Teachers open the door, but you must enter by yourself.
All. Week. Long. This lesson. Over and over again. Not in a bad way. Just in a reminding kind of way. We are constantly walking through new doors, aren't we? If we keep breathing anyways. Then we quit breathing. And we walk through that final door. Alone.
My son's school is wise enough to schedule a conference at the end of the year, a wrap-up of sorts. Just to check back in, see what was accomplished, examine the goals, see where they were met, what still needs improving. It's a really sound, well-organized, mature process. It teaches the value of reflection and self-assessment. And allows for both the accolades and the let's-keep-working-on-its.
Among other things, this quotation was discussed. The reminder that the foundation can be laid, the ingredients can be available, but if there is no effort, no attempt, no walking through the door....well, then there's just an open door. Flies coming in, cool air going out.
Here I must note that this quotation flies in the face of one of my favorite sayings, which happens to be: When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Really, this is not true. The teacher can be there, and the student can balk. Trust me. I've had many teachers. I've done a lot of balking. (Which, if you're like me, balking just sounds a lot like, "Yeah, but..." -- fill in the blank.)
The truth is, seeds are planted. Ideas are introduced. Doors are opened. And when we are ready? scared enough? forced? willing? we walk through. But only we can do the walking. Or running, as the case may be.
I received a gift this week. New trail running shoes. They are very smart. It's a brave gift to give, running shoes. It implies their usage. Kinda presumptuous, right? Like give a person a present that requires effort to use? But I think it might be the best gift I've ever received. Here's why...
Trail running is divine. It's in the great outdoors and there is a certain type of freedom in the expanse of nature. It's slower than road running, which suits me just fine. It uses totally different muscles. It tests your agility, your responsiveness, your aliveness. You cannot wander off in your mind. You have to be watching for terrain changes, obstacles, animals. You have to be present. You have to be aware. You have to be awake. It's a different skill set than road running. It challenges me in different ways. And it rewards me in new ways, too.
You see, I've been running -- road running -- for years now. Running from something. Running from confusion, disturbance, heartache, fears, chaos, loneliness, quiet, my home. On particularly difficult days, it feels as though I'm trying to outrun the Four Horsemen. It's exhausting, this running from. You can easily see why. When my time was up or my legs were tired or the run was over, I was right back where I started. It just required more running.
However, I've been fortunate. Running became my backdoor to a type of meditation, and through that, it laid a foundation for an essential kind of faith. And that was the beginning of my running to. I might have been running from confusion originally, but then I started running to clear my mind. I might have been running from the quiet, but I started running to hear the silence. I might have been running from my home, but I started running to feel at home inside of me.
So the shoes were the door. And only I could enter. It was as if I was being invited to run from the me that was (in the past and doing) to the me that is (in the present and being). It was a welcoming of sorts into the next phase of this running journey, my life odyssey. It was as if someone said to me, "It's okay. Run. Run to. Run to be. Run to be free."
My son's school is wise enough to schedule a conference at the end of the year, a wrap-up of sorts. Just to check back in, see what was accomplished, examine the goals, see where they were met, what still needs improving. It's a really sound, well-organized, mature process. It teaches the value of reflection and self-assessment. And allows for both the accolades and the let's-keep-working-on-its.
Among other things, this quotation was discussed. The reminder that the foundation can be laid, the ingredients can be available, but if there is no effort, no attempt, no walking through the door....well, then there's just an open door. Flies coming in, cool air going out.
Here I must note that this quotation flies in the face of one of my favorite sayings, which happens to be: When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Really, this is not true. The teacher can be there, and the student can balk. Trust me. I've had many teachers. I've done a lot of balking. (Which, if you're like me, balking just sounds a lot like, "Yeah, but..." -- fill in the blank.)
The truth is, seeds are planted. Ideas are introduced. Doors are opened. And when we are ready? scared enough? forced? willing? we walk through. But only we can do the walking. Or running, as the case may be.
I received a gift this week. New trail running shoes. They are very smart. It's a brave gift to give, running shoes. It implies their usage. Kinda presumptuous, right? Like give a person a present that requires effort to use? But I think it might be the best gift I've ever received. Here's why...
Trail running is divine. It's in the great outdoors and there is a certain type of freedom in the expanse of nature. It's slower than road running, which suits me just fine. It uses totally different muscles. It tests your agility, your responsiveness, your aliveness. You cannot wander off in your mind. You have to be watching for terrain changes, obstacles, animals. You have to be present. You have to be aware. You have to be awake. It's a different skill set than road running. It challenges me in different ways. And it rewards me in new ways, too.
You see, I've been running -- road running -- for years now. Running from something. Running from confusion, disturbance, heartache, fears, chaos, loneliness, quiet, my home. On particularly difficult days, it feels as though I'm trying to outrun the Four Horsemen. It's exhausting, this running from. You can easily see why. When my time was up or my legs were tired or the run was over, I was right back where I started. It just required more running.
However, I've been fortunate. Running became my backdoor to a type of meditation, and through that, it laid a foundation for an essential kind of faith. And that was the beginning of my running to. I might have been running from confusion originally, but then I started running to clear my mind. I might have been running from the quiet, but I started running to hear the silence. I might have been running from my home, but I started running to feel at home inside of me.
So the shoes were the door. And only I could enter. It was as if I was being invited to run from the me that was (in the past and doing) to the me that is (in the present and being). It was a welcoming of sorts into the next phase of this running journey, my life odyssey. It was as if someone said to me, "It's okay. Run. Run to. Run to be. Run to be free."
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