Friday, May 12, 2006

The Tipping Points of an Ordinary Day

It was one of those quiet afternoons when things could tip either way.  Out on the lawn, the mild air passed through the lilac blossoms and dipped down into the fresh-mown grass, and as it carried the sounds of birds and cars my way South Bend felt vibrant and alive. Back in the office building, though, the windows were locked and the air pushed in two streams past the heating and cooling coils and was mixed and rammed at us by the air handler with such pressure that the ceiling trembled all day long like the hands of a very old man. I wanted to walk down by the river, but there was a meeting to attend.

The meeting, too, was touch and go. I got to know several admirable new co-workers – they faced a daunting task but launched in with optimism. Yet there were hints that they endured too many hours and days among dismal people with sour attitudes.

Later, an email arrived from an acquaintance who is the most thorough pessimist I’ve ever known.  As he sees it, people are always angling to defeat him.  Written in that spirit, even his simplest email message is exhausting, and this was no exception.

Back home, when I quickly boiled some pasta and steamed some frozen vegetables, I wasn’t feeling like much of a chef or a parent.  Still, the children happily told me when the noodles were cooked just to their liking.  Asking their opinion was the tipping point; I began to shake off the little poisons of the day.  After dinner, we were the first to arrive at dance class, so the girls had the gym to themselves.  Ad libbing, they spun in dizzy circles, turning like tops, occasionally bumping into each other as siblings do.  One was precise, the other an adventurer who expanded to fill the room.

I looked in on their lesson from time to time.  Their teacher had charmed the group with her athletic skill and beauty, but she also watched the children carefully, noticed what they did well, and praised them frequently for their accomplishments.  Your height was amazing, she said, when they tried the jump in place moves that are typical of Irish dance. They counted off the steps and practiced and practiced. She inspired them to do something tedious and difficult and, eventually, beautiful.

Near the end they played freeze tag, moving with the dance steps they had learned.  One of the youngest children was tagged and stood like a statue.  The teacher didn’t want the little one to feel abandoned.  “Don’t forget to unfreeze Grace,” she told the others.  There is a hint of poetry sometimes in everyday speech.  “Don’t forget to unfreeze Grace...”

After class, the teacher offered to show the children some advanced steps, including a dance she had choreographed herself.  Her tap shoes moved at a dazzling pace and the rhythm filled the gymnasium.  You could be in Riverdance, several of the children said with admiration ringing in their voices.

It would be beautiful, I thought, to be like them, as the poets say, to give crowns to those who earn them, to show generosity to workplace villains, to have friends who are the friends of friends, to pay homage to sympathy which, I have heard, leads one to the stars.*

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*Schiller, Ode to Joy; John Berryman, The Dream Songs.

Broadcast by Ken Smith on May 12, 2006
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