Classroom Talk
Spring - Summer 2002 Archive
No more Mr. Nice Guy . . . coming soon! ;-) Posted by John on April 29, 2002 at 21:17:48:
I kind of take it on faith by now that each of you classmembers understand that I do care about each of you. If I was as wise as Solomon, I would
always be even-handed, but I'm not. Nevertheless, those of you that I know about here, I do love you all.
One of the lucky bits of information that we have at our disposition is that we know what the coach's greatest weakness is. Or, at least, we know
what my teacher, Mits, said my greatest weakness was, as a possibly budding teacher more than thirty years ago—not being tough enough with
students.
So it is a balance that I am looking for here, for the Sixth Grade, not cheating any of you earnest students, by not being tough enough with you, and
at the same time, not being unloving, either, if I can somehow bring that off.
All of you by now are familiar with the experience of being confronted in a matter-of-fact way by me. That hasn't offended your sensisbilities to such
an extent that you have decided to turn away from the class. I'm glad for that.
We all know that I *do* make mistakes. I call the best shots that I can—the best things I notice that seem illustrative for all of you of the points I'm
trying to bring into light. I suppose most of you must by now have begun finding some correlation between the coaching comments I'm making as we
go along here and *your own experiences* of your own lives out there where you live, first-hand, when you are being mindfully present. Otherwise, I
suppose you wouldn't still be interested in hanging around with this class.
But that's an assumption. I don't know.
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"Assumptions, assumptions, assumptions." Pauline's story of the three pigs illuminated one very common basic assumption that ordinary humans nearly
always seem to come up with when trouble is in the air—the assumption that the other person is always at fault for their actions, and that we are
always justified in our own.
In her story (precisely as in my son's tale) even when the person discovers the missing crayon is in their own pocket, they've still got some lumps on
the head coming for their part in it. That's life. And we can master that phenomenon with knowledge and perseverence, and by discovering the way
life is, and finding contrition. For we can't change other people, not in lasting ways at least. But the secret leverage the awareness game points to is
that it is often within our power to change our Selves. And this leverage, skillfully applied, can be enough to change everything with others.
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A couple more things about "no more Mr. Nice Guy." Surely every one of you can speak up and tell me, loud and clear, when my assumptions in
coaching the awareness game are out in left-field somewhere. I'm not trying to "win" at doing this job. I'm trying to give you students the benefit of
my best coachly hunches. And it is up to you, then, to see if these tips or strategies pan out, if you would like to. If they don't fit for you, speak up,
of course! I'm here to learn, too!
I feel I have a right by now to tell you that I am a no bullshit person as a coach. When the proper information that was called for recently to round out
our experience of the situation was that I am an amateur at child psychology, I put that information on the table gladly. I am for reducing
misunderstandings between us, not bullshitting about any understandings I am supposed to have. I'm not here for upholding any supposed standard
of my mystical knowledge. I'm here to coach and demonstrate some practical methods for finding things out, along with the rest of you. And I give it
whatever I've got, as honestly as I can. And I find out whatever I do.
Whatever you learn in mindfulness training doesn't depend on the teachers, anyway! Whatever you get from this kind of training is always what you
experience on your own.
And vis-a-vis children, in particular—in my view—as well as us growing adults: "growing up" is learning how to find it all out on one's own. So I'm a
fan of that.
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I chuckled at your remarks, John, about your sharing the problems of child-rearing on your end, and my sharing the triumphs on mine. Made you
angry, you say. Hee-hee. Of course, what I was talking about with my son was a boy who grew up never doing what his Father told him to do. He
ran with the bulls, like his Mother. He climbed across Green Rock, up over Axe Canyon. And so it went over the years, never doing what I wanted.
It seems to me that I was talking—was I not, John?—about "my son, the classical Bad Boy," by "ordinary standards," the boy who never does what his
father wants.
And also, of course, that story is about his Folks recognizing the Can-Do/Dictator in him and the Artist/Rebel, that he was becoming (both of these,
coincidentally, possible budding personality types in a certain young grandson that we know), and we were doing our best to let him develop in his
own ways. We tried to do this by understanding him, and being on his side in supporting the best of the strengths and qualities he grew up with, *
without trying to get him to become whom either of us parents wanted him to be*. So, he's getting to become who he is. And regardless of what
others may say about it, including me, this so-called "bad boy" is being who he is and loving it, in a way that seems to be working for him.
I could never have predicted how my son's life would go, except that, at his best, he would be strongly competent and artistically creative. If I had
wanted to write the life script for him (as my Father had tried to do with me) it would, no doubt, have been a much different story than the path he is
choosing on his own. It would have had to be a story of conflict and estrangement all along the way—as it is in so many people's tales about raising
their "little crocs" . . . and maybe sincerely wishing later that they hadn't eaten them when they were young.
I think this compelling urge to forcibly shape our children's lives in our own image and attitudes can become very strong in most mothers and fathers.
I think it is very common in so many of our families. Unfortunately, that doesn't often seem to work. Anyway—frankly—I was glad to do child-
rearing the very opposite of the way my own Dad had done it with me!—I heeded Maslow's advice ("Get the child to tell you what's best for the
child."). That was often quite a challenge to me over the years, painful at times to be sure, but it seems to have worked out pretty well for the kid.
I think you got the point of my tales straight, John, from your own remarks. And that great chart you put together, lays out a lot of specific clues of
things in high relief that you might like to work on. As Enforcer and Punisher against your own heart wishes, perhaps you might try out some
"absurd" tactics of another approach, and see what happens. And—as with several other members of this class—when those Doormat scenarios cycle
back into holding sway with your life, it can be cool to rise up and practice speaking out strongly then for your truth as you experience it.
By the way, my invitation to members of this class that they keep their eyes open for new ways to get on with the rest of their new lives, is extended
to you as well. Retired now from a worthy professional career, what is the rest of your life to be about? Have you ever asked your Being, "What
more is there about me that I can do in this world, that I haven't learned about so far?"
Resting in retirement is A-Okay, of course, by all means, if you like that! But so is getting up and going out into the world afresh in learning to use
your new skills in new ways. . . if you'd like that, too.
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Sally, you do seem to be getting the hang of it, in opening up dynamic new possibilities in your life! And the softer side of you seems to be almost
ready to start planting daffodils and getting on with it. I say "almost" because I seem to see in your last postings that "the harder side of Sally" is still
keeping your Self tied to the past. (More on this tomorrow, or the next day, if you please.)
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Eddie . . . Hi, Eddie! Now it was my turn, feeling anxious not hearing your voice for awhile. Ha! I've still got some Believer stuff in this pack of
dead-weight I am carrying around. ;-) I have an idea for you. I don't know if you'll like it. How about another *story* or two, exercising that side of
your writing style—the story side? For instance, when you mentioned that vacation trip with Wanda, I'd have liked to hear more "story," so to speak,
more story about what you experienced on the road together, what you saw and heard and smelled and tasted and felt with your sense of touch. —
I know you like to tell stories, from your imaginative tales about you and me, once upon a time. I suppose story-telling is a natural talent in you, that
you were born with.
You mentioned that sometimes the Muse is in you nowadays, and sometimes not. It's just that way with me, as well! I don't know if you'd dig it if I
gave you "a story assignment" to work on, so to speak, but I have an idea for that, if you would.
I imagine any simple story—a few pages—about you and anyone else, in which you share your sensory experiences as you go along in the field, seeing
and hearing what you see and hear of it (and smelling, tasting, feeling). And I suggest that the point of the story be that it leads to your discovery of
something that surprises you, anything about life that you hadn't realized before, an "Aha!" as they say, so to speak.
It's just an exercise . . . another "throw-away," if you will. If this idea doesn't appeal to you, please, by all means, file it away!
And by the way, Suz—if you're around these days dear Lady—you could do a great job with this story assignment, too, if you'd take a liking to it—
maybe, if you'd prefer, a story of your experiences with any living creature or phenomenon around you in the wildnerness there.
And by the way, while I think of it, the life of a professional writer starts out as a life of rejection slips. Anyone who is going to follow through with a
career in this field is going to have to develop inner strengths to be able to withstand and endure that part of the process. My *tough* coaching idea
of learning to treat your pieces as "throw-aways," one after another, Eddie, was designed to give you some experiential training in becoming more and
more invulnerable to rejection slips when they start coming, during that phase of the process. Once you have gotten through that phase, Eddie, if you
follow it through bravely, you will be there.
There are few pioneer mindful story-tellers in print that I know about at this point in time in the world—maybe more than I know about, but not
many. If you follow all the way through with your childhood ambition, Eddie, there is still time to be among the pioneers in that specialized field, if it
appeals to you. This would be a good example, if it goes on appealing to you, of doing the impossible.
Keep such stories simple, any of you mindful story tellers out there. Let the experiential data tell as much of these stories as you can. Douglas
(hairpins on the bedpost), you could do a great job with this written assignment, too, if you cared to do so. What about a phenomenological scene in a
play, described in the moves of the actors about the stage and what the audience sees, with rather little dialogue? Mlaybe the actors are out among
the audience when the scene starts happening. Hee-hee! If any others of you would like to attempt a try an exercise like these, feel free. And if you
don't feel like it, feel free anyway, of course! What do you like? What do you like to do? What *might* the rest of your life be about, if you found
out what you'd like it to be and do? What would be the most fun for you, if "doing the impossible" turned out to be within your powers, Kiddees.
Coach
More "no more Mr. Nice Guy" to come! I wouldn't cheat you Folks of that, now that we've all hung in for so long here, through so much thick and
thin over these years, and reached the Sixth Grade together—the final year of our formal curriculum!
(More than a hundred hits on two days last week in Classroom Talk, 151 on last Thursday . . . and—even though I can't tell who you are from the
data—it's obviously still the same small group of us in this "secret little school" in a far corner of giant Webland. The only stranger to show up here last
week in the Hitometer data was somebody searching for "talk classroom." But I feel a tremendous energy in our space, even with such a few of us
who are here for what this is.)
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Archived 08/26/2002