Bat Excitement!

I am rushing to prepare my 6th grade poetry lesson in the teacher work room, when I hear a scream from one of the women that works at the front desk.  I run out and see her pointing frantically at the hallway, while making an announcement over the loudspeaker for all students to remain in the classrooms with the doors closed.

"A bat!" she shrieks.  "There is a bat in the school!"

"Cool!" I exclaim.

I drop my stack of poems and rush into the hallway to find him.  It does not take long.  The poor, scared little thing comes flying over my head a few times, trying unsuccessfully to find his way back out of this strange building.

I stand still against the wall, watching him swoop for a minute, breathing deeply to remain calm.  Finally, he lands on a bulletin board and hangs upside down from a piece of fabric.  I slowly approach.

A few lucky students who did not hear the loudspeaker announcement and are still wandering the halls gather around me.

"What is it?" a fifth-grader inquires quietly.

"Whoa!" an eighth grade boy shouts.

The art teacher hands me a plastic container with a lid.  I cup the container over the bat to the background noise of "oohs" and whispers from the kids.  I oh-so-cautiously slide the lid underneath, careful not to damage his tiny little fingers, which are attempting to protrude out over the edge.

Once I have him in the container, I go to several rooms and tell the students to come out.  They are fascinated and I allow as many of them a look as are interested.  Some are scared and stay backed into the corner.  Most want to see him.  A few want to touch him (they don't).

I gather my 6th-graders to our classroom, where we are supposed to be having Language Arts class, still holding the container with the bat inside.  I walk out through the back door and towards the woods, motioning for them to follow me.  They look at each other with wide eyes, asking, "What is she doing?  Are we supposed to go out into the rain?  Where is she going to take him?"

"Come on!" I call from outside, beckoning them with my head, my hands tied up at the moment.  A few tumble out immediately, as soon as they realize I mean for them to follow me.  The rest follow hesitantly.  One boy stays at the door and watches us go.

I lead them on an adventure out back to the woods, in the rain, without our coats, to deliver the bat safely to a tree.  We watch in awed silence as he climbs out and attaches to the tree.   We watch him begin to stick out his tiny, pink tongue to lick up the water droplets on the bark.  We watch his furry body breathe rapidly.

Before we leave, I explain to the students that I have a ritual for when I see wildlife.  "Every time a wild animal crosses my path, I want to remember that it is a gift.  Do not take this experience lightly.  This bat has blessed us today, and I am so proud of all of you for choosing bravery and curiosity over fear.  Let's all bow to the bat in thanks for his presence before we leave." We all bow, a few with nervous giggles.

When we return to the classroom, I tell them that we are beginning our poetry unit by writing poems about the bat.  Here are a few of their poems, completely un-revised and written in ten minutes:

Student Poem #1
free
flying
soaring through
the air
people staring
people chasing
clap
they shut
the plastic object
around me
confused
scared
I stood there
still

Student Poem #2
Thank you bat
you're a helpless tiny thing.
Everyone is scared of you!
Why?
Why are they scared of you?
They close the doors.
They hide
they scream. . .
Why are they scared of
you? For you have
saved us from our class
and we got to see
your beauty and innocence so
thank you young bat.

Student Poem #3
I saw it there
hanging on the tree
licking up sap
It was right there
right in front of me
with its brown furry body
and black leathery wings
The bat.

Billy or the Bat by Melanie Cobb
Today was supposed to be
the first day
of our new poetry unit.
I rushed to plan the lesson -
a stack of crisp, white, photocopied Billy Collins' poems
ready to go.
Ready to inspire.
The day had other plans.
A bat!
There is a bat in school!
Flying through the halls!
I drop Billy Collins on the floor
and rush to see.
"Today is not your day, Billy,"
I think.
The sixth-graders have something more exciting
to write about.

Coexist.

The 7th grade students at my school are studying religion as part of their year-long theme of "Identity."  To begin the unit, they passed out questionnaires to everyone in the school, asking us to write down what religions we identify ourselves as.  Shockingly, I was the only one in the whole school who wrote "Buddhist/Taoist/Quaker/Agnostic."  This piqued their interest, to say the least.

As their final project for this unit, they each chose a different religion to study.  Part of their assignment was to interview someone of that faith.  At first, there was some upset among the students about how they would find people of these "exotic" religions.  Then one day, I happened to walk into the Social Studies classroom to deliver some handouts to their teacher.  This is how it went:

"Hey, I'm sorry to interrupt.  I'm just going to set these on your desk.  Could you hand them -" I say quietly to the Social Studies teacher as I sneak over to her desk.  I am quickly interrupted by a chorus of yelling students.

"Hey!  Melanie!"  They exclaim.  "Do you know anyone who is Buddhist?"

"Of course," I say.  "Lots of people."

"How about Taoist?" a boy asks.

"Yep."

"Rastafarian?" asks a boy in a Bob Marley t-shirt.

"Yep."

"Christian Scientist?" asks a girl with a blond braid and thick Uggs curled underneath her on the chair.

"Um. . . yep."

Over the next few days, 7th grade students streamed in and out of my office, asking for contacts of every religion under the sun.  The only two I was unable to produce were Scientology and Mormonism - and this I attribute simply to geography.

I guess I had never really thought about the fact that I have such a diverse group of friends.  The names I gave to each of these students are not of some distant acquaintances I met by happenstance long ago.  They are of dear friends who have all played a meaningful part in my life, and most of whom I spend time with on a regular basis.  

There was a time in my life when all of the people I would call friends were of the same religion - mine.  I surrounded myself with only those who thought like me and believed what I believed about life.  I certainly gained solidarity and support from these friendships, but I didn't learn much about the rest of the world, nor did I gain compassion for other ways of being.  I am happy to see how much my circle has expanded.

This whole 7th grade project has gotten me thinking.  What exactly do I value about having this diverse group of friends?  Here, for your enjoyment and mine, in no particular order, is a list of the various religions that my friends profess, and what I have learned from them:

From my Muslim friends, I have learned the value of community, devoted discipline, and the honor of being a woman and a mother.

From my Jewish friends, I have learned the beauty of tradition, honoring the ancestors, and telling sacred stories.

From my Christian friends, I have learned about zealous passion, beautiful song, and unwavering vision.

From my Catholic friends, I see the comfort and grounding that can come from meaningful rituals, especially when shared.

From my Ba'hai friends, I see a radical acceptance and deep love for the sacredness that can be found all around us.

From my Buddhist friends, I feel overwhelmingly, deeply, gratifyingly, radically, passionately, unconditionally loved.  Also, I have learned so much about the importance of stillness and silence in a balanced life.

From my Taoist friends, I have learned how to transform my mindset from "what can I do?" to "what is already happening and how can I align myself with that current?"

From my Pagan friends, I have learned the unspeakable wisdom that lies in every part of nature, from trees to rocks to tiny insects.  We have much to learn from these beings so often overlooked by other faiths.

From my Wiccan friends, I have learned that we all have power beyond our wildest dreams to transform life for us and those around us.

From my Rastafarian friends, I am reminded that insight comes from the most unexpected places, and that shared music and rhythm are a necessary part of life.

From my Christian Scientist friends, I have learned that the mind is a powerful tool for peace, transformation, and healing.

From my Agnostic friends, I have learned the value that comes from not knowing, and being at peace with that.

Finally, from my Quaker friends, among many, many things, I have learned to be patient with life; to sit in expectant listening and trust that a way will open.

Transformation Lesson

My 6th-8th grade advisory group is sitting in a circle on the large, blue rug, eating lunch together and sharing about our weekends.  Each student gives a highlight or two in turn, followed by a period where we can all ask them questions to find out more.

The students see this as relaxation time.  They lounge around, sprawled all over the floor and on chairs, eating noodles out of thermoses and leftover pizza wrapped in tin foil.  Little do they know that it is also a lesson.  I have designed this weekend-sharing ritual for our Monday lunch times purposefully to help them practice active listening and responding.  I am amazed at how much practice it takes for a pre-adolescent to listen to a story from their peer and then ask an open-ended question or give a thoughtful response.  They usually need quite a bit of guidance.

Today, Adam is my teacher.  (Yes, the same Adam from the Unconventional Methods post.)

Our sweet, shy, Casey shares a few quiet sentences about her weekend.  She says, "I took my dog for a walk and we almost stepped on a snake."  A few students shudder and make murmurs of disgust or fear.

Wanting to take the opportunity to insert a plug for nature-appreciation over nature-fear, I say "You know, it is a powerful blessing to see a snake."  Casey lifts one eyebrow, waiting for more.  "Native Americans believe that we share aspects of our being with animals, and that when we see certain animals, they are there to remind us of certain aspects of ourselves. Snakes are powerful symbols of transformation."

"Why?" Adam interrupts.  "That doesn't make sense."

"Well because snakes shed their skin," I explain patiently, secretly thinking I am wise for sharing this spiritual story, and he is lucky to be hearing it.  "They shed what they no longer need and leave it behind, reminding us to do the same."

I nod to Casey in silent thanks for her sharing.  She nods back.  I take a bite of my burrito as I look to the next student to share.

"No.  We're not like snakes," Adam protests, apparently still not finished with the topic.  He is shaking his head and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.

"Why, Adam?" I say with one eye on the clock, thinking about how long I can afford to indulge this tangent before insisting that we move on to the next student.

"We are not like snakes because snakes don't document things.  When snakes shed their skin, they leave it behind like another pebble on a shore of pebbles.  They don't try to hold on to it.  We try to document everything.  Like - my mom still has a photo of me in each grade hanging on our wall.  She wants to save everything from my childhood.  Humans take pictures everywhere we go.  We buy souvenirs.  We keep so many things and we try to re-live our lives with them.  But those things aren't real life, so why can't we let them go?  I get that the Native Americans think that snakes are about transformation, but we are not.  Snakes know how to let go of stuff and transform.  We don't."

There is silence all around the circle as all mouths stop chewing and all eyes rest on Adam.  Adam, the slight Indian boy.  Adam, the jokester of our group.  Adam, the sudden sage.

Once again, I went into a "lesson" with an idea about teaching my students something.  Once again, I am humbled by the stunning amount of insight they have to share.  Adam's speaking is exactly what I need to hear today.  He is right.  He is brilliant. 

And there is nothing else to say.

Scene from a 7th/8th grade Improv class

"Ok," I state loudly over the din of excited chatter.  The students arrange themselves  in cuddle puddles on the rug to watch their classmates perform a scene in our improv class.  I have drawn Sam, Bart, and Jerome's names at random.  The boys stand on our "stage" now, hands in pockets, shifting from one leg to the other, awaiting my direction. 

"This game is called 'Who, What, Where.'  I'll tell you who you are, what you are doing, and where you are, and you'll take it from there.  Remember to agree and build and stay in the same universe.  You are at the beach, about to build a sandcastle.  Two of you are children, and one is a parent. Ready?"

"I'm the parent!" both Sam and Bart yell at the same time.  Laughter.

"Ok there can be two parents, and Jerome can be the child, then."  I revise.  Jerome smiles and nods.  Sam gets down on one knee with his hands outstretched to Bart, as though he is about to propose.  The class erupts with laughter.

"Sam is proposing!  Sam and Bart are getting married!" a girl shouts.  More nervous laughter.

"I don't want to be the wife!" Bart stretches his arms out and looks at me incredulously, with wide eyes and a shocked expression.

Sam, still on one knee, turns to me and says, "Well I don't want to be the wife either."  He crosses his arms over his chest.

I want to make this a teachable moment for equality.  I want to tell them both to be dads, but I worry about what kind of intolerant comments will erupt.  I mentally run through the possibilities.  Before I can decide whether to go there or not, a girl from the audience does the job for me.

"There doesn't have to be a wife, duh.  You can both be dads," she yells.  I freeze, awaiting the "Ewws" and awkward laughter.  It doesn't come.

Sam and Bart look at each other.  Their eyes light up.  "Yeah!" they both yell.  Sam is still on bended knee.  Now Bart kneels down to join him.  They are facing each other, each on their knee, each with their hand stretched out to the other.

"Will . . ." Sam begins.

"you. . ." Bart follows.

"marry. . ." says Sam

"me?" finishes Bart.

"Oh Sam!" Bart exclaims, putting his hand over his heart.  "I thought you'd never ask!"

"Oh Bart! I've felt this way for so long!  We'll make such a happy family!"  They embrace each other. 

Then Jerome pops through the middle of them and exclaims, with outstretched arms, "And then I was born!  Waaahhh!"  Roaring applause.

The audience is laughing.  Sam, Bart, and Jerome are laughing.  I am laughing.  Not awkward laughter.  Not laughter filled with "gross" or "eww" comments.  Just hearty, friendly, supportive laughter.

And that's why I love this school.  And why I'm hopeful about our future.

Savoring Nature. Savoring Light. Savoring Life.

Every fall, to kick off the school year, we take a camping trip to Catoctin Quaker camp.  This year the entire middle school (64 students) and many of their parents all went together for two days of adventure and reflection in nature.

We hiked:

We searched for critters:

A sixth-grader turned over this rock and found a clustered ant colony underneath.

Two of many salamanders carefully caught by students

Fuzzy caterpillars were all over

A seventh-grader spotted these raccoon tracks and took this photo

We marveled at the natural world:

On our hike

This was noticed and taken by one of my sixth-graders

We lived in community:

Looking into the dining hall from a dark night outside.  It was full of the noise of laughter and clanging dishes.

Our tent village around the lagoon

On this trip, I noticed a sense of preciousness.  I notice how much we appreciate things when we think we might be experiencing them for the last time.  We have a large class of eighth-graders this year, six of whom have been at our school since Kindergarten.  They have been coming to Catoctin with their classes every fall for nine years; it has become a constant in their lives, as regular as the changing of the leaves.  They were acutely aware that this would be their last Catoctin trip, and I say that this awareness created an atmosphere of sweet, savoring, present-moment awareness for all of us.

After rousing songs, creepy ghost stories, and gooey s'mores at the evening campfire, we settled into a Meeting for Worship (a Quaker tradition of sitting in silence together in expectant listening for the spirit within). Slowly, the eighth-graders began to speak into the silence.  They shared all sorts of memories from Cactoctins past; some funny, some sad, some joyful.  They reflected on what is has been like for them to grow up in our community, and to share this yearly time in nature with their teachers, parents, and friends.

One eighth grade boy surprised us all with a long, thoughtful, heartfelt message about how he was choosing to be with this, his last year at Catoctin.  He shared that he has been thinking about and preparing for these two days since the school year began over a month ago.  He said, "I know I can't make these trips last forever.  I know it's time to move on.  So I am trying to savor every moment that I am here.  I'm trying to notice everything.  I'm making a picture in my mind that will never leave."

My tears began to flow in the presence of his speaking.  They continued to flow through the rest of Meeting for Worship.  They continued as we walked through the woods from the fire circle in silence, down to the lagoon where we would each light a tea candle in a red, plastic bowl and send it off into the water with our intentions for this year.

The candle boats on the water

I stood at the edge of the water watching the candle boats and letting my salty tears run down my face in the dark.  I stood there until after everyone else left for their tents and cabins.  Why such emotion?  I have done this for seven years now, and never had such a strong reaction to a campfire meeting and candleboats.  Perhaps I realized that, like our insightful eighth grade student said, I need to savor each moment.  One day, it will be my last Catoctin trip.  Maybe this year.  Maybe not.  We never really know when the last time is that we'll be doing something, because we don't know how life will unfold.

I thought of all of the one-of-a-kind encounters with nature that I had witnessed with students throughout the day.  I know nature as a teacher to all of us of present-moment awareness.  I know my students as teachers of life as precious.  Life as now.  I smile a teary smile at the red, twinkling lights before me.  I bow to them in gratitude for this unrepeatable moment.  And I "take a picture in my mind that will never leave."

Auditions

This sign was posted on the outside of the girls' bathroom door this morning at school.  Room 111 is a fifth grade homeroom.  I went to see about auditions, but they were in the middle of a spelling assessment.  Darn.

Snake as Teacher

Recess has just begun.  I am walking through the paved circle in front of the school, on my way to open up the field for the students.  I stop in my tracks as a thin, bright green snake slithers out from the grass onto the pavement in front of my feet.  I take a sharp inhale and hold my breath, put one hand to my mouth, and one to my chest.  I hear the rumble of footsteps behind me and I know that the students will be here momentarily.  I know that how I react will matter.  It will be a model for them.

I choose curiosity over fear.

I turn around and yell, "Hey!  There's a really cool snake over here!  Come see!"  Dozens of heads whip around to face me.  Dozens of pairs of feet start pumping in my direction.  "Wait!" I yell.  "Walk gently.  Don't scare it.  It can feel the vibration of your feet coming."  They slow instantly down and place each foot gently in their approach.

Before long, a whole gaggle of us are in a half circle watching the beautiful snake slither gracefully across the pavement.  The humid, fall air fills with the breath of our whispered questions as we huddle in wonder.

"I feel sorry for him," one girl points out.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because he's not made to slither on pavement.  I bet that hurts his belly."

"Why does he keep stopping to lift and sway his head like that?  What is he doing?" Another girl wonders quietly.

"He's gettin' jiggy with it," a boy comments with a laugh.  We all giggle.

"Look!  He just ate a mosquito!" A seventh grade girl exclaims.

We stand like this for several minutes, slowly walking in our half-circle formation, following the snake as he glides in his silky S-formation all the way across the pavement into the grass.  No one says, "Ew!"  No one expresses fear.

I am struck by their curiosity and compassion.  I am moved that they chose to watch the snake over play soccer or gossip with their friends.  I am inspired by the connection between all living things; it does not need to be taught or explained.  It is there.  It is perfect.