The Three As...

Our now 12-year old at the golf range.

Ty at his first soccer practice.

 I’ve been substitute teaching a lot recently, even enjoying a day in Ali’s 5th grade class. She has a fantastic teacher named Mr. Myers, who achieves a wonderful balance: creative but organized; strict, but fun. In English, they are reading Harry Potter Book One, and we had a blast figuring out the book’s POV (third person limited), and how each character’s emotions drive their actions (just like us!).
 
After lunch (and before math) I read to them from their daily read-aloud, Because of Mr. Terupt. The scene I read had the class in a hospital common room, waiting to find out if a character survived his surgery. When a surgeon comes out, the class holds its collective breath. But the surgeon heads over to a little old lady who has been anxiously knitting in the corner, and the kids watch as his body language conveys that her loved one has died. As I read this, much to Ali’s horror, tears welled up in my eyes. Ali was thrilled to have her mom sub, but having her mom cry while subbing was understandably not cool.
 
As they pack up their stuff at the end of the day, Mr. Myers has a practice of offering his students a chance to share “3 A’s” every day. They are akin to three flowers that bring the class together in a garden, offering them the luxury of checking in with each other about the day. (It's also a great exercise to do at the dinner table!)
 
The first “A” is Announcements. This is the glue that keeps a community together, something we easily and delightedly share with each other. On my end, I’ll share about how instead of taking the kids out of school for Disneyland like we used to in LA, we took them out early to experience all the rides at the NM State Fair (except the Zipper, Lauri Lee!) Lillie Grace is simultaneously auditioning for the golf team and jazz vocals, and is having a sleepover for her 12th birthday party this weekend. Ali loved her first art class at the Albuquerque Museum yesterday, and plans to sew her own Halloween costume. Tyler has a full IEP and has joined a soccer team.
 
The second “A” in Mr. Myers class is Apologies. Each student considers if they need to apologize to anyone for something that happened that day. This cements respect amongst us. It’s not something my generation was trained to do, but I wish we had been. Apologies create unity, humility and social justice. Apologizing regularly normalizes it. It’s refreshing that the kids take this as seriously as the other A’s.
 
The third “A” is Appreciation. Who has done something kind or thoughtful today? For me, it’s become deeper than that. In the same way that the dark enables us to appreciate the light, death warrants that we appreciate each other. And death, I find, is never far away.
 
Last month, I wept as my friend and classmate Hew tenderly eulogized his 24-year-old son, his oldest child, the one who looked so much like him when we were at Amherst.
 
This morning, in checking in with the son of a beloved professor now lost to Alzheimer’s, I was shocked to learn that his brother (her second son) had died in his sleep at the age of 64. Having known him through his mother’s lens, Peter’s unexpected demise gutted me. How, I wonder, are her surviving sons simultaneously living through their brother’s death and mother’s disease? My siblings and I kept each other sane while we dealt with Mom’s dementia.
 
So yes, Ali and classmates, when I read of the fictional little old woman anxiously knitting in the corner, awaiting news in the hospital common room, and of the dejected surgeon who goes to her, I cry. Because I know this moment carves a sharp line that is not fictional: Before this Death and After this Death. It is a line that forever changes us.
 
So many rush to decorate the line: “He’s in a better place.” Or “He had a good life”. Or “He accomplished what he came here to do”. Or “Be grateful for the time you had with him”.
 
These well-meaning words are weeds that choke the garden of grief. It is a garden that we must dig in and tend as we see fit, a garden that painfully grows as we age.
 
It is also in this garden of sorrow that the fresh fragrance of appreciation comes to fruition. It is an awakening to health, to life, to growth. Simply put, my loss nudges me to live my life out loud in the time that I have left, and to appreciate those still in it. My loss is that pit in my stomach that prompts me to speak up when someone else is struggling, or gives me the nerve to apply yet again for another job opportunity. My loss awakens me to appreciate the opportunities each day presents, and decide to seize them with that appreciation.
 
So yes, Mr. Myers and his fifth graders are on to something, sharing their Announcements, Apologies and Appreciation for each other on a daily basis.

Ali has decided she wants me back to sub, especially if I promise her not to cry when I read. All I can tell her is I that appreciate (and almost envy) her innocence and hope that the next book doesn’t take place in a hospital.