Create Space For Joy
How I was Reminded to Open My Eyes
During first semester, I felt a bit like my Aunt Barb. She was deaf. My mom told stories about how my aunt would argue with her siblings growing up (like we all do with our siblings). When Aunt Barb was done listening, she turned away or shut her eyes. She couldn’t see them, She couldn’t hear them. She wins. In the last month of her ten year battle with cancer, she got frustrated. And tired– tired of fighting all who weren’t ready to say goodbye. So she shut her eyes and turned away.
And early this year, I turned away too, kept my eyes shut to so many beautiful things in front of me. I, like so many of my fellow teachers, couldn’t muster the strength to think beyond the struggle itself. If I couldn’t see the beauty, I could stay frustrated, right?
But then Mary Oliver showed up. The GMWP leaders asked a cohort of teachers to focus on and reflect on joy in the month of January, sending the poem “Don’t Hesitate” as inspiration. I smiled when I saw the prompt. I had recently bought a loved one Mary Oliver’s poem compilation Devotions when I was told of her breast cancer diagnosis; I was hoping it would bring her solace as we know poetry can. She sent me the same poem my writing project colleagues sent: “Don’t Hesitate”. Ok, I hear you universe, even through clenched tear-filled eyes.
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it,” the poem urges. I’m trying, I promise.
One day at a table in the back of my classroom a student drew a character’s face giving a thumbs up on a blue post-it note with a thought bubble that said: “You’re epic.” (And joyfully, the you’re was correct, too.) The note stayed there for a class or two until a student in a different class drew a cartoon character who responded: “I’m glad someone thinks so.”
“A crumb” perhaps to delight. But joy was not meant to be a crumb.
Every day the post it note exchanges grew– more drawings, more words, closely lined up next to each other like a brightly colored post-it patchwork quilt across the back table. Students would scramble into the room and toward the table to read and point and smile and laugh about their favorite post-its, looking on the edges for any new contributions. They would leave drawing prompts for each other, they would compliment each other, they would rearrange the post-its, sometimes to the self-proclaimed creators’ chagrin– all while I watched their joy from afar. They knew not to shut their eyes to each other. They knew to look for more than crumbs.
Then other tables started their own mini note exchanges, offering favorite songs or Complete the Picture challenges where someone would start a drawing and encourage others to add flourishes to it, until nearly all tables were talking across all my classes. Joy was not meant to be a crumb. We are here, and we are here together. And we are trying, damnit. We have our eyes open, and we are trying.
And maybe it is harder to find joy now. Maybe we need to acknowledge that– that pulling your foot from mud is work, but that satisfying slurp of freedom is joyful. Seeing a loved one find hope in poetry you shared is joyful. Students smiling in your classroom and giggling with each other is joyful. Maybe this year I need to hear laughter to help chip away at the heavy that lingers so that I can see more clearly. Maybe their laughter and silly drawings remind me not to hesitate, remind me how important it is to create the space for joy. Maybe I need to remember that closing my eyes to joy in fear of pain only deprives me of joy.
Today I was reading responses from an SEL survey we administered to all English students. One question asked students what they wanted from their English teachers this semester to feel safe in the classroom. One student responded, “I’m not worried, just take care of yourself please. I know last semester was rough on you. I really care about your feelings!”
That student reminded me that she had created space for my joy, too, that we all must create space for each other. Joy was not meant to be a crumb. I’ll keep my eyes open looking for it, I promise.
