"i'm not the only one..."

"You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one.
I hope some day you'll join us,
and the world will be as one..."

It always catches me off guard. Early December, gray skies flecked with spitting snow, John Lennon's "Imagine," playing on the radio.  This version by the Haverbrook Deaf Choir and the cast of Glee, is one of my favorites. It reminds me of that day, 26 years ago, when as a young teacher I wept in front of my students.

I was teaching at an state institution for children who had been diagnosed with severe or profound developmental disabilities, and had been made wards of the state by their parents. For many of these parents, this was a devastating decision, but seemed to be the only way they could secure the treatments and services their children needed. Families visited, but the longer their children were institutionalized, the less frequent their visits became.

As a faculty, we were constantly looking for ways to bring warmth and normalcy to our students' lives -- and to our own sense of what it meant to be a teacher in such a difficult setting. Holiday decorations, songs, and art projects were an important part of keeping us all motivated.

That year, someone suggested that we hold a Christmas pageant and concert. Our audience would be made up of the residential, medical, dining, and cleaning staff, but it gave us something to work towards and brought so much joy to our students. Our class was working on a singing and signing a song. We chose Silent Night and put many hours into learning every word and choreographing the dance of hands signing in time with the music.

On December 8th we added another song. The shattering news of John Lennon's assassination changed everything. John Lennon wasn't just a pop icon, or a rock star, he was someone we looked up to. His message of social responsibility and peace resonated deeply with a generation shaken by the Viet Nam war. His death was shocking.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I felt as if all my hopes for world peace and kindness had been left on that sidewalk in front of the Dakota on December 8th, 1980. I didn't know what to do. That was when it came to me -- like a mission -- to teach my students another song. We would sing and sign "Imagine."  For the rest of the month, I would go in to work early and stay late. We would rehearse, and rehearse, and rehearse -- and then we'd rehearse some more.

Some days we would find ourselves helping to form signs with the hands of individual students dozens of times an hour.  Moving arms and fingers into shapes. It seemed like an impossible thing to ask of these children, but I think they caught the spirit of our need to "do this."

On the night of the performance in the small auditorium that doubled as a gym, my kids performed Silent Night to our ragtag audience. They grinned when the applause burst from the folding chairs in front of them. I was concerned that all of the excitement would distract them from our surprise. But they were undeterred. Once the applause died down, they looked up at me, smiled and stood very, very tall in the party clothes we'd gathered from the donation bins.

Their performance was hauntingly beautiful that afternoon. I don't think anyone would have said that they could understand the words, or thought that the signing was in sync, but it was sincere, and beautiful, and moving. They had worked so hard to honor my love for this man, and this song. This is what I remember every December 8th, when the sky is steely gray and a recording of "Imagine" playing on the radio reminds me that I was once a very young teacher with very big dreams for a world where "all the people were living life in peace..."

I am still that girl -- I still believe that we are capable of laying aside hatred for brotherly love. I still believe in "peace on earth, good will to men." I still believe that in the end, only kindness matters -- but that's another song. This is where I am ageless. The hope I have for our world, the trust I have in Love's power to move hearts, the confidence I have in the goodness of humanity -- this is what is eternal for me. This is where I am both a child and a sage, a dreamer and a scientist, a peaceful warrior and a conscientious objector.

Yes, you may say that I'm a dreamer -- but I know that I am not the only one.


offered with hope,

Kate

"I'm looking through you..."

"I'm looking through you,
where did you go
I thought I knew you,
what did I know
You don't look different,
but you have changed
I'm looking thorugh you
You're not the same..."
-     Beatles

I love this version of the Beatles classic, "I'm Looking Through You," by the Wallflowers.  It always reminds me of a moment in 1994 that stopped me in my tracks and changed the way I would look at others...and myself.

It was a bright beautiful, clear blue-sky, Colorado day in early autumn and I'd spent the morning at Just Baked, a wonderful downtown bagel shop where I often scheduled "office" appointments with patients who preferred talking over tea, to sitting in my office.  My last appointment of the morning had left for class and I was enjoying taking in the warmth of the bakery before heading home to check phone messages, before picking our daughter up from half-day Kindergarten.

It didn't take me long to notice the young man at the counter.  He was signing (American Sign Language) to the girl behind the counter, but she was not understanding him.  The University in our town was a leader in the field Sign Language Interpretation, and Speech Pathology, and it was not unusual to see sign language used in stores and restaurants.  I was a fluent signer, so I stepped up to the counter to offer assistance.  The young man "told" me his order and I gave it to the waitress.  Within minutes he'd made his purchase, thanked me for my help, and was out the door.

A few days later we ran into one another again at the same bagel shop.  But this time I was thrilled to see him sitting at a table, signing with a woman I had recently seen act as the sign language interpreter at a Wynona Judd concert.  I had been unable to take my eyes off her hands.  They danced in the air like a pair of ballerinas interpreting the music in graceful, subtle movements that made American Sign Language look like an art form.

I walked over to their table and the young man immediately recognized me,  rose from his chair, and thanked me again for helping him earlier in the week.  Then he turned to his companion and before he could make introductions, I gushed my admiration for her performance at the Judd concert.  She accepted my compliments graciously, but the look on her face betrayed her bafflement.  I chalked it up to modesty and excused myself. 

Before long it was time for me to gather up my books and journal and leave for home.  I noticed that the young man and his companion were also moving towards the door.  I waved a quick goodbye, found my car, and drove the four blocks to park on the street in front of our house. 

As I began to walk from the car to the front gate, and through the pale yellow rose arbor in the picket fence, I noticed that my neighbor about four doors down was also pulling into her driveway.  Sarah and her husband were young newlyweds who'd moved into the neighborhood about six month earlier.  We'd spoken briefly when I'd delivered an apple pie as a housewarming gift, but since then I'd only waved from afar whenever we were in our yards or going to and from our cars. 

As I saw her little red car pull into her driveway, I robotically smiled and raised a hand in hello...until I noticed that there was a man getting out of the car on the passenger side nearest me.  And he was the same young man I had just seen with the sign language interpreter at the bagel shop.  I was perplexed.  It hadn't even been three minutes since I'd left them and here he was getting out of my neighbor, Sarah's, car. 

Then I took a better look at Sarah.  She was the same woman I'd just seen him with.

I literally did a double, then a triple take. 

And then it dawned on me.  I had never really looked at Sarah.  I had already compartmentalized her as my young newlywed neighbor who was a student at the University.  I had assumed she was an undergrad studying something I didn't have time to care about.  In the context of our university neighborhood, she was, in my eyes (I am horrified and embarrassed to admit) just another pretty coed.

But in the bagel shop, in the context of seeing her sign with the young man, and recognizing, not her face, but the beautiful dance of her hands...something I had studied, tried to master, and was deeply interested in...she was special, a celebrity, someone to be impressed by, and honored to be in the company of.

No wonder she was so baffled when I gushed on and on about her signing at the Judd concert, as if I'd never met her before.  I was mortified.  I left my purse and books on the walk inside the gate and walked towards them. 

I apologized for myself.  Sarah was gracious enough to invite me in and the three of us talked until I had to leave to pick our daughter up from Kindergarten.

I learned a very important lesson that day.  I learned that I needed to be willing to really open my eyes, and see each and every person I met as if they were truly important, intriguing, remarkable, interesting, fascinating...because they are!  I had to stop looking through people, categorizing and then dismissing them based on what I did or didn't know about their lives, and be willing to ask questions, listen deeply, and discover what was unique, and beautiful and wonderful about them. 

I have never forgotten this lesson.  The following story was shared with me recently by my friend Nancy.  I think it perfectly illustrates the importance of taking the time...and the heart...to listen for what we should never dismiss...the divinity in eachother's humanity.  Enjoy this story...

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He was standing in the Washington DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

After 3 minutes, a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds...and then hurried to meet his schedule.  After four minutes, the violinist received his first dollar.  A woman threw the money in the till and, without stopping, continued on her way.  After six minutes had passed, a young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

Ten minutes into his playing, a three year old boy stopped to listen to the violinist, his mother tugged at him, but the toddler lingered looking at the violinist.  Finally the mother pulled harder, and the child continued to walk, turning his head toward the musician all the while.  This same interest was repeated by several other children.  Every parent, without exception, forced them to move on.  Forty-five minutes had passed, and the musician played.  Only six people stopped and stayed for a while.  About twenty people gave him money, but continued to walk at their normal pace.

He collected thirty-two dollars. When one hour had passed, he finished playing and let the silence take over. No one noticed.  No one applauded, nor was there any recognition that he had played...or stopped.

No one who passed through the metro station that day knew it, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the finest violinists in the world. He'd played one of the most difficult and intricate pieces ever written for the violin.  He was playing a violin worth $3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his morning in the metro station,  Joshua Bell had sold out a theater in Boston where the average price of each seat was $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.

The questions raised were: in a common-place environment, at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it?  Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context? 

One possible conclusion, reached from this experiment could be: If we don't have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made...

How many other things are we missing?

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A friend once told me that one of his favorite prayers, for himself, each day included putting  the words of the prophet Elisha in the first person:

"Lord, I pray Thee,
open Thou mine eyes that I may see..."

Something to think about...have a great weekend...
with open eyes, listening for beauty in unexpected places...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Silent Night....holy child"

[mother teaching her infant the sign for "I love you"]

"Silent Night, Holy Night
All is calm, All is bright...."

I was a brand new teacher and these were the first words of sign language I was entrusted to teach my new students at the Adaptive Learning Center.  The ALC was the educational arm of a state residential facility for children with severe and profound mental disabilities.   In the small rural town that surrounded its perfectly manicured but securely gated grounds, it was referred to as the "State School."  Whatever it was called, in town or at the Governor’s mansion, it was "home" to a thousand men, women, and children who had at some point in their childhood been made a "ward of the state" and institutionalized.  These children would never know a home-cooked meal, or bed sheets that smelled like sunshine and fresh air, or the way it felt to wake up to the sound of birds on a spring morning, or the sparkle of Christmas lights in the living room down the hall.

Many of us who had devoted our lives to their education, care, and recreation were keenly aware that we were the only touch of human kindness these children would ever know, especially during the holidays.  Being a new teacher, my awareness of this reality weighed heavily.  I had a class of boys ages 4 through 6.  They were extremely active, unfocused, and perseverant.  Our days were filled with  educational activities that most mothers taught their toddlers.  Repetition and simplicity were key.   I spent many a night in restless dreaming, frustrated that I too was unable to hold a small object between my thumb and forefinger, and move it into a designated hole on a puzzle board without dropping it...again.

The institution had finally hired a music therapist earlier that summer.  She, like most of us, was a fresh recruit out of college, eager to put to the test her love for children and her desire to make a difference in their lives.  She had a rigorous schedule of working with each of our classrooms, and my little guys were her favorites.  They were cute and precocious and we believed that, if we were the "miracle workers" we hoped we could be, in emulating Helen Keller's teacher Anne Sullivan, they too could become functioning members of society.  And not only would they function, they would sing...and sign.

My guys were auditorily challenged--hearing impaired--and a big part of every day was spent in speech therapy, both in the classroom and in one-on-0ne sessions with the speech therapist.  I delivered all of my lessons in both spoken and signed language.   That fall and winter we worked hard to prepare for the annual Christmas show with a signed rendition of the first verse of "Silent Night".

Day after day I positioned hands and fingers over and over again as we sang "Silent Night, Holy Night..."  Often I would come back to their residential cottage after dinner and showers to work with them during their evening time in the “day room”.  This large empty room offered a big television suspended from a platform in the corner of the windowless, concrete encased walls and floor.  It’s where they spent all of their waking free time.  They'd pace back and forth or just sit in a corner while Archie Bunker ranted and raved about the decline of society or while Big Bird cooed on about "the neighborhood".

One evening after a long day in the classroom, I was on the verge of tears.  I had been head-butted by a 120-pound six-year-old whose anti-aggression medication hadn't yet taken effect.  Scott, my "star" pupil, was going to step forward during the concert and do a "solo" signing performance of "sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace".  But he had been especially non-communicative, a behavior consistent with the autism we were working so hard to break through.    Scott had been making some very flitting eye contact with me over the course of a month--we are talking no more than a second or two in a day of working together--and I was buoyed with hope.  But on this night I could not help him quiet an anxiety that we had moved beyond some weeks earlier.  I was devastated.

Since there were no chairs in the day room, I had been standing with him in the corner farthest from the endless drone and chatter of the television.  He suddenly spun into an endless spiral of movement, vocalizing and hand flicking.  I slid down the yellow, thickly-painted cinder block wall and dissolved into exhausted tears.  I was no Anne Sullivan.  I was barely me and this me still had to work a shift at my second job waitressing before I could hit the pillow and find relief from my aching body and the disappointment in myself as a teacher.

I can remember the coldness of the concrete floor and the smooth ripple of the cinder block walls against my palms as I slid to stop.  Even as I type this, I can still hear Carroll O'Connor in his best Archie Bunker voice yelling "Edith!"  My tears were still hanging from eyelashes and rolling down my temples and onto my navy blue cardigan when…I felt a calloused little finger…slide across my cheek.  I looked up and there was Scott, big brown eyes staring into my face, calm and concerned.  The moment lasted fewer than fifteen seconds....but it also lasted more than five and I was stunned.  I sat there as silent and still as I could.  All was calm and all was....yes, bright. 

As soon as it had begun, it was over.  Scott's eye began flitting around the room.  He rocked back and forth singing to himself a sing-song that was not anything even close to "Silent Night".  But when I approached him to try again with the signs for "sleep in heavenly peace", he did them without resistance or confusion.
I had learned early in my still young teaching career working with special needs children not to overwhelm them in the celebration of their accomplishments, but to quietly affirm their success and encourage them to repeat it.  Soon the residential caregivers arrived to take the boys back to their beds and I followed to join them for "tuck in" and sung lullabies.  Usually this is done by a recorded voice, but on this night I wanted to reinforce the Christmas carols we had been learning.  So I stayed and sang to them.

Throughout the next week Scott and his classmates worked hard to learn the signs for "Silent Night".  I discovered that Scott's breakthrough in making sustained eye contact and connecting emotionally was real and repeated...and not just with me.  His solo came off without a hitch and I wasn't the only mom that night weeping for joy that this little guy--his white shirt and red striped bow tie pressed, his normally unruly dirty blonde hair combed to the side like a little man--had done well.

I can't hear "Silent Night" and not feel a small calloused finger reaching out to touch his teacher's cheek.  My hands still find the signs for each word of that carol in space.  My eyes still sting with tears at the memory of that group of boys in their ill-fitting Sunday best, arms and legs all akimbo putting their forefingers to their lips and waiting for my cue to begin the sign for "silent"....

This morning my mother-in-law sent me a video card of "Silent Night".  As I opened the link and heard the first strains, I was transported back to a crowded recreation room with a makeshift stage and a little boy....who spent most of his days as a "ward of the state" rocking back and forth to confused murmurings....standing tall and scrubbed and full of human dignity as he painted "sleep in heavenly peace" through the silent air in front of him with those hands that had wiped away my tears.    I have so much to be grateful for and I wish you a silent night filled with the gifts of knowing that the world is full of holy children longing for the Christ touch....just like you and me....

"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth "  

K & J