Tendrils of Empathy

Canada has a remarkable program used widely in schools called "Roots of Empathy." I learned of it in spring while lamenting the situation in a local school with an e-friend far away. There are details about the Canadian program at www.rootsofempathy.org. One of my teachers this summer is very interested in it. Such a program fosters emotional awareness, pre-parenting skills, sensitivity to the growth of a human being, connectedness. A baby is the center of the program. With a caregiver, the baby visits the K through 8 classroom regularly and many lessons are derived by watching the child grow, reflecting on what it takes to care for another human being, and so on. I think the program provides a framework for what may seem like a very obvious and natural process of learning to care and to be concerned and to feel for another. The process of learning or acquiring empathy is, regrettably, interrupted in a competitive, high-tech, rushed, cut-throat world . . . a world where, sadly, even school is not a haven for many children.

Empathy education is actually a hot topic in medical education today and in professional training in other fields. Anyone who has had an enduring friend knows the power of the shared emotions, I think.

I skimmed "Science News" recently and encountered an article indicating that we are hard-wired for empathy. In rough terms, we have the biological potential -- through brain and physiology -- to feel for others on a deep level, not just at the realm of thought. This makes good sense (but I should be paraphrasing better). The concept reminded me of the behavioral phenomenon of babies picking up the distress crying of their peers in daycare and then chiming in . . . crying in a collective outpouring of empathy. Or, the mass barking of dogs (on my rare walks around the neighborhood) to assert territory and ward off an intruder. That barking is the main reason I don't walk much anymore. And yes, I love dogs anyway. As human beings, we risk sadness, loneliness, and all kinds of ill health if we lack opportunities to listen and be heard . . . to be with others . . . and to have our emotions shared, even in approximation.

I think part of the joy of being a literacy tutor and/or a writing teacher is to bear witness, gently watch, support, encourage as words wind their way from mind to mouth or hand. Yes, on better days, empathy envelops both teacher and student like tendrils. And on bad days, it's a stand off, with neither having much heart to give to the process.

To Educators

Give her a crayon
and let her flitting mind
move her hand across the page
with the spirit
of a kite
on a summer day . . .

(I'll post the rest of this poem another time.)

Wishing creative readers an inspiring moment of kitelike freedom at least once today -- along with the secure sense that someone is holding the string at the other end.

Hope Against Hope

I have been immersed in my two graduate courses. Thank goodness. Teaching all year, I am on "output." The joy of being a student is to reverse the process to "input." (Not that I can keep my mouth closed in the classroom as a student. I just keep those questions and thoughts coming. Thank you to my current and past teachers for putting up with me.) I am the oldest student in one class and -- I think -- the second oldest in the other. This is probably good as I have spent my life the youngest of three . . . and here I will end my foray into family dynamics' analysis in cyberspace.

I have done a website analysis on bullying prevention for one course. To analyze a website is a bit like finding shapes in clouds. There really is great material out there, but it shifts so very quickly. I turned my project in today. I am reading in electronic texts and real books on violence, victimization, and abuse. For me, it is downbeat but truly necessary to probe these topics. I believe that bullying is akin to emotional and physical abuse -- and my perception is that kids, along with many others in our midst, have a bent toward incivility these days. I am deeply concerned about it. For one class, I will do a more scholarly paper based on several key articles on this same topic in a few weeks . . . and lead a discussion with some future school psychologists and community counselors (fellow students) on it. May I find strength.

I continue to tutor through OhioReads. If anyone reading this has any inclination to try literacy tutoring through that organization or any other -- now or in the future -- do it! To be with young children eager to crack the code of reading is one of the most inspiring things I've encountered in the past few months. I love being with the kids and getting a glimpse of their minds and hearts; I love children's books and the extraordinary talent of the writers and artists who create them.

If only the spark to read would not be extinguished . . . if only it could continue in their lives and in my own . . .

I have had college students proudly announce that they never read. I do imagine that trauma is sometimes connected with that total abnegation of a life-giving process. I can't heal it all, but I can gently support the student. To write, one must read. Something. It does not have to be novels by Dickens.

I continue to swim against the stream of some difficult circumstances. "Hope is the Thing with Feathers/that perches in the Soul . . ." -- Emily Dickinson, who knew that sometimes life really hurts.

Wishing any reader out there a moment of peace as your eyes light on this. Thank you for your attention.

Words Harm or Heal

The Dalai Lama is widely quoted as having said: "My religion is kindness." I like this quote. There is nothing weak about kindness in word or deed. We live in aggressive times, though, particularly in the West. Even (especially?) in e-mail, people can launch into mean-spirited diatribes against fellow human beings. It is one thing to be angry; anger is part of the human condition. It's another thing to fall into a habit of cruelty -- to write as if there is no flesh and blood human being on the reading end. To speak as if to an insentient being. To move as if aggression does not upset the entire cosmos.

And in homes. Oh my goodness. Only the angels know what goes on in homes. I have grown skeptical of the warm lights in windows. I think what I see on the road and in e-mail and elsewhere is a sad testimony to verbal and other violence widespread in our society.

I wonder what people would see if they could read a complete transcript of what they have said throughout the day. I won't even suggest a record of thoughts . . . just the spoken words. One summer, I was nearly deaf for many weeks -- a severe infection. I wondered how different life would be if my hearing were not regained. It did return, with some impairment and with tinnitus in one ear. That too is a cosmic sound, albeit a potentially annoying one. It upset my experience of deep silence and it has taken quite a while for my brain to grow strong enough to tune it out.

I am convinced that all life forms communicate and that our words reverberate out indefinitely
. . . "In the beginning was the word . . ." (If I remember correctly . . . it's in the Scriptures? Should have looked it up.) What was the cosmic word? Or has that passage been mistranslated?

Humans are not superior to other life forms in communication because of our intricate brains. A bird's love song, a dog's bark, the wailing of cats can be more eloquent and unambiguous. Most animals seem to live more fluidly in their emotions. They don't fake words, or exaggerate. What you hear is what you get.

As people, I think our hearts scar heavily when we have been exposed to cutting words. I'm not sure willpower alone can remove such scars. An ad by a recent hospital troubled me. I vaguely paraphrase: "There is indeed a cure for a broken heart." (It was an ad for their cardiac team.) The ad was ill-advised, and whatever was spent on the concept: too much. Many are walking wounded, and the clever pun doesn't "cut it" (to use another awful surgical pun).

This evening I was treated to a beautiful sound. I was about to enter the house. I heard trills that were unfamiliar to me. I looked up, as far as I could with my limited range-of-motion and saw a cherry-red-headed woodpecker with a slate grey body high atop a telephone pole. Now: That is a cosmic sound. It gave me peace for a moment. "And thereupon she was enlightened
. . ." No, not quite. Just a little less wounded, a bit more hopeful for the moment. Once one has been cut by words again and again, part of the heart cannot heal. Unless by grace, by time, by forces not in my power to control.

Lilacs: Now and Then

Lilacs

This was the week for being amazed by lilacs. First, there was a hermit thrush, knocked unconscious by its dive into a window, out cold on our rusty air conditioner . . . miraculously regaining its strength over several hours. When it flew itself to the lowest branch of the lilac bush, I knew that I would not have to transport it in a cardboard box lined with towels to the nearest wildlife rehabilitation center. I watched the thrush regain its life the day after I had learned that a student had died. A few days later, I saw that a lilac bush had been planted, per my student's instructions, in a relative's yard not far from beautiful Lake Erie. And, a day or two later, another student (out of the blue) sent me a card with a vivid picture of lilacs on the cover and blessings inside. What compelled this student to write to me: I don't know. But I still gain strength in looking at the card.

It is difficult to find inspiration in words alone when the well is dry. Nature is bigger than all of us. We too are part of nature. I have generally felt this acutely in my life, in my bones. In childhood, when elms that succumbed to Dutch elm disease had to be removed, I grieved. One year, my dad decided the lilacs had to be trimmed. Well, trimmed -- it was more like a horticultural buzz cut. I felt like a layer of my own skin had been peeled off, like the nerves that rooted me to the earth had been cut.

Sensitivity does help one live an aware life, but it also leaves one open for all kinds of hurt and disappointment. Sudden gifts of lilacs remind me that an enduring beauty and power pulsates through nature . . . and can reappear, even after the most barren of winters.

For Paula, My Cherished Student

Delivered at her memorial service, June 5, 2005 at 2:15 p.m.

For Paula

Who is the teacher? Who is the student? This is an adage from the Buddhist tradition. In the classroom, as everywhere, we are interdependent. Though I was her creative writing teacher, the tables turn quickly with people like Paula around. I loved watching her writing grow. I was inspired by her. Over the years, she wrote science fiction, opinion pieces, children's stories, and more.

She liked to enter other characters' minds from time to time; one memorable piece she wrote was about a man sitting at a table with a hearing device turned up full blast so that he could eavesdrop on others' conversations. Although he thinks this will be great fun, he has the misfortune of overhearing a plot to take over the world. No one, of course, will believe him. As I read this passage from one of Paula's very short stories, perhaps listen for the bit of social criticism.

". . . what I heard was that they were from another planet and were planning to take over the earth! They were shooting for the year 2025 since their scientists said their planet was going to be destroyed by a meteor in 2030! They were sure that there wouldn't be any opposition from the people on earth -- because by that time almost everyone would be dependent upon the computer to think! In addition to that, people would also have difficulty in relating to each other . . ."

Paula had gotten the idea for "The Eavesdropper" by a picture of a hearing amplifier in a health products catalog.

I can still hear her deep and resonant voice -- a voice with expression in every syllable. But a great voice without any content would ring hollow. Paula had opinions on everything, and that is part of what made her an activist for causes she cared about, a great writer, and a friend.

Among her other memorable projects: I recall the children's story about a male ladybug and a female daddy-long-legs, both in the heart of an identity crisis. She read it to us in class, a test flight. Some time later, she entered it into a bookstore's writing competition, and it was one of the winners.

I also believe Paula was a bit of a visionary or psychic or -- if you prefer -- intuitive. Her angel on her shoulder pin was testimony that though she once was quite skeptical, she did have an experience or two that suggested that there was more to life than meets the pragmatic eye.

She was part of the OASIS group that, together with John Hay High School students, wrote a collection of creative work that was placed in Cleveland's Bicentennial/Tricentennial time capsule in 1996. If all goes as planned, it will be opened in ninety-one years.

A time capsule. What better place for Paula's insights and her expressive face (there is a picture of her in it) to live on. One of the class assignments was:

What do you think life will be like in the year 2096? I will read just a few of Paula's predictions:

1. "Instead of taking baths, showers, and so on, one steps into a stall and is dry cleaned."

2. "Rain and snow are caught before reaching the ground and go through a cleansing process so they can be used."

3. "Most schooling is done through the computer. And since the average life span is close to two hundred years, one usually has several careers.

In our last phone conversation, we planned to get together for tea. In that conversation, I let on that I was in the heart of a family crisis. She shared astute advice and the same wry insight that characterized her best writing.

I suspect that if there are choices of vocation in the next world, Paula will be on the inspiration management team.

I will miss her. I know everyone here will. Her short red hair, expressive glasses, rapt attention, clear voice, ingenious ideas, probing questions, humor, compassion. The angel pin on the shoulder pad of her businesslike blazer. She was pragmatic, imaginative, blunt, warm, a mature woman who could access the creative spirit that too many lose early in life.

Paula: Thank you for being my teacher.


Copyright 2005 by Maria Shine Stewart
Cleveland, Ohio