ONCE UPON A TIME (PART FOUR)

 

What follows is (the 4th and final part of) a story about stories and the wisdom of a six-year-old girl. (Click to catch up on Parts 1, 2, and 3.) I chose to tell this story in parts not just to make the length more manageable, but also because it held several climactic points for me. There are two remaining.

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The meeting with Sarah, her teacher, and my supervisor fell—as mentioned in the prior installment—quite near the end of my internship. Daily I busied myself, preparing for “good goodbyes,” making memory books and hosting last lunches with kids. With only two days a week there, I wasn’t present for the sharing of Sarah’s stories with her class, but Sarah’s teacher said the other children were quiet and attentive as she read aloud the chapters that Sarah had written with me. (I can picture Sarah among them, listening with her whole being.) When it was over, according to Sarah’s teacher, various classmates shared their reactions, all of them kind. One child asked the gorgeously mature and sensitive question, “Do you really feel lonely?”

“Sometimes,” Sarah said.

Sarah had claimed her loneliness again—and this time publicly, among peers. How many of us are able to do that? How many of us “gwownups” are so undaunted, to name what we feel and admit to others what we crave? How often, moreover, are we heard? Properly acknowledged, problems have a tendency to shrink. In addition to admiration for Sarah, her class, and her teacher, I felt hope: she had said “Sometimes,” rather than “Yes.” Could it be that loneliness was gliding away from a total eclipse of her heart?

I returned to the school a week or two after my last day, to give a short presentation at a faculty meeting and turn in my keys. Unbeknownst to me, my supervisor had made a memory book for me, with messages from the kids that I had worked with. I wish I could share the photo, but Sarah is in it, standing before a whiteboard portrait of us, side by side and smiling wide, arms outstretched, fingertips almost touching. It looks like we’re embracing the world. Her message beneath the photo concludes this way: “I had fun visiting you with my friends at school.”

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A gentleman in New Zealand, with whom I’m loosely acquainted via online forums such as this, told a story once about his granddaughter, who had been taught baby sign language from birth:

“My daughter would sign every time she spoke to her daughter. My granddaughter was able to communicate quite effectively well before she could be expected to start talking. I can remember her telling me about what for her was a very traumatic experience when she was around 18 months old. She had seen their cat catch and injure a bird. The bird had been rescued, but it died shortly after. She signed the entire story, much of which I could understand. Some needed to be translated by her mother as I wasn’t fully fluent in their “baby sign,” but it was so heartbreaking to watch her little face as [she] told how the bird had died and they carefully buried it in the garden.”

We are made of stories and need to tell them. Children often need (and always deserve) our support in this. If we say, “Once upon a time,” what enlightening tales might follow?

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Out of respect for client privacy, names are always changed. Barry’s sign language story can be found in the comments of this Musings of an Aspie post. Other text and image copyrights herein held by me. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. Thank you for reading.

ONCE UPON A TIME (PART THREE)

 

What follows is (Part 3 of) a story about stories and the wisdom of a six-year-old girl, written back when I was working my first of two internships for my master’s degree. (Click to catch up on Parts 1 and 2.)

When I read back the last line of their story, Sarah and Addie looked so delighted that I thought they might start jumping up and down. I felt, myself, like doing so. At the beginning of the lunch experiment, I’d had a dream in which I saw solitary Sarah playing outside with a friend. Could that dream finally be near to coming true?

“Read it again!” said the girls. So I did. Then, wanting to fortify their newfound camaraderie, I asked if they might like to have their story read aloud to the rest of their class.

Yes, said Sarah—“and the other chapters.”

She seemed determined to share her experience of kindergarten isolation, and it dawned on me that there might be a kind of “greater vision” to her fixation—certainly greater than I alone could perceive—so as a next step, with Sarah’s permission, I invited her teacher and my supervisor to join us for a private sharing of both stories.

Picture a wide-eyed little girl, seated among three adult women: I felt we were surrounding her with care, and I felt that she felt it, too. For the first time since I’d met her, it was as if I could see the whole child—not at a remove, no feint of silliness, but present, visible, and wanting love.

I was again the reader, as Sarah watched her audience of listeners: the vivacious school social worker who greeted her in the hallway every morning, and the kind teacher so clearly valuing the rare chance to give Sarah her undivided attention.

When I reached the end of the last chapter, there was silence. I’d known silence in dyads, but I think that was the first time I’d experienced a therapeutic silence within a small-group setting, and I didn’t recognize and respect it for what it was. Instead, I felt self-conscious, like the hostess of a party that had ground to a halt; I quickly offered to read the other, shorter story.

Thankfully, Sarah’s teacher and my supervisor asked if they could first express what they were feeling. They felt sad and worried, they said. Like me, they wanted to know what they could do to help. Sarah asked, again, if the story could be read to her class.

I want to pause here, creating the smallest delay in your reading, slowing down time the way it slowed for me, to register my astonishment at what my six-year-old client then attested with utter clarity.

“People need to know,” she said.

Sarah’s teacher agreed immediately, and I felt tremendous relief. What was sought would be provided, in a context that would make sense. Stories are expected in a kindergarten classroom; indeed, they possess a ritual importance. Sarah’s teacher, with decades of experience, would know what to do.

That was my cue to move on to the light-hearted tale of mischief, which everyone seemed to enjoy, with broad smiles all around. Then, because I would be leaving my internship soon, we agreed together on a plan for my supervisor to take over the act of transcription: lunches with classmates would continue, and the story project would, too. I would have one more turn with it, meeting a serious-minded Brian the Bear before regretfully ceding the magical binder and clearing out the stash of penciled drafts in my desk.

To Be Continued.

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Out of respect for client privacy, names are always changed. Text and image copyrights held by me. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. Thank you for reading.

ONCE UPON A TIME (PART TWO)

once-upon-a-time-part-2-cropped

What follows is (Part 2 of) a story about stories and the wisdom of a six-year-old girl, written back when I was working my first of two internships for my master’s degree. To catch up on Part 1, click here.

The day that “Sarah the Cat” laid claim to her human loneliness, I formulated a plan: she could invite one classmate each week to have lunch with us in the guidance room, which for kindergarteners holds no stigma and instead represents a treat. Sarah might gain some status among her peers, and lunch might naturally segue into companionship at recess.

The boy she chose for her first guest was shy and sweet but not the best bet for an aide-de-camp in the project, accompanied by a paraprofessional in case he felt overwhelmed. Sarah’s teacher suggested the next invitee, a girl whose confidence proved unhelpful, with a domineering quality that crowded out the native empathy she might have possessed. Our third guest seemed like a Goldilocks choice—generous, polite, just right!—but nothing came of it.

Not socially gifted myself, in vain I struggled to make small talk that would help the kids learn about each other; like an awkward matchmaker, I even asked about favorite playground games. Sarah gave me a look at one point, and I wondered if I was being too obvious. Despite my efforts on her behalf, there was no sign of a shift—she still floated through her days disconnected.

Meanwhile, Sarah and I kept our Monday morning meetings. The day before our fourth Tuesday lunch, I had brought in all her chapters, typed from my longhand transcriptions and organized in their own slim binder. My internship at the school would be ending relatively soon, and creating books with and for kids was part of the process of saying goodbye. The chapters looked impressively official, dressed up thus. Sarah asked that I reread them to her; she seemed to enjoy hearing even the hardest parts.

The next day I walked down to rendezvous with Sarah and Addie, aka Guest Number 4. We gathered lunch trays, straws, utensils, and assorted condiments, and climbed the stairs, the kindergarteners’ knees bobbing high to accommodate the rise of each step, their trays held carefully aloft. So far, so familiar—but Sarah cast me into the unknown the moment we entered the office. “Could you please get my book and wead it?” she asked, the lost r tugging my heartstrings, while Addie preceded us to the table. “You want me to read it—out loud?” I clarified, hoping I’d misunderstood. “Yes, please,” she said.

What was I going to do? I looked over at Addie, concentrating on her carton of milk, plucking her straw from its cellophane wrapper. How could I subject that curly-headed naïf so unexpectedly to a tale of unremitting loneliness? Over pizza sticks and a small heap of syrupy fruit, no less? I was not thinking fast enough and grasped at a fib. “I’m not sure I have it with me,” I said, pretending to search my backpack. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t have it.” I felt conflicted about the now-outright lie—but there it was.

She persisted, asking me in that case to say it from memory. Again, I demurred. Then came the flash, the genuine inspiration. “What if we write a new chapter today? To a different story?” One thought led to the next. “Maybe Addie can help—if she wants.”

My enthusiasm for the idea was initially unshared. “Okay,” Sarah said. “But can you bring it next time? It’s important.” It’s important. “Alright,” I said. I’d bought myself a little time, but I knew I couldn’t ignore those words. I seated myself across from the girls, pencil at the ready. First we established our new character. Who would Addie like to be? She chose readily.

“Once upon a time, Sarah the Cat and Addie the Easter Bunny…” It was lovely to see both girls giggle at that. Sarah led off from there, but Addie caught right up. As they built their story detail by detail, they looked at each other for affirmation, grinning as they dreamed up mischief.

The plot unfolded as follows: They were at a picnic but wandered away from their blanket, landing them in hot water with their parents, who followed their trail, found them, and condemned them to their rooms with no dinner. Confining myself to prompts up till then, I volunteered a last line: “What a terrible way for a picnic to end!” The girls, together, approved.

To Be Continued.

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Out of respect for client privacy, names are always changed. Text and image copyrights held by me. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. Thank you for reading.

DOWN DEEP

Lemon 3

 

The following vignette is drawn from my time volunteering in a kindergarten.

P, five years old, was normally well behaved—self-regulating, in clinical parlance. His classmate C, whom the teacher considered too young for school, might interrupt proceedings by pounding on his tiny chest and belting out a Tarzan imitation; P, sturdier and more mature, knew how to listen. He stayed “in the zone.”

On this particular day, though, something had gotten into him. At story time, sitting on the fringes, P turned his back to the teacher and kicked his shoes repeatedly against the carpet, beating a sullen tattoo. Several times I spoke to him about this. “It’s easier to concentrate when your eyes are on the teacher,” I whispered. I put a guiding hand on his shoulder. He obliged by turning his body partway toward the rest of the group but kept his eyes to the ground.

This behavior was so aberrant for P as to raise a question in my mind. But the question faded as the day progressed, each activity succeeding the one before, the writing of names and the cutting of paper with round-tipped scissors. Snack time, with its boasts and juice boxes, came and went. The declarations of one child inevitably stirred up an overlapping chorus of voices, all seeking attention. Consequently, P’s strange behavior slipped from my thoughts.

Later in the day, the teacher asked me to work one-on-one with the kids, on a color project, and I found myself across from P, at the world’s smallest work table, holding out a yellow crayon and asking him to draw a lemon.

He wouldn’t take the crayon. “I can’t,” he said. Snub-nosed with freckles, he stuck out his lip. Again, I was surprised. “Oh, I’m pretty sure you can,” I said. “You can draw all kinds of shapes. You know what a lemon looks like—it’s like a flat circle with pointy ends!” I was not persuasive. He raised his voice a little: “I caaan’t!” Hmm. “Look,” I said, “What if I draw one first, and you copy me?” (This worked sometimes with kids.) Strike three. “Noooo,” he wailed, “I caaaannnn’t!”

Because I’d come to recognize that children don’t fuss “just because,” I decided to take a more direct approach. “Are you having a bad day, P?” I asked. “No!” he said petulantly. “Oh,” I said, “really? It kind of seems to me like maybe you are. I noticed that earlier, and I’ve been wondering why.” I tried to pause a little, to give him some space. “Does your head hurt?” He continued to focus on his own middle distance. No, he didn’t have a headache. “Okay, so it’s not your head. That’s good. Does your stomach hurt?” No, his stomach didn’t hurt.

Then in a rush, his eyes grew red and filled with tears. “I miss my mom!”

I’d had a growing inkling that something like this was at work, yet I was, again, surprised—this time by the force of his anguish, so powerful, so vulnerable, yet buried all day long. Like a grown man, he might have kept it to himself.

What I’d been seeing in him were nascent coping mechanisms, based on denial. He would have made it home, and it’s possible that that would have sufficed. It’s possible that not even his mom would come to know that he’d struggled all day. Unless something particularly memorable happened, the day would be forgotten. He would grow older, taller, physically stronger, lean muscle replacing the softer flesh of early childhood. This day in kindergarten, when he so much missed his mom, might not “matter.”

It’s my belief, however, that we carry our untended pains within us. As children, we adapt coping mechanisms that shield us when we have few other means to do so, but that often prove to be maladaptive later in life. Some of us can barely confess the things that mean the most to us, that most shape our interior lives and, consequently, our relationships. We may not know how much we have to express, having taught ourselves ignorance of such things; but even knowing, we can feel helpless to act. I speak from experience.

The concept of therapy in our culture is burdened with many cliches; one such, often condescending, is the idea of “rambling” to someone about one’s childhood. How foolish and sad we are, societally, to mock our own deepest needs. It’s a powerful thing, to begin to find relief, after years, maybe decades, of denial. Everyone deserves to be nurtured as a child—however old he or she may be.

On this day, I was able to help P. I told him I was sorry he was having a hard time. I told him I could see the clock from where I was sitting, and I knew there was just an hour left to go. I told him I thought his mom was lucky to have such a loving little boy. A few more statements of that kind, and his tears cleared without falling. I asked if he thought he could draw a lemon for me. He said, “Okay!” And he did.

I’d met this boy’s mother; I knew he was cherished and provided for. He had a wonderful teacher and attended what is widely considered a fine elementary school. At its most pinched, its resources far exceed those of any number of schools in this country, as profiled by Jonathan Kozol in “Savage Inequalities.”

P had had one bad day in the time that I’d known him. And that single day’s pained emotions led him to feel a lack of self-efficacy: “I can’t do it.” The tiniest errant seeds can find quick purchase and grow deep roots.

“WHY IS THAT A FEAT?”

Lucky Apple

I’ll say it again: I love the directness of children.

Sometimes it provides comic relief, as when, one September not too long ago, the school principal visited the kindergarten classroom where I used to volunteer, to greet the matriculating pupils. A little blond boy, who would become a favorite of mine, studied him quizzically—head cocked, hand on his chin—musing as if half to himself, “I wonder what happened to all of your hair…” The principal’s shiny pate flushed, and he seemed to choke on his words, but gamely he replied that he didn’t know, either.

Often a child’s candor is a refreshing change from the subterfuge of adults, with our emotional trench coats and back alleys, to say nothing of political doublespeak. Tikes playing with trains are the real conductors on the so-called Straight-Talk Express. (There are exceptions, of course, as I’ve acknowledged before.)

Last year I worked with a boy who’d been held back for issues that had been labeled “ADHD.” His family life was chaotic* from morning till night and undermined our therapeutic work during in-home visits in the same way, I’m guessing, that it limited his ability to do homework and engage in his own development. A meeting with faculty and staff at his locally notorious school demonstrated nothing so much as their lack of comprehension for his circumstances.

He and I had one precious office visit—our first visit, before transportation became a problem for his mom. I learned so much! We did one of my favorite focusing activities: I asked him to close his eyes while I struck my singing bowl, then raise his hand when he couldn’t hear its fading resonance anymore.** Then, I asked him to do the same thing, except this time when he could no longer hear the bell, he was to listen for anything else he could hear around him, and raise his hand when he was ready to report back.

I’m not taking authorial license to say that I’ve rarely seen such a look of concentration as on that boy’s face in the sanctuary of the office.

I was surprised and impressed to learn from him that there was more than one clock in the room; I had never noticed. (It wasn’t my space.) He was perfectly still and observant, without evincing the slightest self-consciousness. After, he spoke offhandedly of his excellent hearing. I exclaimed over his ability, in a different exercise, to shift his awareness from the top of his head to his right baby toe, such that both parts grew tingly in turn in response to being noticed; I called it a feat. After I’d defined the word for him, his response was, “Why?” What was so extraordinary? Graciously he seemed to give me the benefit of the doubt.

It’s a feat because it involves executive function. Because that’s an important way to use the brain. Because that’s the very area in which he was considered weak. Because, in fact, many of us barely notice our creaturely existence in this world, except in the most obvious ways. Because, because, because—so many possible answers. But really—why, indeed? It was a good question.

Speaking of feats, the apple pictured above was plucked from the orchard equivalent of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. And it was good—tannic and tart. A worthy reminder of many life lessons: a spindly trunk, and branches just laden with fruit.

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*This is a capsule version of his situation, written from my outsider’s perspective, and should—in fairness to his mom especially—be read and understood as such. No piece of writing, however careful, ever tells or ever can tell the full tale. Not that I was endeavoring to, clearly; but I’m conscious of taking a liberty when writing about anyone but myself, and it matters to me to note that, as a caveat.

**I can’t claim to have invented this awesome activity. I think it’s fairly common in the world of mindfulness, but I know that Susan Kaiser Greenland describes it nicely in her book, The Mindful Child.

UNRULY, STOIC, HEROIC

One of them wore a black biker jacket; another, a bitty brown mohawk. Several could not hold still if you paid them. They were third-grade rebels, and they sat in a circle, governed by a pink-and-yellow beach ball.

The rules were simple: Whoever held the ball could expect our collective attention as he shared a piece of news, and when he was done, he’d (lightly!) toss the ball to his chosen successor. Everyone would have a turn.

That simple ritual might be familiar to those in the school counseling world—and, for that matter, to teachers—but I was an intern, and justifiably impressed by my supervisor’s brilliance in coordinating it. Her energy normally ran as high as the boys’—she’d rather do calisthenics than sit at a desk—but she instinctively tempered herself to lead by example.

As with all positive interactions, this one worked on many levels, some subtler than others. For one thing, in a general classroom situation, attention tends to be divided six ways from Sunday, and it’s easy for kids to feel less included than they might wish to be—regardless of adult perceptions as to how much time and energy they’re getting. (If attention is like a beam of sunshine, kids are like mobile plants, jockeying for space, spreading their leaves, and reaching—in whatever way they know how—toward the light.) Clear turn-taking is more valuable than it might appear to you or me, especially with boys quickly learning from the world to play it cool, be disaffected.

So the beach ball gave the boys a chance to get what they privately, deeply needed, without having to fight for it. It also gave each boy brief control—over the ball, over what he offered up, and over whose turn would come next—and subconsciously encouraged the sharing of power. Additionally, as Lawrence J. Cohen discusses in Playful Parenting, “catch” is a way of bridging the distance between males in our culture—even, I think, when played out so briefly.

Perhaps my favorite aspect of this activity, as participant-observer, was that, before sharing, each boy was asked to instruct us as to how he would like his news received. Applause? Silence? “Freestyle”? Several chose the last option, of course, and everyone was duly silly, crawling like crocodiles or shimmying or jumping like participants in some goofy Olympics. But the majority of the boys—referred to the group for their disruptive behaviors—requested silence. Heroic little men-to-be, I think they wanted to be taken more seriously.

WHETHER YOUR SHOES ARE TIGHT OR LOOSE

For a little over a year, I’ve been aware of, and making use of, a mindfulness technique put forth by Dr. Nirbhay Singh and colleagues. It’s officially called the (unwieldy but descriptive) “Meditation on the Soles of the Feet” and was designed for use with a developmentally challenged, aggressive adult in a community living environment.

It’s a protocol well suited for such a client because the directions are quite simple, and the practice itself doesn’t require a lot of patience. For those same reasons, I think it appropriate for most everyone. I have personally employed it on occasion, shared it with inmates, and taught it to several kids, whose responses have been notable and encouraging. More about that in future.

The basic directions for this protocol can be found here. And, for purposes of illustration, below is a graduate student demonstration of the technique, in which Student A (“Sarah”) is meant to be eight years old, and Student B is meant to be her school counselor. There are several things I like about the video (the decor not being among them—please, someone, deal with the blinds!).

For one thing, it was extemporaneous. Without rehearsal, Student B had to adjust and respond to whatever Student A said, lending verisimilitude to the project. “Sarah” brought her own set of feelings, reasons, and metaphors to the situation; her counselor was more likely to succeed with her by incorporating them.

Something else I appreciate here is that, while clearly looking, and mostly sounding, like a young woman in her twenties, Student A struck upon something that many, many kids feel in situations that end up landing them in hot water: “I just wanted him/her/them to listen to me.” Often these are kids who aren’t feeling heard at home, for whatever reason. A sensitive counselor helps in large part by doing good listening, at least partly meeting that need.

A special note: in this video, the counselor suggests enlisting the classroom teacher to remind “Sarah” of the mindfulness skill she’s learning. This kind of collaboration can work beautifully or fail utterly, depending largely on the teacher’s approach. Expressed kindly and privately, a helpful reminder can serve its purpose—but children resent it, as do we grownups, when some bit of privileged information seems to be used against us, especially publicly. That being said…

* This demonstration is rather free-form and doesn’t follow the full protocol contained in the authors’ manual, which was unknown and hence unavailable to these students. It may still have some merit. Video used with permission.