GANDOLF
“I am looking for someone to share in an adventure..., and
it's very difficult to find anyone,”
BILBO BAGGINS
“I should think so—in these parts! We are plain quiet
folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable
things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in
them!”
(Post 003) Week 2: Please make mistakes! (Part 1)
The second week of school has just ended. The school year is 1/18th over. My fellow teachers and their students have faced the onslaught of the new school year—new faces, new classrooms, new teachers, and, seemingly endless paperwork.
In books and film, adventure stories seem glamorous. They take us on journeys that most of us would never experience. Into outer space. To the depths of the seas. Into the microcosm of a drop of water. On a perilous ride in the belly of a whale.
Actually living adventures is very different, however. There's dirt, sweat, pain, and discomfort to go along with the sweeping vistas.
In life, if we're not reaching for a star, something inside us begins to die. We live day to day facing the demands of jobs, school, and home. Adventures begin to seem childish and to disappear. We learn to play it safe. Through our actions and examples, if not our words, we teach our children, “Don't make mistakes.” “Mistakes are bad.” “Mistakes cause us pain”—and often they do.
At school, students' papers come back to them marked with corrections—often in red ink. Children see the many things they did wrong. And then there are “grades” which are overemphasized and frequently get in the way of learning.
Life points out our adult mistakes, as well. A bill paid
late incurs a fee. A missed deadline equals a missed opportunity.
Too much time at work and too little with our loved ones and our
relationships suffer.
In acting, we reach out for the audition. The gig. The job.
And we make mistakes. We second guess ourselves and relive our
failures in our minds.As teachers, we're hard on ourselves because we know that no matter how hard we we try—no matter how much of our time, energy, and ourselves we give, we can never fully meet our students' needs. Those needs are just too great. As parents, it's the same.
What mistakes have I made? I chuckle because they're so many—and I'm not going to list them all, here, but I will share one particularly painful experience, in Part 2, of this post. For now, I'll acknowledge the “elephant in the room”—what some people, no doubt, consider a mistake and the very basis for this blog. Taking a year sabbatical—without pay from being an established, full-time, teacher to work towards becoming a full-time professional actor? Perhaps it would make sense if I were independently wealthy. I'm not. Or, if I were retired and drawing a pension.* Not so. Or even if I'd acquired a substantial savings to live off. I haven't.
Rather, after teaching for roughly 20 years, my family and I have still been living month to month—struggling to catch up—much less to get ahead.
So why take this leap of faith into the unknown? Selfishness? Some would say so. Foolishness? Perhaps. But I'd like to think that it's something more. That I'm listening to and following my own inner guidance. That I'm trusting Spirit and moving in a direction that I feel led, and for which a lifetime of experiences have prepared me.
My father-in-law respectfully asked, “[As an actor], have you experienced sufficient success up to this point to warrant taking this step?” The answer by nearly any standard would have to be “No.” And as he politely concluded, “It will be interesting to see where you are with this a year from now.”
Yes, Sir. I agree.
Please don’t teach your children and students not to make mistakes. Teach them to do their best and to do so boldly. Teach them to run and play and live with gusto.
Teach them to have courage and to speak their truth. Teach them to stand up to bullies, and even harder, to stand up to their friends. Teach them to question everything—and everyone. Teach them to think for themselves.
Teach them to try. Teach them to do. Teach them that mistakes are good. That mistakes mean you're trying. That you're moving forward. That you're reaching out. And most importantly, teach children that when they fall down—which they will—to get back up. And be there for them with hugs—and a hand to wipe their tears. Then take their hands in yours and walk with them a little ways until they're ready to run again.
* While it's true that I'm not drawing a pension, I am a retired Air Guardsman, having served for 20+ years in the Georgia, Oregon, and then Hawaii Air National Guard. Five years from now, when I turn 60, retirement pay and medical benefits will start. For now, I could put “Major Williams” on my mailbox if I chose to do so. I don't. That was part of a different adventure.
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