Space in the family of things

Sometimes I get jealous of birds who, as they soar, have so many directions from which to choose.

I like to run in the woods for this reason. I love the feeling of having endless trails and wooded paths to blaze down; I love the opportunities to fly over roots and around rocks--the nuances and variability is just endless and beautifully poetic. The rhythm one of improvisation and movement, momentum and balance, all of it a beautiful dance.

I suppose that's why I hate the treadmill.

All of it, though, corresponds to our human relationship with space.

Sometimes, we need space from humans. As Roderick Nash writes in my favorite nonfiction book Wilderness and the American Mind, 

"Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation."


Yet, at other times we need a peaceful, quiet space to be with other humans.

In spheres of learning, like the one I inhabit with my students at the school where I teach, everything is about human beings and the spaces in which we spend time.

Sure, the relationships are most important, but the links between autonomy and collaboration, between support and self-advocacy, are a constant dance of beautiful proportions. Whether academic or social-emotionally, schools are fragile places because at any given moment we--as inhabitants of schools--are required to gauge what those around us need--for themselves and from us.

Mac, a ninth grader at our school, spoke today during his "This I believe" speech about the importance of being outside...of the dueling personalities of wildness and peace in nature. And it has made me think of the ways I hold space for my students, and of the ways that caring for them.

The Rev. angel Kyodo williams (one of two female zen teachers of African descent in history) says, "Love is space. It is developing our own capacity for spaciousness within ourselves to allow others to be as they are."

And this is so much of what we do as educators: we engage in the space between ourselves and our students. We invite them into the sphere of our own experiences and we ask for permission to coax their own realities and identities out of them. Sometimes our students "need space," and other times they need us to fill their space with support and care.

Like birds, there are so many directions to fly. Sure, the rigid rails of the textbooks and curriculum churn forward like a chuffing freight train with a destination and a time table and a conductor managing the decorum and accountability...but the education of humans doesn't actually look like that.

In scripture, Matthew 6:26 reads, "Behold the birds of the sky, that they don't sow, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them."

The space between ourselves and our students is fertile. And from that space we harvest moments filled with both melancholy and exultation. But in both, there can be joy.

My students remind me of this daily. For them, on even my worst days, I want to answer the call of Jamie Tworkowski, who calls us to be "a living, breathing, screaming invitation to believe better things."

I realize I have drawn inspiration from a variety of people's words in this post. I will end with more words that are not my own: my favorite poem of this week, "Wild Geese," by Mary Oliver.

 May we, as teachers--along with all the teaching and assessing and affirming and guiding--above all else, find space in each day to announce our student's place in the family of things.