Category: Empathy

The Best Gift

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

deddfa2e6c8561515b485b35fa01724fHow do we speak of grief when it is so personal? Why do we have a tendency to judge the level or appropriateness of one’s sadness? Each of us will face loss and death, either our own or that of a loved one. Our feelings and the way we express them are the result of multitudes of lessons we have learned. We cope in so many different ways and yet we find ourselves wondering why there are so many different approaches to tragedy.

My mother was quite strong but the deaths of loved ones revealed a crack in her outward facade that was almost disturbing. She allowed her emotions to have free range. She would take to her bed and cry in convulsive fits. She became unable to perform even the simplest tasks. Because of the extreme nature of her reactions I found myself in a state of forced control whenever our family endured an horrific situation. I maintained a fake coolness and appeared to be seemingly detached. It was an act and I’m not certain that it was the proper way to be but it became my way of coping.

I have watched people at funerals and noticed just how quirky each of us becomes whenever we have to endure the anguish that overtakes us at such times. Few people know how to properly deal with the misery of such situations. Those who do are a blessing. They say the right things and seem to know when to cry and when to smile. They are normal and natural and comfortable to be around. Most of us falter. We sense that the public has certain expectations for us but we simply do not know how to be. We are awkward with our feelings and our comments and wish that we might express ourselves with a brilliance that allows people to understand the essence of our souls.

A former student from the high school where I last worked lost her mother to cancer just before she was to graduate from college. She was quite close to her mom and they had both dreamed of the day when she would earn her degree. Having to walk across the stage when everyone surrounding her was in such a festive mood became more like a nightmare for her. In her heart she knew that her dear sweet mama should have been there to watch the triumph but instead she was forever gone. Every step that she took and every smile that she made on that day was little more than her effort to keep herself together when what she really wanted to do was rage against the unfairness of her loss. Of late she has been able to channel the enormity of her feelings by writing blogs designed to reveal her heartbreaking journey and to discuss the complexities of grief. Her hope is that by honestly discussing her emotions she will somehow help others who will most certainly find a time when they must deal with the loss of those that they love.

Not everyone is so willing to open their hearts. Most of us have masks that we use to hide the hurt and misery that stalks us. I am personally quite guilty of such behavior. I often pretend to be just fine when I am instead feeling quite low. I suspect that most people don’t really want a totally honest assessment of my emotional status and so I mostly smile to make them feel reassured. I only provide a truthful appraisal of my hurt and disappointment to those whom I most trust. I suppose that most of us are like that. We have one persona for home and another for public display.

Somehow there has to be a delicate balance between abject agony and stalwart stoicism. There also must be understanding. It really is not up to any of us to judge another for their despair or seeming lack of it. Unless we are close enough to them to truly know the content of their hearts we never realize exactly what they are thinking or feeling. Our only job should be to support them however they choose to be.

Long ago one of the teachers at my school was killed in a car accident. She was a delightful soul who was beloved by all. Those of us who worked with her attended her funeral in a state of shock and discomfort. Her mother was calm and gracious, attending more to our needs than to her own. I accidentally wondered allowed how she was able to maintain her composure under such circumstances and she laughingly told me that she was filled with so much medication that she could hardly feel her feet much less the pain that had ripped a crater open in her heart. When a lone tear ran down her cheek I saw the devastation in her eyes for the first time and we just stood holding hands until she was able to regain her composure and move to the next guest who had come to honor her daughter.

I have a dear friend who worked with me for many years. When my mother died she reacted in the most appropriate and loving ways. She came to the visitation and kept her remarks quite simple, telling me how much she loved me and how sorry she was. A week or so after the funeral she sent me a lovely plant that almost six years later continues to grow and flourish as a symbol of her kindness. Not too long after that she wrote a beautiful letter to me, reminding me of beautiful moments when I had shared stories about my mom. She kept in touch just to be sure that I was doing okay long after everyone had gone back to their normal lives. She took a few moments here and there to let me know that she understood that my pain was not yet healed. I will always love her for her insightful attention and ability the see through my attempts to appear strong.

Someone that you know may be suffering and not even showing the signs. Particularly during the holiday season we should each take the time to find that person who is unable to be merry because of illness, disappointment or loss. It takes very little to provide a bit of comfort, a funny card, a quick phone call, a bouquet of flowers, a visit. Those small gestures really do make a difference.

My daughter and I were feeling pensive this Thanksgiving. One of my cousins died just before the big day of feasting. Another cousin is battling lymphoma. All of my surviving aunts are well into their nineties and experiencing major health problems. We spoke of how fragile life is and the changes that are inevitable for all of us. We commented that during our most difficult times we are often quite surprised to learn who truly cares. There always seems to be someone who unexpectedly steps forward to provide us with exactly the tonic that we need to begin to heal. Perhaps each of us should find someone for whom we might offer solace in the midst of the rush to celebrate the season. There is no better gift and it need not cost a thing. Someone is hoping for your gentle touch. 

The Letter

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

aid1022005-728px-mail-a-letter-step-1Many years ago I wrote a letter to the pastor of my church to lodge a complaint. There is nothing unusual about doing such a thing. I suspect that parishioners do so all of the time. Still I felt a bit uncomfortable about what I had done on the spur of the moment after attending services one Sunday. If I’d been able to climb into the mailbox to retrieve the note I would have. With the damage already done I stewed for days over how the kind priest would take my comments and worried that I would never again be able to face him without a strong tinge of embarrassment. When my phone rang one afternoon and the good Father greeted me on the other end of the line I was breathless. I thought that he had surely telephoned to upbraid me for my audacious remarks.

The content of my letter derived from many weeks of listening to one of the church deacons harangue those of us in attendance at the Sunday gathering for being sinners. I realize that such tongue lashings are actually commonplace in many Christian sects but I am a Catholic and had grown up hearing kinder, gentler sermons that were positive and up-lifting. I had explained that I often came to church weary from the challenges of daily living and expected to feel renewed at the end of the experience, not beaten down even more. I complained that the constant guilt trips coming from the deacon were disheartening and that if they continued I would be forced to seek another church. I had recorded my thoughts after a bruising account of just how sin-filled we humans are. Somehow when I heard the kind and soothing voice of the priest asking if he might come to my home to talk with me I was certain that I wouldn’t have to take the initiative of finding another place of worship. I began to mentally anticipate the excommunication from the parish which he was sure to deliver to me.

I was a nervous wreck by the time that my doorbell rang at the time that Father and I had agreed upon. I had made a pot of coffee and baked some cookies hoping to dispel some of the anger that I believed was about to descend upon my house. I did my best to cover my nervousness with a weak smile as I let the pastor inside.

We sat in my living room chatting about the weather and other such trivial things for a time and then the priest took the paper with my handwriting on it from inside his coat pocket. My heart was beating so quickly that I was certain that I was going to have a heart attack and he would to have to administer the last rites before I died right then and there. Instead he rather quietly smiled at me and said that he had been taken by the courage that writing such a thoughtful piece must have taken. He noted that he had felt and understood the honesty of my critique and actually agreed with the majority of my thoughts. He congratulated me for alerting him to my feelings rather than silently stewing in anger. He even noted that he had prayed over how to respond and realized that my concerns deserved a personal response.

I felt completely disarmed and relaxed as the pastor insisted that he was proud of me rather than being angry at my audacity. Then he told me how much he also loved and admired the deacon about whom I had complained. He laughed and explained that a great majority of the parishioners actually enjoyed the fire and brimstone sermons that the feisty speaker delivered and that he had letters from them to prove his contention. He told me that just as Jesus had loved everyone so unconditionally, so too should the church make room for all points of view. He had spoken with the deacon who was the subject of my ire and they had already agreed that perhaps he needed to balance his focus on sin with an equal note of the goodness that surely resides in our human hearts. He told me that I should expect to see a bit of a change in the homilies but that the essence of who the deacon was as a Christian would still be there. After all, he noted St. Paul was a firebrand and his letters to the people are still read today.

Somehow the explanation coming so wisely from our church community’s leader made sense to me. My fears evaporated and we spent the next many minutes just talking about my viewpoints and his. To my surprise the priest suggested that I become more involved in the life of our parish. He point out that the best way for me to bring about some of the changes that I sought was to counterbalance what I did not like by accepting a leadership role. He gave me a list of the organizations that he thought I might enjoy hinting that becoming a teacher of religious education seemed to fit me perfectly. He noted he liked the idea of having me influence the children with my more positive approach to religion. Then he walked from room to room in my home blessing the place where I lived.

I soon joined the teaching corps at my church and within a couple of years I was tapped to be one of the directors of religious education. I had learned a valuable lesson from the pastor that I have followed in all of my endeavors through the years. Namely, I realized that each of us has different ways of seeing the same situation and most of the time both points of view are valuable. I also came to understand that expressing our differences in a constructive way actually leads to the growth of an organization, not its destruction. I learned that staying inside a group that seemed quite different from myself was actually the very best way to begin the change process that I desired. The pastor had shown me how to lead effectively, how to maintain my personal code of ethics, how to be flexible, and how to make my own voice heard.

The deacon whom I had once disliked intensely became one of my dearest friends. I found him to be an remarkably sincere soul who actually believed much as I did but had a very different way of approaching the realization of our mutual goals. He was one of the kindest people I have ever known and it didn’t take long for me to understand why our pastor allowed him to do his sermonizing thing. There was great wisdom tucked inside his seeming madness. We worked together for years and tended to laugh whenever we reached a point of contention. We somehow managed to compromise just enough to both feel comfortable.

The election of Donald Trump to the presidency has reminded me of my own story and the priest who so beautifully included me and my way of thinking into the parish family. He might have ignored my soulful plea or even been angered by the thoughts that were so heavy handed and written in a heated moment. Instead he took the time to assure me that he served all of his parishioners and loved them as well. I still prefer pleasantries at church and in my diversions. I don’t like to be lectured in places where I expect to find comfort and escape from the stresses of my life but I understand the we each have a right to the ways that we feel. The priest taught me to open my mind and have just enough empathy to understand what prompts alternative ways of thinking. I can track the leadership style that I developed all the way back to that meeting. I would recommend that all of us, including our new POTUS elect, take a moment amid all of the sound and fury to at least attempt to work with one another.

Like Trump I would have been upset by being singled out for a critique by the cast of Hamilton but I also admire Pence for being more like the priest of my story in suggesting that democracy is enhanced, not threatened, by such moments. Now it is time for those of us whose platforms differ from Mr. Trump’s to find the areas of agreement and work from there. When he makes a move that worries us it is valid to voice our concern but we must also applaud him when he does something positive. If our only approach to his presidency is a continual barrage of negativity he will soon quit listening to our pleas. We have an opportunity to impact the trajectory of our nation. Will we leave? Will we incessantly complain? Will we search for common ground and move forward from there? The choice is ours. How we respond will either keep us at arms length or lead to compromises that will positively impact all of us. 

Transformation

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

transformationsEllen was an exotic beauty with black hair and deep dark brown eyes that seemed to be flirtatious and mischievous even when she was engaged in a mundane conversation. In her younger days she boasted a perfect hour glass figure but even as she aged and carried extra weight she was still utterly attractive. Her mind was keen and few were ever able to outsmart her. When she smiled she warmed an entire room. People quite naturally loved her. She didn’t have to expend extra energy to entice them but she always did. She was known for her generous spirit and empathy, always the first not just to notice pain and suffering but to respond with kindness. She was a sprite, a free spirit undefined by societal norms. Her confidence was such that she would have treated a famous dignitary exactly the same way that she did a homeless soul. She was one of a kind, a rare individual so blessed with beauty and brains and a bold outlook on life that she stood out even in a crowded room.

Ellen was my mother and she was larger than life in every imaginable way. She was the rock on which the foundation of our family was built, particularly after our father died when she was only thirty years old and we were small children. The trauma of our daddy’s death marked the first time that I saw her flounder. It was frightening for me to watch her grief explode so publicly. For a time she appeared to be a stranger with a faraway look in her eyes. She was not present for anyone. We might have burned down the house and she would barely have noticed. A slow transformation was beginning inside her mind that would alter her. It was not of her own making. It was not who she really was. It was the product of a mental illness that would from time to time overtake her in ways that seemed to destroy her very essence.

At first we barely noticed what was happening. Somehow she willed herself to return to her normal state. She had important work to do. She was now the mother and the father in our family. She had to provide and nurture. She could ill afford to drown in her tears or spend much time in a sorrowful state. She donned a mask that announced to the world that she was back, her old self ready to tackle any challenges that came her way. For a time she did a remarkable job of convincing all of us that her heart was a bit dented but not badly damaged. Still there were signs of her slow deterioration that we did not see. We hardly noticed how easily her feelings were often hurt, something that had not been part of her personality in the past. She appeared to get sick more often, sometimes staying in bed for days. We would see signs that she had been crying but then she would smile to reassure us and we forgot to consider that she might still be in pain. She shouldered so much hurt and responsibility without ever speaking of it. Perhaps we all expected perfection when we should have known that she was only human.

Ellen attempted to be all things in all situations but the stress ate away at her. She was teaching school, attending college, paying bills, keeping the home in order, caring for her aging mother, and always being a kind of super mom. After ten years of courageous effort her facade cracked wide open and the bipolar disorder that had been smoldering inside her brain became full blown. Her transformation into the world of mental illness was complete and it was as frightening as anything she or we had ever experienced.

She closed the windows and the blinds and turned off the air conditioner even though it was the hottest part of the summer. She took to her bed and openly cried almost continuously. She whispered her fears which were paranoid to the extreme. She believed that our family was under attack from a nameless group bound to the idea of ruining us. She was certain that we would be put away into some jail without a trial. She worried that all of the food in her home had been poisoned. Her eyes were dull and darted around the room in fear. Her hands shook continuously and her breathing was labored. She would not eat and could not sleep. She was certain that she was going to die or that she may have already done so. Her dark and tiny world was filled with enemies and intrigue. She trusted no one. She was paralyzed in a state of panic from which she saw no escape. She had been transformed into a stranger who did not resemble my mother in any way.

I underwent my own transformation in that time. I had to vanquish my youth and accept responsibility for my mother and my younger brothers. I could no longer afford to be shy and backward. I had to quickly learn how to assert myself. I became a voice for our family. I assumed the mantle that had been thrust upon me. It felt uncomfortable and I disliked having to take control of the situation. It meant that I had to make difficult and sometimes unpopular decisions. I had no idea back then that this would become part of my destiny or that my mother would suffer from her disease for the rest of her life. Her illness would become the backdrop for our family for the next forty four years. It never went away and it was painful to watch.

There were moments when my charismatic mother reemerged in all of her glory and magnificence. Those were the best of times but they never lasted for long. Again and again the fearful broken woman would replace her and my brothers and I would battle to save her mind. We settled into a routine of vigilance that mostly worked but each time that we believed the impossible, namely that she was cured, we would be proven wrong. We learned that her illness was chronic and that it could be controlled but only so much. Medications would work for a time and then their effectiveness would lessen or they would produce serious side effects that precluded their use.

She gained weight from the chemicals coursing through her body. She felt fuzzy. It was not a state that she enjoyed. She would rebel from time to time, hiding her medications under sofas and beds, pretending to swallow them when they were tucked under her tongue. She argued that she did not need the treatments that we forced on her. Our relationship was often tense and confusing. She was supposed to be the beloved matriarch but she often felt like the child. None of us liked the situation but we understood what the consequences of ignoring our duties to her would be. We had seen what happened whenever we became complacent.

Somehow the transformation of my mother and our family had its positive effects as well. We became closer than we might have been. We celebrated and appreciated her moments of good health with more gusto than we might otherwise have done. We worked together and learned what is most important in life. We never took each other for granted. The curse of mental illness that had descended on our world turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It made us all better individuals. We learned to value people and to understand them. We became more observant and noticed when those around us were suffering. All in all we were much nicer than we had been before.

Mental illness stalks its victims with a vengeance but we learned that it need not win. Our mother’s life was more painful that it should have been but she managed to accomplish great things in spite of the disorder that lurked inside her brain. It slowed her down but it did not cripple her. It reshaped our family but not always in bad ways. Our transformation made us strong and resilient.

Ellen died at the age of eighty four. On her final days there was no sign of her mental illness. She was once again restored to the perfection of spirit that had so defined her. In her final transformation she was ready to meet God and reunite with our father. The circle was complete for her and for us.

October Is Pink

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

downloadIt has become traditional to focus on breast cancer each October. We are showered in pink to remind us of an horrific disease that continues to strike women in spite of our best efforts to eradicate it. Virtually everyone has known someone who had to deal with the physical and emotional effects of breast cancer. Much of the time the debilitating treatments lead to remission but all too often some lose their battle.

We are taught as young girls how to give ourselves breast exams. It is every woman’s nightmare to find something suspicious. Some of us are perennially lumpy making it more difficult to notice slight changes but we try. Most women schedule regular visits to their doctors and endure painful mammograms just to be certain that nothing is amiss. When a doctor signals that there may be a problem with a concerned look and a battery of more extensive tests women find themselves in a state of quiet panic and worry. There is nothing quite like the not knowing, the possibility of a life changing diagnosis.

I have watched friends and family members get the words that nobody wants to hear. The diagnosis of breast cancer has been confirmed. That little lump that seemed somehow different from the rest was indeed cancerous. They embark on a journey filled with uncertainty and fear. In spite of their most valiant efforts their disease overtakes their lives. Even the most optimistic among them is never quite the same.

The treatments for breast cancer vary depending on the extent and type of cancer but all of them are invasive. They cause pain and suffering. They interrupt the normal flow of life. They debilitate and challenge. We all know exceptional women whose courage somehow makes dealing with breast cancer seem far less terrible than it really is. They keep the faith, trusting in their doctors, their families and their God. They smile through the times when they are exhausted. They wear hats or wrap their heads in colorful scarves when their lovely hair falls out in great handfuls. They do their best to keep up a good front and to continue with their routines even as they feel so very sick. They are warriors of the bravest kind but there is always the deep mostly unspoken fear that the treatments will not work or that the cancer will return even after remission.

We sometimes forget how devastating breast cancer may be. We hear success stories and believe that the fixes will be rather easy and certain. We watch women working in between therapies and imagine that the process of fighting the cancer must not be as terrible as we had imagined. We notice the dark circles around their eyes and the new wigs they are sporting but we don’t see them getting sick in the bathroom or crying from the assault on their bodies and minds. We put the onus on them to keep us feeling happy with their smiles. The truth of their situation is sometimes too hard for us to face.

Long illnesses like breast cancer test relationships. The women who are embroiled in a fight for their very lives all too often lose ground in their careers and sometimes even in their marriages. Their battlefield is littered with lost opportunities and misunderstandings. They all too often feel alone. People may rally around them in the beginning but when the going gets really tough only those who truly love and understand them remain. Everything and everyone is tested. It becomes more than just a matter of medical treatments. It is an altering experience in which only what is most important becomes obvious.

While devoting an entire month to a particular cause is laudable we have to be careful that it does not have the effect of making us lose interest. We humans are funny creatures and sometimes over stimulation causes us to lose focus. When we see football players wearing pink shoes and people running marathons in pink tutus there is a risk that we will take the situation more lightly than we should. We mistake the levity as an indication that maybe breast cancer is not as worrisome as we may have thought. We wonder if all of the attention has provided so much funding that our contributions aren’t really needed. We grow weary of the reminders that are so present for thirty one days.

We have certainly gone a long way toward eradicating breast cancer and we may even reach a day when we know how to eliminate it entirely. Until then we still have far too many women having to courageously fight for their very lives. Most of them happily make it thanks to the research and the medical advances that continue to be found. Sadly some women do in fact die. We have all known them, beautiful souls taken from us by a terrible disease. It is for them that we fight, not just in October but all year long, day in and day out. It is for the mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives everywhere that we support the efforts to find treatments and cures and ways to eliminate this dreaded disease.

October is a reminder to all of us to embrace and support the women who are either presently dealing with breast cancer or who have had to deal with it in the past. Let them speak honestly of their ordeal. Allow them to cry or laugh or react however they wish. Let them know that we are thinking of them and that we love them. If you are a woman use this month to check on your own health. Take the time to schedule a mammogram or visit your doctor. Be proactive and sensitive.

I can see the beautiful faces of the women I have known who have grappled with the monster we call breast cancer. They are perhaps the bravest people that I have ever encountered. I salute them and the families who walked hand in hand with them. They have inspired all of us who watched them. This is their month. This is our month. It is October and we gird ourselves for battle. It matters little what color we wear as long as we are prepared to fight. We must never become complacent. The stakes are just too high.

Cancer of any kind is horrific. I lost both of my grandmothers to cancer. My beloved mother was a victim of cancer. A dear dear friend was taken by cancer. A beautiful cousin is undergoing treatments for cancer even as I write these words. A good friend is fighting cancer with all of his might. My hope is that they will be among the victors that I have also known, the people who made it through the dark hours and now bask in the sunlight of their personal miracles. Find those in your circle who are battling whether it be breast cancer or lymphoma or cancer of the lung. Embrace them. Remember them. Most of all love them.   

    

Unexpected Showers

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

flower561eac4e-9ad0-4c6a-9d72-078c0400bce7My life has a distinct pattern. A red thread of continuity runs through it connecting all of its disparate aspects into a cohesive whole. There is an irony to the fact that I just attended my fiftieth high school reunion over the past weekend and today I will return to the building where I laughed and learned so long ago so that I might help a new generation of students to understand the intricacies of mathematics. My own school no longer exists, at least not in the form that it had when I was there. A unique set of circumstances forced it to close, leaving the brick and mortar structure that had housed my own hopes and dreams as nothing but an empty shell haunted by the spirit of those of us who had walked the halls before. It was rescued from destruction by the Jesuits and in particular by Father T.J. Martinez who saw opportunity in the abandoned rooms. Under his guidance a new educational mecca rose from the ashes. Today Cristo Rey Jesuit Preparatory High School stands where Mt. Carmel once lived. It is a school designed to provide minorities and economically challenged students with the academic rigors that once defined my own education.

When I am in the school the past and present merge in my mind. I am able to recall what happened in each of the rooms and to remember my own journey as a student. I find that the young men and women with whom I work are not different at all from me and my classmates even though five decades separate us. They may do their work on computers and carry calculators and smart phones but the essence of what they want to accomplish in life is exactly the same as the desires that we had. They are on an exploratory adventure as they attempt to make sense of the world around them both rationally and emotionally. They are inevitably quite earnest when they ply me with questions both related to mathematics and to my own journey when I was a student in that same place. They desperately want to make something of themselves but often fall short of being as responsible as they need to be. They are young and not yet willing to believe that they are not in a race against time. They don’t yet realize that they will have many opportunities to right themselves and begin again.

I have the perspective of age. I am able to look back and see that without a doubt we humans are a resilient bunch. We fall down and get back up over and over again. We learn as much from our failures as from our successes, sometimes even more. We generally grow wiser and tougher with each passing year. We may not get exactly what we want but as the old saw goes we tend to get what we need. I attempt to convey such thoughts to the teenagers with whom I work. They usually trust me but often become so discouraged that they want to give up the fight. I have to convince them that each of us encounter those moments when we are so weary that we no longer want to try but those are the exact times when we most need to find the strength and determination that is dwelling inside our very souls. It’s has been quite gratifying to watch so many of my charges ultimately succeed. I have been in their shoes. I have known fear. I have literally wanted to run away from challenges. I have felt alone. Always there was someone who quietly took my hand and walked with me, giving me the courage that I needed.

When I was only five years old my parents enrolled me in first grade at a Catholic school. My mother had just given birth to my youngest brother and one of my uncles was dying. The family was in a state of chaos and my elders believed that I would be happier being away from the maelstrom. Nobody consulted me. It just happened and I was not happy at all. I had never once been away from my mom, not even for a few hours. I had not been properly prepared for what was to come and I was terrified. My mother purchased a new lunch box and book bag for me and made some dresses that I might wear. One day without warning she awoke me early and sent me off with my father who quite unceremoniously took me to my classroom. I was in a fog of extreme fear but I refused to cry. When we all went outside for the ceremonial flag raising I thought that it was surely time to go home but, of course, it was only the beginning of the day.

I remember little after that. When I opened my lunchbox it had been invaded by ants which I merely picked away because I was too embarrassed to talk with my teacher. Fortunately my Aunt Polly had decided to come check on me. When I saw her she was like a visage from heaven and I have loved her forever for caring so much for me. She reported the insect invasion to the powers that be and I never again had to fight the tiny creatures for my food. Still I felt so shy and insecure but I was lucky to have a gentle and gifted teacher who saw my pain and helped me to adjust. I would forever model my own teaching style after her kindness and intuition.

There was a girl named Virginia who befriended me. I don’t know if she felt the same about me but I always considered her to be my very best friend at school. She was wise and considerate and instructed me in the ways of doing things properly. Again and again she seemed to come to my rescue and I loved her so. I always believed that she saved me from total despair. I remembered her even when I was an aging woman moving rapidly toward my seventieth year on the planet. I often wondered what had happened to her and hoped with all my heart that she was doing well. Little did I know that I had been near her when I was in high school but somehow never realized that she was the same girl who had been so sweet to me. It was only this past weekend when I was able to put all of the puzzle pieces together and learn that the Virginia that I had so admired in my high school class was the same person as “my Virginia” from first grade.

Ironically Virginia had a career in education just as I had. The parallels in our lives are actually quite remarkable much as they are with generation after generation of humans. We move about doing our best and sometimes influence one another in ways of which we are often unaware. Hopefully it is our kindness that people remember when they think of us, for the alternative is so tragic. We experience so many emotions and in turn cause others to react to our deeds and our remarks. The circle of life is real and it goes round and round just as the earth as it travels around the sun.

I enjoy working with young people, especially teenagers because they are really at the beginning of their time as adults. They are in a state of metamorphosis that will ultimately be beautiful as long as they have concerned people who truly care about them as my teachers and aunts and classmates always did. Those unexpected showers of love help us to bloom.

I have lately been helping to edit college application essays. In them I see hopefulness for the future. I am able to travel back in time and empathize with the young people who so desperately want to make a difference in their own lives and those of the people around them. I find great joy and optimism in reading their innermost thoughts and understanding that they are me and I am them. Just as we witness the sunrise each morning, our youth are ready to carry the responsibilities that lie before them. Knowing that this is certain comforts me everyday. It binds my story with the future.