"I'd be a flake, too, like you--if I didn't socialize," says my office mate and fellow literacy teacher by way of response to my response to her question about how to do something.
She wasn't sure how to prepare questions for her students, so she decided she'd model her questions after mine. When she had asked me how I did things, she held up one of my question sheets to say she'd use it as a model. I couldn't see from across the room that she was holding up my work. "Sorry. I didn't see what you were holding up. I had a flakey moment," I said. Thus her response.
What began as a simple question about curriculum became her telling me I am a flake because I don't socialize. Wow, I thought. The things that come out of your mouth.
She's half right, anyway. I don't socialize. Not much at all. I find small talk and everyday gossip and did you see in the paper that so-and-so died and I hear the mall is closing kind of stuff to be a drain. I'm not very good at thinking up stuff to talk about and I'm not much interested in it when others are doing the talking. I don't see it accomplishing much more than killing the silence, disturbing the peace, and keeping me from getting ready to teach my students.
If that makes me a flake, then so be it. I am a flake. But it's taken me 42 years to learn to say as little as possible, and I have reaped plenty of benefits from this lesson.
Just a few years ago I went on a silent retreat led by Brian, my friend and teacher. I spent 2 1/2 days at Wisdom House in silence and meditation. The 18 of us--who were strangers to each other for the most part--lived in silence and a strange solitude in which we eschewed eye contact and any other form of banal courtesy that becomes the small talk of social interaction. "Hello" and "I hope you are well" were understood. We didn't need to say it or to worry about it. Nor did we need to waste time feeling slighted when we didn't receive a hello from somebody. So it became peaceful, relaxing, and wonderful.
The only breaks in the silence came during the main meal. By that time we were so comfortable with each other that we didn't talk much. When we did, there was nothing small about the conversation. Whatever the subject, we got to the heart of it and spoke directly, honestly, respectfully. No competition, no need to be right, no need to dominate the group. Just thoughts meeting other thoughts.
Small talk on the order of office gossip, petty banter, and complaining about kids and the like produces nothing but tension and anxiety. I don't need that. So I am a flake.
Like a flake, I will go where the elements place me, be what I am for as long as I am there, and then fade into the spring. Nobody needs to know I am there, was there, might again be there.
She wasn't sure how to prepare questions for her students, so she decided she'd model her questions after mine. When she had asked me how I did things, she held up one of my question sheets to say she'd use it as a model. I couldn't see from across the room that she was holding up my work. "Sorry. I didn't see what you were holding up. I had a flakey moment," I said. Thus her response.
What began as a simple question about curriculum became her telling me I am a flake because I don't socialize. Wow, I thought. The things that come out of your mouth.
She's half right, anyway. I don't socialize. Not much at all. I find small talk and everyday gossip and did you see in the paper that so-and-so died and I hear the mall is closing kind of stuff to be a drain. I'm not very good at thinking up stuff to talk about and I'm not much interested in it when others are doing the talking. I don't see it accomplishing much more than killing the silence, disturbing the peace, and keeping me from getting ready to teach my students.
If that makes me a flake, then so be it. I am a flake. But it's taken me 42 years to learn to say as little as possible, and I have reaped plenty of benefits from this lesson.
Just a few years ago I went on a silent retreat led by Brian, my friend and teacher. I spent 2 1/2 days at Wisdom House in silence and meditation. The 18 of us--who were strangers to each other for the most part--lived in silence and a strange solitude in which we eschewed eye contact and any other form of banal courtesy that becomes the small talk of social interaction. "Hello" and "I hope you are well" were understood. We didn't need to say it or to worry about it. Nor did we need to waste time feeling slighted when we didn't receive a hello from somebody. So it became peaceful, relaxing, and wonderful.
The only breaks in the silence came during the main meal. By that time we were so comfortable with each other that we didn't talk much. When we did, there was nothing small about the conversation. Whatever the subject, we got to the heart of it and spoke directly, honestly, respectfully. No competition, no need to be right, no need to dominate the group. Just thoughts meeting other thoughts.
Small talk on the order of office gossip, petty banter, and complaining about kids and the like produces nothing but tension and anxiety. I don't need that. So I am a flake.
Like a flake, I will go where the elements place me, be what I am for as long as I am there, and then fade into the spring. Nobody needs to know I am there, was there, might again be there.
3 comments:
I think that a person's presence is more powerful than his or her words. Words are often misheard or not heard at all, but a kind, awake presence can heal, see and know.
You are underestimating the most powerful part of your essence
I have never seen snow, but i have seen pictures of snow and of snow flakes.
I hear each snow flake is unique. And beautiful.
And snow, which is piles of flakes, is beautiful too...
I am glad you are a flake. :-)
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