I want to be the fish that learns to fly

I'm learning to fly but I ain't got wings
Coming down is the hardest thing
I'm learning to fly around the clouds
But what goes up must come down
 - “Learning to Fly,” Tom Petty

Keep the earth below my feet
For all my sweat, my blood runs weak
Let me learn from where I have been
Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn

  - “Below My Feet,” Mumford and Sons

“Why must a fish learn to fly or climb?” This was the question presented to me by a person who compels me to delve deeper into my personal life philosophies than most people have ever been able to do. Sometimes I feel like I’m back in my Philosophy 103 class again, sometimes it’s more like a therapy session. Either way, his ponderings simultaneously perplex and entice my inner theorist. So when he posed this question about fish performing stunts completely out of their nature, I had to find my own conclusion. Of course, because my mind is already so riddled with endlessly differing thoughts and emotions on a daily basis, I came up with different answers.

I initially see this as a “knowledge is power” scenario. A fish understands and accepts that she was placed on this earth with a specific skillset and natural method of living. She is the best at swimming and prospers most in a watery habitat, so that is where she stays to live a stable life. However, I believe that that only way one can truly accept and embrace the abilities that have been presented in life, you must seek out and study the perspectives of others. In any situation, discussion, or decision in life, how can you truly argue that your opinion is truly valid and genuine unless you allow yourself to absorb the entire picture? People with a “tunnel vision” perspective disappoint me, as they are content to keep stale knowledge instead of thriving on the accumulation of sparkling new gems of wisdom. Thus, the fish that discovers how and why its neighbors fly or climb is definitely okay in my book.

A slightly different interpretation follows the good old “reach for the stars” motivational posters we teachers so earnestly display on our classroom walls. Any positive teacher will tell her students that they should strive to reach the highest pinnacles of achievement, no matter what the cards they were dealt in life try to tell them. The stars they seek are each very different, but even though they may stray or falter from time to time they must never give up on reaching that prize. A determined fish, though it has no wings with which to fly or limbs to help him climb, will fight to go against his prewritten destiny to carve his own path, no matter what the hurdles. And even he can’t avoid all of the forces of nature driving his life down a particular road, he will be a stronger and far more unique fish than he ever would have been if he stayed put in the water. No matter what we can or cannot do, we must always feed our hunger for the unknowns that will make our lives truly worth living.

Finally, the idea of a fish learning to fly or climb made me think of the less optimistic structure of our current educational system. Our classrooms are rich with diverse life, and whether you have feathers, gills, scales, or fur, your uniqueness should be embraced. However, certain procedures of our system try to squelch any hope for complete acceptance of students’ abilities. I think this is summed up best with the following cartoon:

A Story of Pride

I swear to God we're gonna get it right If you lay your weapon down
-       John Mayer, “Heartbreak Warfare”

The strengths of some people can often be the debilitating weaknesses of another. For me, the feeling of pride has been the latter, particularly in moments where it is most inconvenient. It is perfectly acceptable to show pride in many things – taking pride in your work and accomplishments, as well as those of others you care about, are symbols of confidence and an investment in one’s happiness. However, when pride bonds with friends like envy, desire, and fear, the effects are not nearly as positive.  Whether it has been the jealousy of other people finding the successes I had sought myself, the fear that I still don’t know where I want my own career to progress, or the embarrassment of being proven wrong, my pride has been an impossibly large pill to swallow these days. But the most painful scar my pride has given me was one in which it hindered my ability to trust my feelings for someone. The following is this story of pride…

He called me beautiful, but Pride’s stinging song often rang louder than his words. After all, my relationship with Pride had been fused long before I had ever met him.  On our first meeting, Pride was there in my ear, whispering to me that this excursion would heed the same embarrassment as the one I experienced so many times before. Pride told me to beat the game before it even started; it’s the only way to stay the stronger victor and avoid being the fool another day. For every rendezvous he approached with coolness and an uninhibited air, I would determinedly force the veil to remain over my emotions. How funny it is that people who are regarded as so transparent can yield a poker face that would fool even the sharpest observer. Slowly and carefully, however, his persistence and honest eyes chipped away at the cement-thick fortress Pride had taken so long to construct, and my entire being began to succumb to the other side. 

But Pride is not an easy foe to slay, as she can swiftly shift to a new form when she is so tempted. When she returned, it was to insist that a boastful and competitive nature is an attractive one. No matter the circumstance, I must always impress, always be the best, and always win. I lost against him in many a battle of wit and skill, and rather than take a more jovial path in these moments, Pride had a very different plan in mind. The hot red of my anger, the sallow yellow of my embarrassment, and the icy blue of my fear gave Pride a most welcome palette to paint a mosaic that was her masterpiece and my own eyesore. It was here that I became stuck in the shallow end of my emotional pool, and even though these times bore little signs of personal depth I continued to drown. 

Pride revealed my most unattractive features, yet he still managed to see my beauty. But like so many stories before ours, his patience and forgiveness could only be strung along for so long before the tether was strained and inevitably broken. 

Though he was nowhere near perfection, he often became a caricature of his true self in my eyes when Pride had hold. He was an independent and confident person with an intoxicatingly strong sense of self; in any logical moment I would find these to be entirely attractive traits. But with Pride’s incessant whispering in my ear, her influence shone starkly bright through my impatient, nagging, impossibly skeptical, and overly analytical nature. Just as in the beginning, Pride did not want me to be the gullible fool, and thus she compelled me to resurrect my defensive air.  This was my final failing, my complete realization that the weapon I had regarded as one of my greatest lines of defense was actually my biggest downfall. Pride had assured me she would give me strength in life’s battles, but I realized too late that she was my kryptonite. Unfortunately, with only my side of the story I may never know if Pride had genuinely helped me successfully avoid a sad fate or unintentionally sabotage a happy one. The only sure conclusion I can make is that Pride has left me with an impenetrable emotional fortress to seal in an increasingly pained heart. Does this truly leave me as the victor of this endeavor?  

Welcome to my story

“But nobody else is going to put it right for me!

Nobody else is going to change my story!” – Matilda the Musical

I feel compelled to start a new blog. The last one I wrote was when I had finished my bachelor’s and started my venture in teaching. Bright-eyed and hopeful, I set out writing a blog with stories that would change the world and inspire all the other young movers and shakers in my profession. I started my previous blog with every intention of reaching this goal…and then I actually started teaching. I don’t mean to say that there weren’t any deep reflective moments or revelations that shook my foundation during that first year of teaching – I had those on a daily basis due to the situation I found myself experiencing. However, a blog that would spark the next Julie and Julia novel-turned-movie-starring-an-Oscar-winning-actress it was not. But I lived, I learned, and that was the important thing. And now we move on.

While I could write out the entire saga of my teaching career thus far, I’ll whittle it down to a quick life update:

·      I’ve been teaching for 4 years, and despite the eclectic collection of obstacles that have been thrown in front of me I still want to pursue this career. Music education is still valuable to the growth of the child, and those of us willing and able to teach it must still continue to fight past the hurdles and prove its worth to the less convinced minds. It’s becoming an increasingly difficult fight in the world of arts education, but I firmly believe that we can win it. Some may call it insanity; I call it Optimism with a Touch of Crazy.

·      I’m 25 years old but still have no hubby around to bring in the big bucks and help me make babies. Alas, I still have to resort to being an independent female that can support herself and carve her own path on the journey of life. When will my sugar daddy waltz his way down that path? Who knows, but until then I’m making my own magic happen.

·      Although I’m slowly in the pursuit of higher education, I have yet to earn my masters, doctorate, or any other accolade I can showcase on my office wall. I wholeheartedly value furthering ones education and pursuing greater career opportunities as a result. However, I still refuse to devote my time and efforts to another degree simply because people say it’s the “right” thing to do. If my heart isn’t in it, it’s not worth the pursuit (and if you don’t agree, please refer to the “Optimism a la Crazy” comment above).

·      Did I mention that I’m still only 25? While I would love to have everything “figured out”, I simply do not. I’ve actually grown to accept the unknown of the future more and more, embracing the beauty of the journey and giving less power to the unseen depths of my future. I highly suggest this way of living to any of my fellow 20-somethings…or all you 30-somethings, or 40-somethings…

You may have noticed the quote at the beginning of this post. I have always drawn a lot of strength and inspiration from quotes – I feel like most people out there can get a message across more eloquently than I can, so why would I not want to borrow their ideas? Today’s quote comes from “Naughty,” a song in the hopelessly adorable London musical Matilda. In her solo, the spunky girl refers to various tragic stories of literary characters and wonders why they didn’t just rewrite their stories. As an adult, my complex and jaded mind often interferes, claiming it’s impossible to change my fate. But if a child can make it sound so simple to change her situation, why can’t an adult? If I don’t like the way a part of my life is playing out, I can simply choose to rewrite it. Yet the hesitation comes from the realization that ones story cannot be done with just a few strokes of the “delete” button on the keyboard. It takes time, patience, a hell of a lot of dedication, and a little bit of luck and proper timing. Some days I feel ready to edit my life story; other days I get scared of the fact that I am the sole author of this tale and can’t rely on any outside editors to correct my errors. But with all of its strengths and weaknesses, its perfections and flaws, it will be my story and only mine, and that is a beautiful notion worth pursuing.

This blog is not going to be written with the same dreams of grandeur in mind as my previous one. However, I do hope that whoever is reading this out in the blogosphere will be able to take something away from my entries. Whether it’s a quote that comforts, a lyric that lessens the heartache, or an entry that reassures that even imperfect writers can have a voice that matters (and that tools such as alliteration are not always necessary to prove a point), I hope you find something. And if you don’t…well, you have my permission to stop following this blog and go out to write your own story. After all, that’s the one that matters most.