The Best Gift Ever

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There are moments in life that are forever etched in memory, so vivid that even thirty years later they evoke powerful emotions. I have many such recollections. Among them is an evening on Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was late spring, a time when days grow warm and new life is sprouting here in my Houston home. My husband was attending a conference in Denver and he invited me to come along. The hotel room after all was already secured. I only needed to purchase a plane ticket, find someone to watch our daughters in our absence and take a couple of days off from work. It seemed an audaciously frivolous thing to do which made me reluctant. I not only had children who relied on me at home but also at the school where I worked. Additionally I was taking a class and it was nearing the end of the semester. Papers were due; tests were coming. Nonetheless some force inside my soul told me that the brief retreat might be fun.

While Mike was attending the seminars and functions associated with his work I stayed in my hotel room reading from my textbooks, writing essays and studying for an exam that was coming within days. The quiet atmosphere complete with room service was perfect for the work that I had to do. I seemed to accomplish five times as much as I would have at home but it still felt silly to have flown hundreds of miles just to hole up inside four walls. I had to wonder what I had been thinking when I agreed to Mike’s plan.

When Mike’s business day ended much earlier than he had anticipated he appeared in our room with a mischievous grin. He announced that we were going to take a drive to Estes Park to see the mountains up close. I quickly gathered my purse and put on my shoes and we were soon heading toward an adventure that would make my trip worthwhile. The mountains loomed ever larger in our view as we drove out of Denver and through Boulder. Soon we were on a highway cut through a national forest which was dotted with mountain streams and incredible vistas at each curve in the road. Before long we were navigating the streets of Estes Park with its quaint shops and restaurants on our quest to ride along Trail Ridge Road inside Rocky Mountain National Park. 

The ranger who greeted us at the entrance of the park told us that we were fortunate because the road had only recently opened but he urged us to be careful because it was growing dark and the weather report indicated that it would be foggy on our trail. We were not dissuaded by his warnings. The mountains beckoned us with a primal urge and we preceded with a growing excitement.

The path was easy at first. We drove along the side of a mountain sheltered by groves of trees that obscured the view. It grew unseasonably cold and we had come dressed for Houston, not the wintry temperatures that surrounded us, so we turned on the heater in our rented car. Here and there were gaps in the pines that showed us that we were indeed going higher and higher. The valley below receded and the air grew thinner. Before long we were driving above the tree line observing ancient glaciers on the tundra. Just as the ranger had predicted a wall of fog and clouds darkened our view. There were no signs of life, just a white blanket of snow and ice on the majestic peaks.

We spoke very little. Somehow chatter seemed to defame the glorious sight that lay all around us. We were alone in God’s country, viewing His majestic architecture, the cathedrals born from His hand. When we reached a point that overlooked the massive peaks through which we were traveling Mike parked the car and we exited so that we might stand in silence observing the breathtaking scene before us. The wind was howling, the temperature was freezing and neither of us had thought to bring coats but we cared little at that moment. Somehow we felt immune to the punishing weather. We were sharing a timeless vision. It felt as though we were the only human beings on the planet, an Adam and Eve discovering the world for the very first time. I wondered at that moment how many intrepid individuals had trekked into the mountains before there were roads or trails only to reach such a place and gaze into infinity just as we were doing. Did they feel close to God and to the core of their souls as I did?

Our faces had grown red from the harshness of the wind. Our fingers were becoming numb from the cold. Shivering we saw our own grins reflected in each other’s expressions. We needed no words to share what we were experiencing. We hesitated to leave but our more rational natures told us that it would soon be dark and a light snow was beginning to fall. We had seen something so spiritual that it would forever bind us with a love for Rocky Mountain National Park and each other. 

We would return to that spot many more times over the years. We would never tire of seeing the wonders of the mountains in different seasons. We would bring our daughters and they would become as spellbound as we were. We would travel to the park with my brothers and their families. We celebrated our fortieth anniversary in those very same mountains along with good friends. We came back with our grandchildren. The lure of Rocky Mountain National Park never seems to grow old and we plan to return once again in a few weeks.

A hundred years ago the idea of preserving our national wonders in a system of parks and monuments that might be shared by all Americans came to be. Today our National Park System cares for our nation’s treasures from north to south, the Atlantic to the Pacific. Over the years Mike and I have marveled at Yosemite, Yellowstone, Glacier, Zion, Mesa Verde, the Grand Canyon, Carlsbad Caverns, the Smokey Mountains, the Missions in San Antonio, Shilo, The Washington and Lincoln Memorials and so many others that it would take pages to list and describe them. We now have a senior pass that allows us to enter any of them without even paying a fee. It would be impossible to justly describe the joy that visiting these places has brought to us again and again.

Our national parks represent the best of our country and who we are as people. They belong to all of us. The idea of preserving them forever was inspired. It came at a time when the entire world was weary from a war that had ultimately seemed so useless. We had paid a heavy price for peace and little knew the horrors that still lay ahead. Our national parks would become havens for even the common man as we grappled with the uglier sides of humanity during the decades that followed.

Our nation’s problems seem to persist but we the people mostly agree the we got it right when we chose to protect our glorious heritage through the national parks. They are a gift to everyone of us and inside their borders we are reminded again and again of what really matters.

Happy Birthday to our National Park System! May the next hundred years be even more glorious. 

Dun Da Da Dun

 

“Dun da da dun” is the sound of trouble in the middle of the night. It is an alert warning me that something significant has happened while I am sleeping. It comes from my husband’s phone which he 160824110618-italy-earthquake-debris-large-169charges on his bedside table each evening. It is tells me that the BBC has an important story. It usually signals bad news.

In the early hours of Central Time on August 24, I heard the familiar alarm and knew that somewhere something of import had taken place. The fact that it was still quite dark outside made it most likely that the occurrence was from another part of the world. When the sun finally peeked through my bedroom window it teased me from my slumbers. Remembering the sound that had roused me earlier I immediately checked my own phone to see what event had been so earth shattering that it merited a signal. As I stared at the headlines still blurred by my not quite awake eyes I learned of a horrible earthquake in the middle of Italy that had destroyed towns and taken far too many lives.

I sadly scanned the images and the details while clearing my head with my morning jolt of caffeine. I felt a great sadness wash over me as I read of the suddenness with which the rumbling earth had destroyed so many lives. One moment it was a beautiful day on which tourists and townspeople filled the streets, a time when the populace planned for weekend festivals. The next brought unimaginable horror as buildings that had withstood wars toppled to the ground burying the humans unfortunate enough to have been inside of them.

I next checked Facebook to see if any of my friends of Italian decent knew anyone who had been affected by the quake. Before I was even able to locate their posts I noticed a plaintiff cry for prayers from one of my cousins, a young woman with a beautiful family and an even more lovely soul. She revealed that she had been diagnosed with lymphoma and requested that we all ask God to help her. I felt as though I had been stabbed in the heart. I was shaken.

After gathering my wits I noticed a comment from a childhood friend whose family had immigrated from Italy long ago. She shared an image of the damage caused by the earthquake in the country of her ancestors and remarked that we should all live with the realization that everything that we take for granted can change in a heartbeat.

I was reminded for the millionth time just how fragile our lives really are. We assume that we will arise each morning and begin our routines. We make plans for the future never believing that anything will impede them. We have great intentions to do this or that but somehow become distracted with the mundane. We complain about small irritations that are generally easy to resolve. We act as though we have all the time in the world to do the things that are most important. We rush from appointment to appointment and often find ourselves apologizing for not having enough time to call a friend, check on a neighbor, visit someone who is lonely, send a card to someone who is sick.

We only have so many hours in a day and we have to prioritize, save our energy. “I’ll think about that tomorrow,” we reply echoing the now famous words of Scarlet O’Hara. All too often tomorrow never comes. We pile up regrets. The regrets turn to sorrow. We don’t quite know how to slow down the pace of our lives just enough to engage in a concerted effort to enjoy our blessings.

Of course our immediate responsibilities must come first. We have jobs. Our family members require our care and attention. We must maintain our own health. The drive just to accomplish those things may begin before dawn and only end in the dark of night. Our energy is limited. We can’t and shouldn’t push ourselves into to an early grave by attempting to be all things to all people. We know that this is true and yet each of us have known individuals who managed to redirect their lives just enough to be able to reach out to someone every single day. They demonstrate that it requires only a bit of organization and practice to include acts of kindness in the fabric of our daily routines.

I know people who keep rolls of stamps and boxes of generic greeting cards at the ready to send their love and concern to those who may need a burst of sunshine. It takes only a few minutes to jot down a note of encouragement but that tiny slice of time has the power to change someone’s entire day. Our phone calls don’t have to be long or move beyond a few sweeps of the clock. Just a quick few words tell someone that they are important. It need take no more than the time to say, “I was thinking of you. How are you doing?” At work we can give someone a thumbs up, acknowledging effort and the  importance of what they do. We shouldn’t wait for another day to express our sorrow or offer our contrition for mistakes or mend a broken relationship. A simple wave, a post on Facebook, a smile, a hug are gestures that take so little of our time and energy but have profound consequences. We should all strive to insert a few more of such endeavors into every one of our days. By doing so we are less likely to be filled with the regret of leaving our words unsaid, our actions undone.

The clock is slowly ticking. Each day is filled with uncertainty. It is a waste of time to dwell on the possibility of sudden tragedy but it is wise to realize that we only have so many opportunities to accomplish the most important tasks that center on the people about whom we care.

Last week I watched a biography of Jimmy Carter. It mentioned that President Carter loved and respected his father but sometimes felt that he was a bit too stern, unemotional and formal in his relationships. He didn’t think that his father’s business dealings merited much praise. He would have preferred to see his dad performing corporal works of mercy and charitable acts.  Upon his death Jimmy learned how wrong he had been in estimating his father. The funeral brought an overflow crowd and even more praises for the many kindnesses that Carter’s father had extended quietly and humbly to virtually everyone that he had ever encountered. Story after story told of small gestures and sacrifices that had made enormous differences in people’s lives. President Carter at that moment began to realize that it is in those everyday encounters that we touch the most hearts.

I will most assuredly once again hear the “dun da da dun” from the BBC announcing the latest news. My phone may ring to tell me of births, accomplishments, joys, sorrows, death. The unrelenting rhythm of life will march forever forward. The clock will tick. Hopefully I will have set aside a tiny slice of my day to live my best life. I can’t afford to wait until tomorrow to think about the things that deserve to be done today.

  

Monsters Under the Bed

MTE5NDg0MDU0OTk3MjcyMDc5We’ve all heard of Heinrich Himmler. We’ve seen his images, a weak rather nondescript looking man. He had one of those faces that just blended into a crowd. In most circumstances he would have been the quiet, frustrated and angry man who never quite accomplished much who seethed at imagined enemies. He might have simply been an unhappy crank or perhaps he would have one day become unhinged, perpetrating a one time shocking, violent deed. That is, however, not what happened to Heinrich Himmler. He lived during a time when his decidedly sick views were shared by people in power. His adherence to racist theories and unyielding allegiance to Adolf Hitler provided him with a prominent place among the dangerous rogues who held sway over Germany. He became one of the major architects of a profane attempt to purify the world by exterminating Jews, homosexuals, gypsies, Communists and anyone deemed to be infirm in body or mind. He was a cold calculating killer, an evil individual with psychopathic tendencies.

Heinrich Himmler appeared to be a sweet little boy but even in his earliest days there were signs that something was not quite right in his temperament. He struggled in school claiming that he was simply bored and lazy. He was sickly. He penned journal entries speaking of his strong desire to return to a time of “Germanic glory.” He was sad that he was not old enough to go to war for his country and longed for the time when he might fight. He wrote of his many grievances and tended to blame everyone but himself for the troubles that seemed to dog him. His hatred for the Jews was particularly vile but he railed against homosexuals as well. He somehow believed that his country would be a better place without such people.

Heinrich eventually fell in love with an older woman. His correspondence with her was as strange as his diary entries. He wanted her to be both pure and naughty at the same time. He demanded her subservience to him. She demurred and eventually they wed at a time when he was ascending the ranks of the Nationalist Party. Much of the couple’s time together would be brief. He was busy building a new Germany and a house for his family. He believed it to be the duty of all good Aryan citizens to populate the world with their strong and racially perfect children. Sadly his wife was only able to have one baby, a girl. The couple adopted a boy to be an example for their fellow German citizens. He then proceeded to have a secret affair with a younger woman who gave him yet another child.

Himmler was cold and evil and yet he doted on his little girl, sending her loving letters and extravagant gifts. He showed her a side of himself that was incongruous with the horrific deeds that he sanctioned. He thought of his ability to view the bodies of the individuals who had been murdered in the concentration camps as a sign of courage. He spoke of being able to do what he believed to be right and necessary for the good of the country as though he were a great hero. He celebrated the callous research of doctors intent on sterilizing the unwanted. He felt great accomplishment when methods of extermination became more effective. He spoke of the importance and difficulty of his work, patting himself on the back for being so devoted to making the fatherland a better place.

In the end he left his wife and children to fend for themselves, committing suicide when he was ultimately captured. He was a coward with visions of grandeur. A megalomaniac who insisted that he and his fellow savages were really decent men who did what they did out of love of country. He hoped that one day the world would realize the necessity of their actions and judge them in a favorable way.

What force of nature or environmental mistake creates such individuals? How does hate become so embedded in a person’s soul that he or she becomes blinded to the need for human decency? Why do we continue to see such dark souls living in our midst? Are such people cursed with a genetic flaw or does their upbringing play into their evil? These are questions that have daunted civilized society for centuries. We would desperately like to be able to fix those with broken deviated minds but we neither have the means to accurately identify them before they stalk us nor the knowhow to help them change. Their very existence remains a mystery to us and we generally only stop them once they have committed their horrific deeds.

As an educator I have once in a great while seen youngsters who seemed destined for grave trouble. It is difficult to be the person to identify such children. It hardly seems right to label them when they are so young and yet they do stand out from the rest of the little ones. I once had a student who was a twin. He was only ten but he had already demonstrated tendencies that were frightening. He regularly beat and berated his sibling. His mother was afraid to sleep at night lest he murder her while she slumbered. He tortured younger students and seemed to greatly enjoy his conquests. His father almost celebrated his deeds as evidence that he was strong. He was the classic bully but he also attempted to hide his evil. He cooperated fully in class, even appearing to be polite and quite intelligent. His were classic signs of a sociopath and yet the hands of those of us who worried about him were mostly tied. His father was unwilling to allow him to undergo counseling. His mother eventually ran away, leaving a note outlining her fears and her inability to cope with what she saw as a threatening storm inside her family. Years later this boy would commit crimes that sealed his fate. He became a resident of the state prison population. Thankfully he was incarcerated before he did too much harm. Still, I wonder to this very day if there might have been some form of intervention that might have helped him when we observed his tendencies so long ago.

Psychologists define sociopaths as having certain characteristics. They possess intelligence and a charm which they use to manipulate those with whom they interact. Their thinking is not psychotic or delusional but they are able to lie without signs of guilt. They show little remorse or shame for misdeeds, often attempting to cover themselves by parsing the truth. Their judgement is faulty and they appear to make similar mistakes over and over again which they often blame on outside forces. Their personal relationships are shallow and they often trivialize others. I have read that there is little that can be done for them. At least we have yet to unlock the key to helping them. Sometimes society manages to channel their tendencies into successful careers in politics or business. They seek power in acceptable ways. Some even manage to do good in order to achieve the notice that they desire. They appear to be truly decent people who tirelessly pursue laudable goals but their relationships with others are superficial and unreal. They operate out of selfishness, not a true concern for others. If only society were able to redirect those who show the tendencies that often lead to psychotic behaviors of grandiosity and violence. Sadly there is a very thin line between actually helping such people and performing heinous acts on them much as Heinrich Himmler and his henchmen did. We always have to be very careful when we embark down a road of changing minds.

Most of the world is indeed peopled by decent men and women but we all realize that we must be wary. There are those among us who would charm us into thinking that we are safe with them but whose ideas are dark and filled with great danger. We must be careful that we do not mistake them for heroes and then provide them with the power to do horrible things. Perhaps we should remember Heinrich Himmler just as he hoped we would, not as a decent man but as the frightening madman that he was. He among others has taught us that there are monsters under the bed that we must challenge before they have the power to overtake us. The trick is in knowing who and where they are. 

But for the Grace of God

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Home is supposed to be a safe place, somewhere to rest, recharge and be free. We select the places where we live according to our means and our preferences. We fill our houses with people and things and memories. Our abodes often hold clues as to who we are and what is most important to us. A home is more than just a structure. It is a backdrop for our experiences, the slate on which we express the inner workings of our very souls. When the places where we live are invaded either by mankind or nature it is grievously wrong. Somehow we all understand the sense of loss when we learn of someone whose home has been destroyed. The feeling is visceral and basic to our natures. When the tragedy is close to our own homes it becomes even more real. “But for the grace of God…” we utter and wonder how we have been so fortunate while others suffer.

Living along or near the Gulf Coast has always been a kind of crap shoot. The land is barely above sea level and storms from the sea are inevitable. Over time the manmade stretches of concrete and buildings make it more and more difficult for the water from the rains that fall to find a way back to the ocean. The land is often swampy, spongy after a deluge. Humans must engineer retention ponds, irrigation systems and levees to overcome nature’s tendencies to flood the land in such areas. As our populations grow we become more daring and build on acreage that has been empty for all time. The developers assure us that we will be fine because there have never been floods in this area. We forget to consider that there have never been people in such places either. We really don’t know for certain what will happen until the rains pound on the land. When we find that we were wrong it is too late to prevent the human misery.

The metropolitan area of Houston is my home. I have lived here for most of my sixty seven years. I know which areas are high enough to withstand heavy rains and which have flooded over the years. I have watched in horror as deluges from the sky have inundated entire neighborhoods. I have been stranded and unable to reach my home when the skies opened up in fury. I both fear and respect the ways of nature because I have witnessed their destructive forces. I have been lucky in that regard but I never feel completely immune from the possibility of one day finding water seeping into the rooms of my house. I have long ago prepared for the worst. I carry insurance for both the winds of hurricanes and floods caused by incessant rain. There is an ax carefully stored inside my attic in case I must create an exit to my roof in order to find refuge from rising water. I have a ladder that will allow me to climb safely from one of my second story windows. I have these things because of images that I have seen again and again. I want to be ready for any eventuality but hope that I never have to use the tools that allow me to sleep more soundly even when the storms are raging over my head.

The state of Louisiana is like a beloved relative to me. The people there are simpatico with those of us from Houston. We share common experiences much like cousins. The same plants that thrive in New Orleans do well in my backyard. The heavy blanket of humidity that marks summers here are found in the cities and towns of our neighboring Gulf Coast state. We are friendly people who embrace life. We face the same dangers from the storms that inevitably come our way.

The recent floods in Baton Rouge have been heartbreaking. This wasn’t supposed to happen there. When Hurricane Katrina threatened New Orleans many of those who fled from its fury sought refuge in the capitol city. It was farther inland and surely a safer way to hunker down until the storm passed. When New Orleans was seemingly destroyed beyond repair eleven years ago there were thousands of people who gave up on the idea of ever living there again. They did not have the emotional strength to risk enduring such an ordeal one more time. They had lost everything and would have to rebuild but they would do so in a more secure place. Some of them chose Baton Rouge or Houston  or San Antonio, anyplace that offered shelter from the horror.

I watched the people from New Orleans pour into my town like refugees with barely the clothes on their backs. They were frightened every time lightning lit up the sky, thunder roared and rain pounded on the roof. Their scars slowly healed and they moved on, leaving entire lifetimes behind. It was gut wrenching to witness and I remember feeling grossly inept in helping them. I also realized that none of us are entirely immune from such tragedy. Be it hurricanes, storms, tornadoes, wildfires, earthquakes or tsunamis we are all potentially in harms way. We never quite know when our circumstances will change. Mother Nature surprises us again and again.

This summer has been especially difficult. Fires still rage in both northern and southern California. Windstorms blow in Arizona. Floods have overtaken cities and towns in a swath that stretches across the country. Among those affected is the city of Baton Rouge, a place that has endured unspeakable manmade and natural tragedies in the space of only weeks. Somehow their sorrow seems all too personal and terrifying.

I listened to an interview with a woman whose home was under water following the rains that unrelentingly fell a couple of weeks ago. She had once lived in New Orleans but when the levees broke eleven years ago the waters swept away every possession that she had ever owned. She found a welcoming kindness when she fled to Baton Rouge and decided to stay. She worked hard to create a new life for herself and her family. She only recently purchased a new home. She was happy and proud of herself. She had been strong and resilient. She was careful. She had asked if her new neighborhood had ever flooded. She wondered if she needed to purchase flood insurance. She was told over and over again that she need not worry about such things. She was safe. She was finally home.

She loved everything about her new house. She didn’t have much to put in it but the place was filled with love. The people around her were friendly and helpful. Her terrible journey seemed to be over. She felt that she might finally rest. When the unthinkable happened and she once again watched the water encroach on her world her resolve wavered. She feels broken but determined. She tries to smile but only tears come from her heart. She wants to believe that she will one day feel safe again but somehow that seems to be an impossible task. When I saw this woman trying so desperately to be optimistic and brave my heart literally burst open in a flood of empathy. I felt her pain.

It is fine to wait for our government to come to the aid of those who are in need. We certainly hope that our President will understand their situation. What matters most is that those of us who have the means find ways to help them through their ordeal. They will need much in the coming days and weeks. There are ways to make a difference. We can give of our time, our talents and our treasure. Every tiny effort is multiplied a thousand fold whenever we work together. New Orleans rose from the dead because love poured into that city from all around the world. So too must we do our part to assist the good people of Baton Rouge. We need to loudly send the message that we will not forget them in their hour of need.

“But for the grace of God…”

This Is The Day

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Facebook and Instagram are filled with first day of school photos this morning. Not only do we see pics of little ones but also the young men and women who are continuing with higher education in colleges across the land. There are images of teachers and their classrooms as well, some who are veterans and others who will greet their very first set of students today. There are nerves, fresh haircuts and new shoes making their way onto campuses from pre-school to schools of engineering. We see the innocent faces of kindergartners and the confident portraits of seniors. Yet another school year is beginning and once again as a nation we place our future hopes in the hands of the millions who are set to learn everything from the three Rs to Thermodynamics.

Our political world will discuss the importance of education ad nauseam. Some will point to the total failure and injustice of our system while others see schools as our only real hope for progress. We will argue about whether college is a right that should be free or a privilege that we must earn. We will discuss the over testing of our students and question the impact of political correctness on campuses. All the while the educators will quietly go about their work and the students will hopefully succeed in learning the skills and knowledge of the curriculum. In ten months everyone embarking on this journey will be irrevocably changed be it for better or worse. It’s virtually impossible to spend almost an entire year inside of a classroom without being affected by the daily interchanges that have taken place.

On Saturday I spent a lovely morning with a former student from the last school in which I worked before retiring. We chatted over omelets, waffles and hot tea. She is studying at the prestigious University of Houston Bauer School of Business and is in the final semesters of reaching her goal of becoming the first in her family to earn a college degree. She is an outstanding student not just because she is naturally bright but because she has a clear understanding of the amount of determination and willingness to work that achieving any worthy goal requires. She views education as an opportunity and realizes that it is up to her to seize the moment. She often advises and inspires other young people by reminding them that success is not easy but also not impossible. She warns them to be wary of defining themselves by their zip codes. In other words it doesn’t matter what ones economic status may be but rather how willing he/she is to put in the time and labor needed to grow and change.

This young woman is already on her way to great things. She understands the importance of networking with both other students and her professors. She knows how to ask for help when she is floundering. That is how the two of us first met and began to build a powerful relationship. She realizes that nobody is ever truly able to accomplish greatness alone. She constantly learns from everyone that she meets. She earnestly asks questions and listens intently. She reflects on what she has experienced and adjusts as needed. She shares the lessons she has learned with others. She has discovered the essence of education, the interplay of people and ideas that traces itself back to the challenges posed by Socrates. She fully understands that she will never be entirely finished with the process of discovery. It is a lifelong pursuit and she is not only willing but excited about the possibilities of her journey.

First days of school are always filled with hope. They provide both students and teachers with yet another chance to make good on their promises to be just a bit better than before. They define the moment when resolve is often at its peak. The fresh supplies and the new clothes are outward signs of gloriously positive intent. Everyone’s hearts are aflutter with both happiness and fear. We humans quite desperately want to be our best. It is part of our DNA to be curious. We have yet to completely understand what happens along the way to sometimes stunt the enthusiasm for learning among some of our young. We know that environment plays a huge role in beating people down but we nonetheless see many examples of individuals who overcome horrific conditions. We continue to seek answers as to how and why our children often seem to lose the innate sense of wonder with which they are born.

We sadly have a tendency to lay blame for perceived failures without really examining every facet of a situation. We all too often make false assumptions. We are particularly prone to pontificating about education without knowing the many layers of complexity that exist for each individual who enters the world of schooling. A child who is loved, well fed and blessed with a strong body and mind has a head start over one who is abused, hungry and saddled with disabilities. A teacher with a sunny, well equipped classroom of bright and well adjusted children is more likely to advance her pupils than one who must teach in overcrowded and dreary conditions that include an overabundance of children bearing the scars of living in fear. The fixes for broken schools require far more than an infusion of cash or a rewrite of the curriculum. They need faculties willing to invest their hearts into their work and students like the young lady with whom I spent my Saturday who understand the part that they must play in giving their all to the effort. It also requires parents who cheer for both the teachers and their children, making it clear that education is a family affair.

Today is a new day. The slates are blank once again. The pencils are long and sharp. The notebooks are filled with fresh sheets of paper waiting for the notes and calculations that will ultimately fill them. It is the season for planting new seeds, a time of great anticipation. We believe again. We try again. We are tan and rested and ready to go. It is what we do over and over as the school bells beckon our children once more. Our entire future depends on what will happen all across the land. Somewhere is the next great inventor, the peacemaker, the artistic genius, the brilliant business person, the contributor to our society that we cannot yet even imagine. There are teachers who will inspire our new generation and help to create the leaders that we will most surely need.

I feel a lump in my throat as I think of what lies ahead during the next ten months. There is an industry at work in schools that is filled with the best of intentions. I wish everyone well. I’ll continue to do my part by encouraging the educators who are still in the trenches and helping the students who struggle a bit with numbers. It’s up to all of us to join in this great endeavor and to celebrate the fact that we are never willing to give up on becoming our better selves. This is day one. Let’s all celebrate the possibilities and do our parts to make them happen.