We have forgotten how to be kids, huh?

Wouldn’t it be great

if there was a Charter School that

all adults

were mandated to attend

O  F  T  E  N

to learn how to be a kid again

or merely stay a child

or to dare be a child.          .          .

Kids would be teachers

and we’d all major in

R E C E S S

We’d learn their math
(That 1 + 1 = way more than two)

we’d learn their language

we’d learn their dream power

we’d learn their art techniques

we’d sing their kind of music

we’d have lunch time of ice-cream and cotton candy for a day

we’d major in mud puddle jumping

 J  U  S  T        B  E  C  A  U  S  E

 like Miss Emma

my colleague, Rachel’s daughter

who found pure joy

not by walking the zoo and seeing all of the animals

but finding a puddle shortly after a rain storm

and being ALLOWED by mom

to jump away happily.          .          .

ahhhhh.            .            .

to jump untethered in a mud puddle

or to go fishing in it and expect so much to catch fish

so much so

that you actually bring the tartar sauce along.        .        .

Pablo Picasso was right, wasn’t he:

“EVERYTHING  YOU  CAN  IMAGINE  IS  REAL; EVERY  CHILD  IS  AN  ARTIST, THE  PROBLEM  IS  HOW  TO  REMAIN  AN  ARTIST  ONCE  HE  GROWS  UP.”

This past weekend I became a child again.       .       .

but it was even more momentarily

than my several firsts go throughs.          .         .

We visited our daughter Zoe, our son-in-law Mark and our

granddaughter, Evey .        .        .

.          .          .literally moments before we were leaving

Eve forget to hold on to a coffee table and took

6-8 unassisted steps

HER  FIRSTS

and made us feel like we were taking our

First few steps.          .          .

my 62 year old heart

beat excitedly younger.          .          .

Some 12 hours later

a large part of our family gathered together

to celebrate my dad’s Birthday

We sang  HAPPY BIRTHDAY

ate cake, cupcakes, Birthday potluck foods

and celebrated that

L          I          F          E

is never made up from how many Candles are found on a Cake

so   much   as

M            O            M            E            N            T            S

.            .            .m   o   m   e   n   t   s

that aren’t defined by any age

so much as the endless child inside of us

desperately fighting to simply remain

a     c  h  i  l  d

reaching for a hand to hold

a dream to imagine

a song to sing

a  jingle  to  dance

a food to eat

a picture to create

and yes.          .          .

a puddle to jump into

again and again and again and.         .          .

Just in time to jump into a pile of leaves that begs never to be left alone

Life  is  filled  with

F     I     R     S     T           S     T     E     P     S

and D A N C I N G

our  A-B-C’ S

like TOMORROW

and YESTERDAY

is our forever

T   O   D   A  Y

and  that  our  best  creations 

are very next ones.          .          .

Now, that’s worth singing

H A P P Y     B I R T H D AY

with the loud refrain of

O N E     M O R E     T I M E 

]]> http://thecaringcatalyst.com/the-child-of-you/feed/ 0 2501 http://thecaringcatalyst.com/degraded/ http://thecaringcatalyst.com/degraded/#comments Fri, 07 Oct 2016 11:00:17 +0000 http://thecaringcatalyst.com/?p=453

Yeah.       .       .

I was   T H A T   kid.

I wasn’t very good in school.      .      .

I didn’t like it.       .       .

I don’t know if it much liked me, either.       .        .

I went there to play sports

and when sports went away,

I used it for a true means

to an   e  n  d.     .     .

I learned to beat it

M            O          R          E

than it beat me.

I learned to overcome it’s shame

and   D   E   G   R   A   D   I   N   G         G   R   A   D   E   S.       .       .

When I was in 6th grade we had just moved again;

It was the third school I had been in 6 years.      .      .

In retrospect.      .      .

it really made me the extrovert,

people-person I am today.       .       .

but it was tough,  t h e n.        .         .

Our teacher was Old School

in an    n e w   school.       .       .

She believed in motivating through humiliation;

When you took a test

she let everyone know what   S  C  O  R  E

they received by

Calling out your name

and putting your paper on the desk.      .      .

but just not any desk;

We had five rows of them.     .     .

She started by calling out the names

of all those who had received

F’s

by putting them on the row of desks in the fifth row;

D’s

were the Fourth Row;

C’s

right in the middle;

B’s

in the Second Row

and with drum roll anticipation

and great Pomp

T h e   A’s  

were reserved for   T H A T

First Row.     .     .

Yes, I can finally write about it now.       .       .

I landed not just in the Fifth Row,

but most of the time,

the last or next to the last seat in the Fifth Row.     .     .

H-U-M-L-L-I-A-T-E-D–N O T

m     o     t     i     v     a     t     e     d !

And then I found a way out:

E     X     T     R     A           C     R     E     D     I     T !

We walked to school,

which was a half of a block away

and went home for lunch.     .     .

I would hurry home

and eat lunch and then hurry back to school

so that I could grab the Encyclopedias

and come up with a 3-5 minute talk

about some interesting facts

of what we were studying in Geography;

I didn’t discover my voice.        .        .

I literally ascertained that my mouth,

the mouth that had been washed out several times with soap,

that got sent to bed countless times for

‘s  a  s  s  i  n  g,’

that mouth which could convince

my brothers and sister

out of their favorite Halloween or Easter candy,

belongs in a Circus—

all   T h r e e – R i n g s !

I did what everyone else hated to do:

T   a   l   k

 in front of the class room,

three days a week,

following our lunch break.      .      .

I’d tell them about the importing and exporting business

in Peru or Rio or Guam;

Told them about climates and what grew best in the soil;

What Winter’s or Fall’s were like;

I told them what the favorite hobbies

or past-time’s were in those locales and

I      K  E  P  T      F  A  I  L  I  N  G      T  E  S  T  S.         .        .

But I kept moving up Rows.     .     .

From the  F’s

to the  D’s

to the  C’s

to the  B’s

and finally.      .      .

I was sitting in the last seat of the

A’s   Row

because of a mouth that couldn’t be quieted or

D  E – G  R  A  D  E  D !

I remember one afternoon,

going in before school resumed

again after lunch

and working on another Extra Credit talk

while  S H E

was sitting at her desk grading papers

to a test we had just taken that morning;

“You found a way, didn’t you,”  she asked me?

I looked up from the Encyclopedia that I was reading,

getting ready for my next talk.     .     .

“Uhhh, ma’am.”

“You found a way of passing while failing, didn’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, it’s a good thing, because this test you just took would have landed you back in the last seat of the Fourth Row.”

I didn’t say or do anything, because I couldn’t look away from her.

She smiled and said,

“Congratulations. Well done, Mr. Behrens. You have found a way out of the way and I believe it will serve you well.”

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.      .      .

I haven’t stopped smiling—–

y  e  t.        .        .

or

T       A       L       K       I       N       G.        .        .        

Amazing isn’t it.     .     .

it’s rarely about Teaching;

Amazing isn’t it.      .      .

it’s rarely about the Student;

Amazing isn’t it.       .       .

it’s rarely about them

N O T  finding themselves

T     o     g     e     t     h     e     r

at the exact time they’re both needed to show up.      .      .

The Teacher doesn’t always Teach.       .       .

The Student doesn’t always Learn.       .       .

But.       .       .

when that exact moment

the two are on the Same Page

in THE SAME BOOK.        .        .

Learning just doesn’t take place,

M         A         G         I         C

h a p p e n s.  .  .

Who was   that   Teacher for   your   Student?

It doesn’t always happen in the Classroom,

does   it?

Maybe that’s the problem.        .        .

we look for the Teacher in a Classroom,

chalk in hand,

Blackboard at their back,

opened Book,

Power-Pointed Up,

Lecturing,

Instructing,

Directing,

Assigning.        .        .

Maybe that’s the problem.      .      .

we look for the Student in a Classroom,

slumped in seat,

doodling on blank pages,

reading the same sentence/paragraph

over and over again,

feigning attention.       .       .

 But the Teacher,

the Student

can be in grocery story lines,

or movie theaters,

or ballgames,

or swim meets,

or at a diner,

a car wash,

Church,

a Mosque,

Synagogue,

Cathedral,

Cemetery,

Drive-Thru,

Playground,

Anywhere.      .      .

Anyplace.      .      .

Anytime.      .      .

Anyhow.      .      .

Is   it   Today ?

Is it Right now

at this exact moment

via   a   blog?

Is   it

Virtual?

Did you hear it in a Song Lyric.      .      .

a Headline?

Maybe the truest question is

N O T      W H E N      I S      I T.         .         .

BUT      WHEN      ISN’T      IT ?

Class  is  in  Session.       .       .

All Ways.        .        .

Always.        .         .         .