Optimism, Resting

It’s almost July and after a year of busy weirdness I’m going to take a week or so off. The sun is hovering over Oregon, the days long and the nights still cool, a perfect time to step away for a few days. 

I hope to find myself in a kayak, walk the dog in the woods, and maybe even sleep in past six. I’d like to have a week where the only problem I have to solve is figuring out clues before Maigret or Dalgliesh.

Moving trucks will pull up at our temporary campus next week and by the time I get back we’ll be back on Center Street in a beautiful new building ready to start beginning to begin starting to start to begin to get ready for a new year. 

Truth be told, the planning for next year has already taken its first steps. Back in May we held our annual calendar meeting, where we laid out dates for the shows, concerts, and events that bring artistic life to our school (so many of which had to be put aside in 2020-2021). There’s an optimism on campus that we’ll be back on stage and in front of audiences when we return in the fall. The details and final plans are still on the shelf —a shelf that is not my shelf; we’ll be told the rules as we get closer to the first day of school— but that optimism is real and something some of us haven’t felt this much since before March of last year.

But as real as it is, our collective optimism is still June-tired. We all need to recharge, breathe deeply of some summer air, and find a cold river where we can get our feet wet.

That’s my plan for next week and throughout the summer. You’ll see fewer posts on this Skins of Ill Shaped Fishes in July and that’s okay. It’s summer after all and all of us could use a little more popular fiction than my silly musings.

So thank you, gentle reader, for visiting this modest apothecary. I wish you all a bit of rest, a bit of fun, and the hope that comes when optimism gets a good night’s sleep.

And in the end…

Summer starts next week, the rapids of the end of the school year slowing as the river of life widens into the more placid flow of summer vacation. We’re all ready, I think.

The days are more reliably sunny now, stretching well past nine o’clock, a bugbear to parents of elementary school kids who have no interest in bedtime before dark, but a harbinger that summer is coming soon.

In that spirit, a couple of weeks ago a friend reminded me of some lines from a poem by James Russell Lowell, “The Vision of Sir Launfal.”

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature’s palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o’errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop over-fills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
‘Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky…

The notion that “every clod feels a stir of might” is one to cling to as we put the school year behind us and look forward to a deep breath of summer air and then a return to school with a new energy and renewed connections. 

Before that… time to “sit in the warm shade and feel right well.”

Lowell is swell and all that, but it’s about this time of year that I think of another couple of poets, Lennon and McCartney, who told the world that “in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

This pandemic and the last year and a half of adjusting to it in ways unexpected and unrelenting is a reminder that in the end it’s love that really matters. Now, in this “high-tide of the year,” I look forward to some days when “whatever of life hath ebbed away / Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer.”

Traditionally Different

This year will look different, of course. Commencement, like everything else since March of 2020, isn’t the same as it always has been.

It will look different than last year too, when we had to do everything online, much to the disappointment of more than a few seniors.

Graduation for the class of 2021 will be a series of firsts for ACMA. The first outdoor ceremony. The first time we aren’t celebrating at our home on Center Street and the first time graduates will sit with their families (in socially distanced pods of chairs).

There will be a few things that feel the same. We’ll begin the ceremony with bagpipes and end with Joe Avery’s Second Line. The heart of the day will be student speakers and a thoughtful staff address, and we’ll livestream it all for relatives who can’t make it to campus.

We’re putting the finishing touches on the ceremony this week and as the principal, with the honor and the obligation of addressing the class, I’m working on what I’ll deliver as a speech.

In years past I’ve been unconventional (a poem by Cavafy, a video, a three word speech) but this year it feels like I ought to make a nod to something that looks more familiar. Now this doesn’t mean I’ll be quoting Dr. Seuss or riffing about the definition of the world commencement, but I do feel like the structure of a speech might need to feel more traditional.

I’ve toyed with a few ideas, and as the hours tick away before I need to send something to the ASL translators who will be working the event I think I’ve just about settled on something that (I hope) brings to the fore what is most important about our work: the people.

One of the lessons most brought home by this pandemic and the reshuffling we’ve had to do for the past many months is that it’s not the building or the classes that define our school, it’s not the performances or pieces of art we produce (though both of those things are important too), but it is the relationships shared by the people (adult and student) who make up our school. It’s those people and relationships that I’ll do my best to speak to on Saturday. It will take me more than three words, I don’t have a poem or a green screen, and…

It’s okay to be different, particularly this year.

Boxes Before Boats

June. Tomorrow. After the sun and rain and ups and downs of May we enter the final dozen days of the school year with the hurried shamble of a modern cinema zombie. Our seniors, a group of students who have felt profound impact on their education from this COVID experience, are preparing for graduation; our juniors, who tell me that they see a light at the end of this proverbial tunnel (“Next year will be a fresh start!” is a sentiment I’ve heard more than a few times this spring); and most of the rest seem ready to put 2020-2021 to rest and get about whatever the summer is all about. It’s easy to socially distance in a kayak.

But we have a lot packed into these last weeks, including (at our school) literal packing.

Right now everything we own is finding its way into boxes and before the end of June moving trucks will pull up at our temporary home and tote everything from easels to dance floors, books, boxes, and a ridiculously heavy pugger in the ceramics room over to our new campus. 

While all this packing is going on, our students and teachers are pushing hard toward the end of the semester. There are kilns to load, monologues to deliver, essays to write, and paintings to be shared with others. In a normal year this isn’t easy and this is not a normal year.

This year all of us have been physically separated in ways we never imagined before the pandemic. We’ve learned to adjust and adapt, to make do, to make peace, and to make our way in a way that feels strange and sometimes stressful. 

We’ve been learning remotely for more than a year, adding hybrid to the mix a few months ago, and slogging away as best we can. Along the way we still face responsibilities, obligations, and the opportunities to make a difference. Those opportunities aren’t easier in this environment and the results aren’t certain. And we keep going.

We engage, we create, we stumble to engage and create. We work hard, try harder, and sometimes find that our efforts and hard work aren’t quite enough. Sometimes they are, don’t get me wrong, but for many of us the past few months, and the past few weeks in particular have challenged us to the edge of our stress levels.

That’s just real, and the times we show and are shown grace make such a difference.

We can get this done. We’ll finish the school year. We’ll have a commencement ceremony. We’ll finish packing. We’ll move forward (and literally move as well).

And then, of course, we need to breathe.

Summer is a good time to take a breath. With a few fewer deadlines, the opportunity to turn off the alarm clock, and longer days that invite adventure, late June, July, and early August offer the space to move through the world at a different pace. This year more than ever that feels important.

Because in the fall we return to campus, a space new to us all and filled with more possibility than memories. We have a community to reconnect with, a batch of friends to be made or celebrated in person again, and a school year to start with aplomb.

But first, packing, those final projects, and throwing mortar boards into the air …and paddling our kayaks out into the lake.

Seeds Under Earth

“Some periods of our growth are so confusing that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening. We may feel hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical, or we may feel depressed. It would never occur to us, unless we stumbled on a book or a person who explained to us, that we were in fact in the process of change, of actually becoming larger, spiritually, than we were before. Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth as it seeks to break out of its shell on its way to becoming a plant. Often the feeling is anything but pleasant. But what is most unpleasant is the not knowing what is happening. Those long periods when something inside ourselves seems to be waiting, holding its breath, unsure about what the next step should be, eventually become the periods we wait for, for it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed.”   ― Alice Walker

We are certainly in a period of growth.

Two years ago our school packed up more than twenty years of memories (and dance costumes, and boxes of clay, and books, so many books, and tubes of paint) and moved across town as bulldozers razed a building we loved to make way for a new campus that was still a dream. Our initial thoughts were tinted with emotion. We wept a bit at the loss of a familiar home and leapt into a future uncertain of what it would feel like to learn somewhere else.

But we’re creative souls and over the first few months at our temporary building we adapted (and then adapted again when a leaky roof at a nearby K-5 school swelled our school with elementary students) and found that we could make art even in unfamiliar climes. Heck, in February we put on a three stage spectacular in the venues we’d made out of a gym converted into a dance studio, a commons made into a music stage, and a black box theater that had hosted the musical Cabaret. It was awesome, and less than a month later we found ourselves learning from home, campus empty as a result of a global pandemic.

We grew again over the months and months and months we were apart. As Alice Walker described it, “Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth as it seeks to break out of its shell on its way to becoming a plant. Often the feeling is anything but pleasant. But what is most unpleasant is the not knowing what is happening.” We didn’t know what was happening, not from month to month, week to week, or sometimes day to day. And yet, like that seed in her description of growth, we pushed upward.

Sometimes the weight of learning (and teaching) alone was crushing. Sometimes we felt “hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical” and even as we looked around for something or someone to give us perspective we found little to reassure us. And yet, like that seed, we pushed upward.

The partial return to school has felt like a sliver of sunlight to some of us. It is not school as we knew it, but it is not school as we have known it for the past year or so. And the next year?

The next year we return to a campus we’ve never been on before. The new building stands on the same ground our school has occupied for as long as we’ve been a school. New construction connects with the established performing arts center that has been a part of our collective experience for more than a decade. Much about the new place will remind and reassure folks that our history and our traditions (and our art too) matter very much. Wainscoting from the old building has been salvaged and installed on the reception desk in the main office and the library circulation desk in the new building. Artwork from our permanent collection, some of which has been in storage for two years, will go back up on walls. Students, staff, and alumni should step into the new building and feel like they’re coming home.

But just as the building has changed, those students, staff, and alumni have changed too. The past two years have seen societal change and personal change in our world and in our hearts. The strange feeling of separation so many of us have felt, only now being chipped away at by coming to campus and seeing each other, well some of each other, again, has made those changes in ourselves and our world feel stranger still. And yet I want to believe Alice Walker when she says: “it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed.” 

A few months from now my school will be in a new building, our third in four years, and while I don’t know what COVID restrictions will look like in the fall I imagine that as the months stretch on we’ll see more and more of each other. Performances will resume in person. Classes will be filled with students. Laughter will echo in the hallways and the piano in our commons will bring music back to the masses.

But Depeche Mode references aside, this growth has been confusing and frustrating and hard. And… we are strongest when we are here for one another. We are best able to grow and change for the better when we are each other’s support. As a school, as a community, as human beings, we can come out of these two years of change stronger, kinder, and more filled with hope. 

Put another way… “Hang on Little Tomato” by Pink Martini.

Hope Springs Eternal

The sun is shining today. In Oregon in spring that’s something.

For more than a decade I lived in a state where summer weather stayed year round. After having grown up in the Pacific Northwest it never felt entirely right that a day in February could see sun, shorts, and the potential for a trip to the beach. Wildfire season never ended, paddle boards never needed to be put away, and the few times it rained were novelties. As bucolic as that was, it never quite felt real. 

When a few years ago my family moved back to Oregon, leaving the land of the Lotus Eaters to the south, I was reminded of the value of seasons in my life. Summer is beautiful, hot, and filled with the whispers of a cold river. In the fall fields flood, you can see your breath, and there’s uncertainty whether it will rain on the trick or treaters. Winter chills. Fireplaces mean something in Oregon and January reminds us all of the importance of a good pair of boots. And then… spring.

The sun is shining today. It wasn’t last week and may not be in another day or two, but that same sun that is warming me through the window now will be back for a longer visit soon. 

For me each season compliments the next. Winter’s gray and spring’s green, summer’s gold and fall’s red leaves all help me appreciate the movement of time and the ebb and flow of life around me.

And it struck me today, as I looked up from a busy day at work juggling the demands of “hybrid instruction” at a school that is strongest when we can all be together making art, making friends, and making community, that same sun I see on this May day will smile down on my school through the move back to our permanent campus, the planning of a fall that will look different than school this spring, and the opening of a school year (still months away) that will be filled with hope and expectation and more than little joy.

This same sun that is seeing us struggle to navigate a world of pandemic and imperfection will be there after we’ve taken a deep breath of summer air and readied ourselves for the year to come. Today we’re muddling through; tomorrow we’ll be striding forward.

I’m an optimist. I don’t know what the fall will bring, not exactly anyway, but on this sunny day I can picture something to look forward to. That hope, it seems to me, is what spring is all about.

May the 4th

I heard R2 beeping before he rolled around the corner of my office followed close behind by the laughter of my bookkeeper, a counselor, and the custodian who was piloting the little robot. A few feet away in the main office, beneath a life sized inflatable stormtrooper and a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia a few students laughed with my receptionist and head secretary, hardly noticing the plexiglass that rose between them or the masks we all wore, focusing instead on the inflatable lightsabers and giant plush Yoda on the counter. We all needed that laughter.

Seeing our students on campus, all of our students, feels like it was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

We laughed a lot together before the pandemic drove us off campus, applauded more than you’d expect, and were inclined to nuttiness. For a few months all three of those things have felt a little on hold. And today, May 4th, we got a glimpse of what it will be like again.

Throughout the months since we left campus we’ve tried to keep out students and staff connected beyond just academics. Early on we organized Zoom lunches, kept Open Mic Nights alive (as online Open Mic Mornings), and even put on a staff revue to entertain the kids (and, truth be told, ourselves).

As the weeks turned into months we found ways to see our students, at least from the masks up. A drive through senior celebration, a walkthrough ACMA Day, and then on Halloween a dress up party that was legitimately fun.

In late April some students returned to campus, just over half of our student body divided into two attendance groups that came in every other day. They’re dancing and sculpting, singing, reading, writing, and making art on campus again, and yet…

We still need that laughter, that fun, that sense of whimsy that inspires spontaneous applause.

So as a school, both students and staff, we thought about what we might do this spring to just have fun (and maybe imagine ourselves in a galaxy different than our own for a while) and we came back with the two word answer: Star Wars.

The sensible choice for a date for the party was May the 4th, of course, so we planned, prepared, and ordered inflatable lightsabers. We dug the life sized cutouts of Leia and Darth Vader out of storage (we’re a school with such things in storage) and got about the business of good clean fun.

The morning of I sent a couple of photos to my staff from the day a few years back when we decided that it would be a good idea to hit each other with pool noodles made to look like lightsabers. The email prompted some revisionist history as to who won, more than a few happy responses, and the notion of a rematch between a couple of my intrepid Jedi.

Throughout the day I heard more laughter than I had any reason to suspect on a Tuesday in May during hybrid learning. 

Just before school let out our volunteer students gathered in their May the Fourth Be With You t-shirts and, accompanied by a stormtrooper or two, they hatched plans for the day. It looked like a friendlier version of that scene before the rebels go blow up the Death Star.

Two of those stormtroopers, whose blasters had been replaced with enormous flowers (much more in keeping with our school spirit) faced each other from across the main hall. Looking from one to another, their flowers speaking of romance, it appeared that the two might be our own Romeo and Juliet. The palpable longing of those two stormtroopers whispered a narrative of unrequited love. So very ACMA.

And then, after school, the party…

A constellation of activity stations spread out (socially distanced as they should be) across the lawn outside our building where young Jedi could pick up a lightsaber, visit a trading post, and get the training any youngling needs. Photos on the Millennium Falcon? You bet. Space age dance music? Sure. Time to laugh? You bet your sweet Jawa.

Some just wanted to play on the big grassy area, swinging their lightsabers or just walking and talking. Some wanted to try their hands at designing a paper spaceship. Some couldn’t stop smiling seeing their teachers dressed up like Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader, and Princess Leia. 

Students did a nice job of following the COVID protocols in place. Everyone wore a mask, not only Darth Vader. They danced and laughed and did their best to stay at least one lightsaber apart. And while it all felt different than some of our prior pre-COVID spring celebrations, this May the 4th was a delight in its own way. 

So while some of us might be a little short to be a stormtrooper, we do know how to have fun, and in a world so thick with stress it helps a lot to hear the beep of R2D2.

Welcome, stranger…

I’ve read more than my fair share of fantasy during this pandemic, Tolkien of course, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and A Song of Fire and Ice (even though I’m the one person on the planet who hasn’t seen the TV show). I zipped through Three Hearts and Three Lions, a book I hadn’t ever read but had heard about from more than a few people; The Eaters of the Dead, inspiration to pick up Heaney’s translation of Beowulf; and most recently The Dragonbone Chair, which begins with a line that felt written for our present uncertain times: “Welcome, stranger. The paths are treacherous today.”

Around us all are opinions and realities, too often competing with each other and frequently piling wood on the fire of concern (about a host of topics including the pandemic, social justice, and mental health) that has been blazing now for more than a year. All the while we mask up, wait in line for the vaccine, and try to make sensible choices, and while there are days during which it feels like the flames are dying down, enough pops and sparks are coming from our metaphoric bonfire to keep us all feeling a little singed.

If this were a fantasy novel we’d be questing against the great threat. Our swords would flash, arrows would fly, and an elf would make a smart remark. We are, however, profoundly human. 

So we wash our hands and wipe down our shopping carts and there are days that feels pretty heroic. Sometimes.

Except…

It is in our human nature to want grander shades of heroism than any that involve hand sanitizer. We want to strap on that pack, sling a battleaxe over our shoulder, and head into the haunted forest to save the world.

Those fantasy authors understand that desire and package it between embossed covers. Whether it’s Middle Earth, Narnia, or Westeros, the worlds they imagine invite us to join their hero’s journey from the comfort of our own COVID bubble.

But then we close the book, wash our hands again, put on our mask and head out into a very different world. How to be heroic there?

I know the answer looks different to everyone. Sometimes the seemingly small acts of kindness bring more power than a wizard’s spell. Telling a grandparent you love them, helping a parent with dinner, reaching out to a friend who needs to hear your voice, any of those things can pack as profound a wallop as an ogre’s club.

As a principal I get to see both magic and epic challenges every day. I see sweeping emotions, gritty reality, and swashbuckling glee. And that’s just at student lunch.

The teachers, counselors, and staff, these are heroes.

They may not battle goblins (though have you ever seen middle schoolers running to the bus?), they don’t wear chainmail or carry magic swords, they simply bring to their work with students more than a little magic and heroic hearts.

As challenging as I know the final few weeks of the school year will be —and it would be naive to believe that they won’t pack in a dragon or two— as challenging as those weeks will be, because of these professionals I’m as optimistic as a hobbit at second breakfast.

My teachers, counselors, and staff members know that the greatest strength isn’t independence. The truth that they know, as any successful adventurer knows, is that the greatest attribute a hero can have is interdependence.

Frodo needed Sam who needed Aragorn who needed Gandalf who years before needed Bilbo who needed Frodo to pick up the ring and become heroic.

Whether we’re teachers or hobbits (or both) the next few weeks invite us to form a fellowship with those we know, those we love, and those we don’t know …yet. Having been away from our usual life for more than a year we are beginning to return to a wider world, a place still treacherous, but ripe for heroism if we approach it together, both friends and strangers (many of whom will be friends as this adventure continues).

As the road stretches out ahead I encourage us all to straighten our helmets, polish our shields, and look out for one another as if wights were circling the barrow. The day will come when we look back on this adventure and raise a glass with the friends we made through the strife, reminiscing about the dragons we overcame along the way.

Live!

The students were AMAZING, of course, funny, smart, and more creative than any teenager has any right to be. Zany, clever, and (in an unexpected turn) moving, our yearly comedy sketch show ACMA Live, rechristened ACMA (still a)Live this year, streamed into living rooms last week to the wild applause of students, staff, and families.

As the principal I suppose I ought to bring a sense of trepidation to the show; it’s satire after all, and one never knows where the performers will focus their gaze, but this year more than ever I was looking forward to the event, which came at the end of our first week of hybrid instruction.

It didn’t disappoint.

In addition to a witty student perspective on Zoom meetings, breakout rooms, and a year of online learning, the creative team welcomed in some not ready for primetime players in the over 30 age group: staff hams.

It was a delight. 

In addition to a fun skit about a teacher discovering Tik Tok and a master class on comedy starring a dance instructor as a teacher who didn’t know he wasn’t muted (two words: Squirrel Mafia), the kids even let the staff star in a Zoom roll call that I can say from experience was as fun to film as it was to watch.

And it was this last sketch, one in which I got to play “cosplay kid” (a good hearted homage to the inspiring ACMA students who were such a delight when we did our Halloween party last fall) that was my first indication that ACMA (still a)Live was going to be a needed balm after such a strange spring and summer and fall and winter and spring again. 

The filming of our roll call was filled with laughter and captured the goofiness that will help us all traverse this pandemic prompted wilderness and return to campus with smiles behind our masks. Laughter, humor, whimsy, all too easy to forget in times of stress, matter much.

ACMA (still a)Live reminded us of this.

As tradition would suggest, the show included some gentle roasting of a handful of neighborhood schools (along with self depreciation about ACMA’s limited skill in the area of sports), but this year added an oddly moving story about a ghost haunting our performing arts center and wondering where all the students went after new construction moved us to a temporary campus last year. Act one of “The PAC Ghost” was that tasty pinch of nostalgia that made the rest of the meal even more delicious.

The show ended with a fantastic “Quarantine” Song, blending music, video, and insight in a celebration of sorts of our school, our artists, and our ability to overcome this crazy year. ACMA is very much still alive, and our students (and staff) still know how to make us laugh.

Good Natured Dread

This has been a crazy year in education, as it has been a crazy year beyond the walls of the schoolhouse. It has been a year when the those schoolhouse walls have expanded to include every kitchen table in town, every student chromebook perched on a stack of pillows, and more than a few garages where a corner between the lawn mower and boxes of holiday decorations has been converted into a place to dance, paint, or play the clarinet.

Now, as the world seems to be turning in a different direction, with some students returning to campus (and a good many other students choosing to remain at home to learn) some of that external craziness is turning into heightened internal emotion. Those feelings, just as confused as the world around us, were described beautifully by one of the seniors at my school who when asked what she and her peers were feeling replied: “Dread. Good natured dread.”

Another adult who was in on the conversation followed up: “Do you mean at school?” She asked, “or in general?” The student paused and then said: “Yeah.”

I loved (and was not surprised by) the way the student phrased things. I work at a ridiculously creative school where iconoclasm is equaled by wit. “Good natured dread” captures both the weariness inspired by the past year or so and the pluck that I know can lift this current generation of students (and the fortunate adults who get to work with them) out of the mire. 

If our school was asked “Which Disney princess are you?” We’d answer “Mononoke.”

And her phrase stuck with me as I thought about how best to approach the final weeks of this unusual school year.

Acknowledge the dread, was my first takeaway. That our students and staff and families are feeling pressure, unprecedented stress, and worry is a real thing, and smiling and pretending that isn’t the case doesn’t do anyone any good. The causes of understandable anxiety are many and varied. Not all of us can understand exactly what it’s like to face them all, but as we begin the climb back up to more solid ground it is important that we recognize that the trauma that has helped to define our past year is real and the way through is long, may be complicated, and is best managed by all of us supporting one another.

That community, that sense of good will, that is what I hear in my student’s other two words. Sure there is a level of despair, but our engagement with those emotions can be on our terms, good natured. I quoted the stoic philosopher Epictetus a few posts back and will echo that again here: “Men are disturbed not by the things that happen but by their opinions about those things.”

We can and should face the feelings that have grown over the past months, and it seems to me that we’d be wise to do so with the same strength and cheek of the student describing how she was feeling about school and life.

Back to that princess, hardly Disney, I mentioned earlier. In Hayao Miyazaki’s film Princess Mononoke a character named Osa, bandaged head to toe and wracked by leprosy, tells our hero: “Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living.”

Epictetus, Miyazaki, that ACMA senior, they each have something to teach us. We are not without stress, or justifiable anxiety, or disappointment, and… 

We don’t have to face these alone or without hope. Together it’s natural to bemoan a bit, empathize with one another, and maybe, just maybe, feel good natured dread. I’m convinced that months from now that good natured dread will fuel stories of resilience, shared strength, and the power of our human spirit.