thompson to President Kennedy, in response to Kennedy’s statement that an acceptable diplomatic solution was no longer possible. October 27th, 1962

                I recently fought with a friend. I don’t like that, but it happens, and I think I’m wondering What’s next?–or maybe, just as accurately, what’s now? In parts of my life they’ve been a good friend and we’ve grown together. In other moments we’ve felt far away, and in other moments we’ve bristled. But now, in the middle of this fight, after I’ve said things that don’t sound like what I meant to say and they have done the same (at least, I hope they have; otherwise, some of what they’ve said is pretty final), I find myself sitting here looking out the window with a few words from Khrushchev and Thompson playing in my head.
                Both of them emphasize not doing. Khrushchev feels how the Americans and Russians are pulling on this “knot of war,” and everyone can see the destruction that could follow. But they could stop pulling, Khrushchev says. Thompson refuses the perspective of his President: “I don’t agree.” Here we are on ground we think we can’t give up, here we are, angry, and pulling toward anger. It feels like there’s nothing else to do. But there is.
                I wonder why it’s so hard to stop arguing, stop sharing those little flames that heat the pot toward a moment when it really will be too late to take things back. Is it because I’m attached to being right? Is it because I want to feel respected, and I don’t? Is it because I’ve imagined the situation as a contest in which someone will win and someone will lose? Am I scared that, unless we both stop pulling in our tug o’ war, a pause from me will just mean I get pulled off my feet? Is it just because I’m afraid, and letting my fear lead?
                All of those, I suppose, in different amounts, and probably with some other ingredients thrown in for good measure. Whatever the reason, I definitely tie knots. I definitely keep pulling on them, not because I want to, not because I hope for or intend the future that this knot ties me to, but because I don’t see how to stop, how to turn toward something new. But I can stop. Perhaps Khrushchev and Thompson say that stopping, that choosing a new path, often starts by not doing.
                We are ready for this, writes Khrushchev at the end of his letter. Ready to relax the forces pulling on our rope, and then, after a breath, in a calmer moment, ready to untie the knot.

“This the room he painted to cradle the boy he was.
The painter’s step, the sleepers think, is the floor settling.
His breath against their skin, they think a draft or the night’s cold.”
                -Janice Harrington, “Topoanalysis,” in response to Horace Pippin’s painting Asleep

                Sometimes I think we’re all still children. And toddlers, and infants, I suppose, and adults; we’re cooks and gardeners, writers and window washers. Part of me is still knee deep in a pond in the early 90s, watching the pollywogs wiggle, swept up in the fullness of life that isn’t mine, and part of me is the child a week later, bored by the polliwogs my parents let me catch. Part of me is the child kneeling by the glass weeks after that, wondering how I missed the change, the moment when they grew legs and grew up and became something new. Those are just a few of the spaces in my mind.
                In “Topoanalysis,” Janice Harrington shows us a painter, Horace Pippin, as he goes back through two world wars (one of which he fought in) and five decades to the room where he was a boy. She lets the painter walk through that room, step on that floor, see that child. She watches Horace Pippin paint a room “to cradle the boy he was.”
                I think we’re all still children: kids with skinned knees who feel like they have no one to talk to, or kids who feel smothered, or kids who learned too early that hugging isn’t cool. And we’re supported, loved children, too: children snuggled up to hear stories, children exploring the creek, children gathering magic stones. Harrington suggests that these moments don’t need to stay locked in the past. We can go back to them, like her painter. We can cradle the children we were. I wonder what rooms I still live in, asking something, needing something; what did I need to hear? I wonder what rooms you still live in. And if you can find your way back there, if you can paint that room with color or words or sounds, can you recreate your perspective? Can you paint the scene with open blinds, so you can see the trees outside your moment of hurt, the trees you climbed in later that same day? Can you cradle this child so it can sleep, deeply and safely, and wake up rested?
                Reading Harrington, I think you can. I think I can. I want to keep thinking about this. I want to find the rooms I live in, and paint them to cradle the children I am.

                “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” -Marcel Proust, “Regrets, Reveries, Changing Skies”

                On my birthday–you know; today–I suggest to each of my classes that we do an appreciation circle. (I usually spend a few minutes trying to come up with a better name, too; a “Friend Zone,” one student suggested; a “round of respect;” a “grateful-go-round.”) The set-up is pretty simple. We sit in a circle. On your turn, you listen quietly while everyone else has a chance to say what they respect, admire, or appreciate about you. Then it’s someone else’s turn. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing you can require anyone to do, but I invite each class to try, and almost all of them want to.
                Today, at 8:52 on a Wednesday morning, before we all went off to our tornado drills and history tests, one student commented, “I think we’re getting better at this.” And we were. At the beginning, people joked and teased each other–they messed around on the surface, not sure about diving down. Twenty minutes later, they were ready to share the recognitions they usually kept to themselves.
                “You really listen, to everyone.”
                “You laugh at your mistakes, and learn from them.”
                “When I came here, you were the first person who made me think this could be home.”
                “I appreciate how you look out for me.”
                “I appreciate how much you listen.”
                Proust says there are people who help our souls blossom, who give us space to open into ourselves and share whatever fruit ripens. He says our blossoming is related to happiness, to cheerfulness. Perhaps joy reminds us that we can sink our roots into whatever we’re working on, and open our leaves to the sun. I wonder if the gratitude itself is another kind of blossoming. The more I look toward what I appreciate, the more I see it. The more I talk about what I admire in anyone, the more I see to admire. Gratitude opens, and I fall through it toward all the charming, blossoming, promising things that have always been here.

“Pine, catalpa, pin oak, persimmon,
but not tree.

Hummingbird, hoot owl, martin, crow,
but not bird.”
-Janice Harrington, “What There Was”

                I remember reading a science fiction short story (I can’t remember what it was, or who wrote it; if you recognize this, let me know!) about someone whose mind didn’t make any groups. He saw everything as a unique individual. If you asked him for a tissue, and pointed out what you meant, he would give you one; if you asked him for a tissue again a few days later, he would have to go back and find that same piece of white. Because that was a tissue. The story explores how this someone can’t function: without groups of things, he can’t open doors, use keys, or recognize food. (Imagine sharing a snack with him: this is Grape1. You can chew and swallow it. This is Grape2. You can chew and swallow it. This is Grape3…) Everything was a new lesson, and there were too many lessons.
                And then, on the other hand, we have Janice Harrington: our groups are too broad, too general. We lose too many identities when we define collections, when we make hummingbirds and hoot owls and martins and crows into “birds.” If teaching high school has taught me anything, it’s taught me that the same approach never works. Not with a new person, not with someone I know on a new day. There are attitudes that stay relevant–engagement; awareness; honesty; an open mind for their experience, for how the world looks from their eyes, and for what they want–but as soon as I find a “play book” and follow it, as soon as I slip into thinking people are problems and I can apply my past solutions, then suddenly my interactions slump toward meaninglessness. The only strategy, as far as I can see, is to see people, and then work with what I see. To put it another way, I’ve never successfully “taught a student;” sometimes, in a particular moment, I manage to learn with Bobby, to share an idea with Audrey, to listen carefully to Raya.
                As far as I can tell, we need generalities to function, but we need particulars to love, to make friends, to interact with any landscape as it actually is. Do we oscillate between these views? Is there a way to balance them, or combine them?
                I’ve no idea. But all this makes me want to learn a little more about the different calls of hoot owls, martins, and crows, and listen to them.

                “People, like all animals, were best when you treated them with quiet patience. You couldn’t go throwing around your own hopes, your own worries, your own confusion. It was better not to push, not to grab, not to run. It wasn’t that you had to bottle yourself up, exactly, but you did have to keep…still.”
                -Ted Sanders, The Harp and the Ravenvine

                Like lots of us, I made some of my closest friends in college. (My closest friends so far, anyway; some people act as though friend-making ends by your late twenties, but if someone wants to meet because we’re floating leaf boats down the same gutter, make faces at each other, climb a plum tree and eat ourselves sleepy, I’m in). I also failed, spectacularly, to make some friends. And I think it was because I was running.
                One person in particular comes to mind. Let’s call him Josh. If I’ve ever been part of a bromantic comedy, he was probably my co-star: we met through mutual friends in the dining hall, and then for a month or so, we talked about almost everything, we walked and walked, we were inspired and curious and drawn by related thoughts. And then something happened: a meaningless little ripple I can’t even remember. An argument, almost over nothing. But as quickly as we were friends, we weren’t. I haven’t really talked to him since.
                In talking about “interventions” with troubled adolescents, Dr. Gordon Neufeld says something like this: ‘Don’t expect them to work.’ Don’t expect one conversation, one brilliant piece of advice, one pointed punishment to change the course of how someone’s growing. We change very slowly, day by day. The impact we have on each other happens like that: not in one brilliant burst, but in the slow, soaking sunlight that helps trees grow new leaves.
                It’s strange, because I’ve also had connections (I think?) that went like Josh’s story, except went well: we fell into conversation like falling into a lake, and dove down, exploring. We laughed. We wondered. Except now that I think back through these, all of the stories that went well had something that Josh and I never managed: work. The work of paying attention to each other, of noting and respecting differences, of making room inside our closeness for disagreement distance. Not just work we did side by side, but work together so we worked together. The connection that started easy grew, sometimes, thoughtful and attentive.
                Perhaps getting to know someone always means getting to know their complexities and their contradictions. Perhaps sharing yourself with someone always means getting in touch with your own hurt and hurtfulness, as well as your joy. If we go running in, then we’re not ready for the new world we’ll be finding. If we go throwing around our hopes, we plaster them with our expectations before we can see who they are, what they’re trying to share.
                Maybe we’re all flocks of blackbirds. If you don’t go out to the park, you won’t find one of us. But if you go running and waving your arms, we’ll scatter before you get too close. Maybe the clearest way to get a little closer is to let yourself be still.

                “The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all young persons take their choice.”
                -William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair

                Thackeray reminds me that the way the world feels is usually a reflection of how I’ve been moving through it. When I’ve been sitting, helpless, watching things go by and hiding in entertainment, it all feels too big, too cruel, too fast, too overwhelming. When I’ve been walking through the forest it feels wide and beautiful, like tree limbs branching out and roots reaching under and beetles skittering along. When I’ve been writing, it feels like a story I’m helping make. When I’ve been teaching, it feels like a valley with the storm of another generation blowing in.
                Of course, some viewpoints help me see more and some make me see less, and the fact that one happens to be mine just now doesn’t mean it’s that important. Years and years ago, I heard a rabbi tell a story about someone trying to pray. They didn’t know what to say. They didn’t know what was right to say. They thought about it, and thought about it, and didn’t know, and then at last, with a shrug, they said, “God, if travelers are praying for clear skies and dry roads, and farmers are praying for rain, please listen to the farmers.”
                After I took introductory geology, I spent a year in stream beds, looking at rocks, breaking them open to watch the sparkle of the pristine minerals inside. I walked through a world of tectonic plates and magma chambers, of heat and pressure and more time than I could really understand. Last semester, when I got behind on grading, and afternoons became a blizzard of paper that I really wasn’t ready for, I felt snowed in at my desk: I didn’t work any more or less than I usually do, but I felt buried by the work. It lay around like drifts. When I walk out wanting something from the people I meet, then I feel them holding something back–as they probably should. I’m trying to take something from them. When I go out smiling and asking, laughing and giving, then I find people who could be new friends.
                The world looks a lot like how I’m looking at it. It gives me back a reflection of my face. I want to be mindful of the faces I tend to make.

                “You can only listen when the mind is quiet, when the mind doesn’t react immediately, when there is an interval between your reaction and what is being said.”
                -Jiddu Krishnamurti

                “For a word to be spoken, there must be silence. Before, and after.”
                -Ursula Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea

                This week some students and I are designing board games. We looked at some great examples (not Clue or Monopoly, or dusty things like that; Tokaido and Dixit and Sheriff of Nottingham), we talked about game mechanics, and then I expected something to happen. And it did. But it wasn’t much. Our ideas were sluggish, fumbling, incomplete. Then we sat in a loose knot, lounging on our chairs, looking out the window, and talked to each other about what we were trying to make–and suddenly there were so many more ideas. So many more options. So many more things to build.
                I don’t understand when people say they “aren’t creative,” when they say they “wouldn’t know what to write” in a poem or a story. I want to start pointing at things, at people: “What about that, or that, or that, or her, or him?” There’s a cascade of somethings to think about, to write about, to learn from–more than I could ever follow in however many years I have.
                I don’t understand, and I do, because I find myself at home with “no ideas.” I find myself sitting “with nothing to say.” Next time that happens, I want to remember that saying isn’t worth half as much as I think it is. Then I want to listen. Last week I visited a graduate program at the University of Illinois, and whenever I listened–to an archivist, to a professor, to a student who loves modern adaptations of Beowulf–I fell into another painting and walked around in the world inside, the world which, of course, was the one always around me, when I saw it more clearly and from another point of view.
                Creativity isn’t about closing all the windows and making light from nothing. It’s about hanging the prism of your mind in the window, and weaving color with light. It’s about welcoming in far, far more than you’ll ever send back out. It’s about the silence, before and after, about the mind that doesn’t react immediately with its own assumptions, and so has the chance to listen to something new.

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”
                -Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”

                For most of my life, I’ve been afraid of losing words and ideas. Usually I don’t mind losing objects quite as much, although there are notable exceptions. I hate losing books. In high school, I couldn’t stand losing my pencils. I had three of them, big, clunky and mechanical, that felt solid in my hand. Having three was supposed to mean that I could lose one without worrying about it, but it ended up meaning that I carefully carried all three around. When I mislaid one I went stomping through the house. It was usually somewhere obvious.
                Words, though: I worry about words. I have napkins and envelopes and paper bags with scribbled notes on them: thoughts I had, thoughts that were just beginning. Words that I hoped would help, someone, somehow. I still want to help, and I’m still excited by the encouragement or support or repositioning that a few words can suggest, but I don’t think I need to be worried. I don’t think I need to clutch at so many things.
                Years ago my co-director and I were talking about what plays we wanted to do. We came up with a dozen interesting ideas. When we stood up from the conversation, I asked, “Shouldn’t we write them down?”
                “No need,” he said. “We’ll be able to find them again.”
                I don’t remember what plays we talked about that day, but I have watched our ideas and interests spiral outward, leading us to new discoveries. If a thought was good, if it was important, if it is well suited to the time, we’ll find it again. If it was true, then it’s already had an effect. It’s a seed in the ground. Rainer Maria Rilke talks about arranging the flowers we give to those we love, and Edmond Rostand has his hero throw “armfuls of loose bloom” to a lover. We can do that. We can make bouquets. We can throw flowers. But there are also the fields themselves. What we drop might seed itself, and bloom.

                “To injure an opponent is to injure yourself. To control aggression without inflicting injury is the Art of Peace.”
                -Morihei Ueshiba, founder of Aikido, in The Art of Peace

                I don’t remember how young I was–10? 11?–when my Aikido sensei started teaching me to use a boken, a wooden training sword. I remember the first first lesson. He showed me a strike (maki-uchi) that sent the wood arcing through the air, and then stood a long step away.  He told me to stand still. I nodded.
                “Don’t move,” he repeated.
                I think I knew what was going to happen, but it was still surprising: he moved like a wave, like a whip unfurling. I watched his hands but couldn’t see the wooden blade itself as it flashed through the air. And then I could see it again, motionless, an inch from the side of my head.
                After that I started learning how to strike with my own boken.
                He never explained the lesson, at least not with more words. Most of his explanations had more actions than words: “Lead with your mind, not the blade. I’m going to tell you that again and again, and again, and then one day you’ll do it, and say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me to lead with my mind instead of the blade? And I’ll just look at you, and smile.” Or: “I can’t teach you the right way. You’ll keep finding ways that don’t work. I’ll teach you not to do them. And then eventually you’ll stumble on the way that works.”
                Recently my students read Le Guin’s commencement address, her comments about our society’s infatuation with hierarchies, competitions, aggression, violence. Half my students didn’t see what she was pointing at, and the other half started listing off moments when they’d seen someone admired for hurting someone else. The moments when hurting was seen as showing power, as showing superiority. And then I was back, a ten year old kid, trusting my teacher while he swung a training sword.
                Imagine a society in which hurting someone is shameful. Not just wrong: shameful. A failure of attention, of control, of responsibility. Whenever we trained with a partner, my sensei made it clear that our goal was to help our partner get better. We understood that we should be as proud of each other’s progress as we were of our own. We understood that, if someone trusted you to throw them and keep them safe as part of your learning, and you hurt them, then you’d failed in your responsibility. You’d stepped away from the path, from the Art we were studying.
                In swinging the sword, I think my sensei said: I’m teaching you to be strong. And as I teach that, you will learn to hold onto your strength. You will learn to control your movement. Because we are learning together, we are responsible for each other, and “to injure an opponent is to injure yourself.”