Searching for good

in a difficult world

I wrote my last post on October 2^nd, when my thoughts were playing over what we found while traveling along the coast of Vancouver Island late in the season: arresting art and better-than-expected weather.

But October 7^th stopped me. I’ve been struggling to find anything positive in the face of what the world has lost and is losing—lives, homes, security, peace. It’s a peculiar thing—this “lost & found” theme, pressing myself to seek goodness in the midst of loss.

Just now, it all looks like loss. Where’s the hope? I’ve read a lot of words, but none to set right what’s going wrong. Perhaps you have some thoughts to share…

In quite another vein, the other day I drove by the school where I taught dance for 16 years. It was a drive-by—I didn’t park. I didn’t go inside where the teaching and learning still go on… because it’s not the same place I taught.

Oh, its name and its corner cross-streets are the same. Many of the wonderful teachers I taught with still arrive every day, ready for the fabulous mix of children, from all over the world, who come to learn.

But, when I was there, it was a folksy place: two buildings with a fresh-air walkway in between. Every classroom had a doorway to the outside world that could be propped open for a breeze or a quick exit to recess.

My classroom was a stage.

It had a shiny wooden floor for dancing. Cabinets filled with drums, ribbon sticks, and props. Skylights at the top of the upstage wall. A door to the playground that I propped open for children who wanted to dance their way through recess. It had doors on every side, offering easy-access to the cafeteria, bathrooms, gym, four classrooms, and the playground. The playground itself, just outside my door, was delineated by some lengths of chain-link fence, open here and there to the neighborhood. At the start of a day, kids arrived from all directions.

The school where I taught was funky and sort of wonderful.

In the ten years since I retired, I never returned. I couldn’t bear the loss. The school’s been rebuilt, and the stage is gone. But I was nearby this week so I drove past and found much has been gained, despite the loss.

The school where I taught had been refurbished before the current times of fear. It rambled through unlocked, unlockable doors, between two buildings and from classroom to classroom, from gym to cafeteria to stage. The classrooms themselves were expansive, big enough for two or even three classes. We were open to the world.

Driving by, I couldn’t help but recall our lock-down drills—so far from perfect. Following a verbal cue from the office over the intercom, the kids and I would file down the stairs stage left, cross an exposed hallway by the bathrooms, and hurry into a storage room filled with racks of chairs. The fifth graders barely fit, but at least they could be quiet. Kindergarteners didn’t understand this game we played—of hiding in a tiny crowded space, waiting for a message to set us free.

“Sshhh,” I’d whisper. “Don’t make a sound. I’m going to turn the light off, but I have a flashlight. I’m turning it on now. Sshhh.” If I had time and was near my desk as the drill began, I’d have a book to whisper-read while we waited for an all-clear. But it was never really quiet. Smoosh all those wiggly bodies into a tiny space: it’s like trying to keep popcorn from beginning to pop after the heat’s turned on.

During lock-down drills, while we were smooshed into a chair-storage closet, every class in the building had to pile themselves into a tiny study room, where shades had been added to the windows in order to shield hiding bodies. However much we practiced, no one felt secure.

The new school looks like a fortress. It’s all of a piece. All connected inside, I’m sure, without outside doors, with no crossings out in the open from one building to another. The playground out back is completely enclosed by a chain-link fence.

Sad for the differences, I was also glad.

What’s lost: a friendly old set of buildings that rambled from one area to another, with fresh-air walks between and doors to the outside world.

What’s found: safety. Children and teachers are safer inside. The entrances are restricted. It’s built for the world we live in.

Knowing the students and teachers, the classrooms are surely still filled with the joyful bustle of learning, among children rich in culture and curiosity.

But I didn’t stop to invite myself in. It was a school day. A stranger such as myself, just curious to see, might have worried folks at the front desk. Although sometimes what can be found is bittersweet, I’m grateful to know the children and teachers are safer now.