Life's Autumn
Thursday, September 18, 2008
As beautiful as it is, there is a melancholy about fall. The partying, noisy, bright, long days of "fun in the sun" vacationing are over. Back to school, back to work (though we in the tourist towns are busiest in the summer.) Traffic is lighter, evenings are darker.
Tonight I have a chill, and tonight I am sad. About this time last night a former after-school program student of mine was shot and killed on the street near his home in Rochester. He was 15 years old. He was charming and smart and funny with a disarming grin and the longest eyelashes. Comments on the online news story ranged from speculative and jaded to judgmental and ugly. If I can do nothing else for him, I can at least relay a truer, fonder picture of him. I know almost nothing about his recent life, but three years ago he was troubled, yes, but hopeless, no.
Many days he and another boy in the program would pick fights with each other until I took them out of class and made them walk the halls checking on the other classes with me. They had to sit quietly in front of me while I did paperwork. I asked them over and over why they played this the same way, and got little insights into their difficult lives. When I talked of suspension from the program because of the repeated disruptions, this boy cried. It was all he had after school, and, indeed, he attended nearly every single day of the 16-week program.
Tonight I am thinking about all of the children like him--those trying to be cool (but know they were raised better and are treading on dangerous ground), those who don't have a place to go after school and are left to find their own activities; those who walk to grade school past drug dealers and boarded houses over sidewalks covered with broken glass. Those who are on constant watch for classmates or gang members who would stab or shoot them. My heart aches.
Life here is so different. Yes, there are drugs and alcohol. Yes, there is bullying. Yes, there are children who need help, but there are fewer in survival mode. And they aren't dying as they walk down their own streets. What kind of meaning does MY life have? I've been given considerably longer than 15 years. My hope was to make a positive contribution, yet I left a life of contribution behind to live a creative life, which I believe is my path. How do I live a more meaningful creative life? These thoughts "coincidentally" have been trickling in with September's slower, cooler pace. Today's headlines opened the floodgates.
A few days ago I took some photos of flowers around Spirited. The light was fall light: low and cool. I thought the sunflower was a bit sad (truth be told, there are others still getting ready to bloom.) Tonight the early death of this sunflower seems more fitting.
As beautiful as it is, there is a melancholy about fall. The partying, noisy, bright, long days of "fun in the sun" vacationing are over. Back to school, back to work (though we in the tourist towns are busiest in the summer.) Traffic is lighter, evenings are darker.
Tonight I have a chill, and tonight I am sad. About this time last night a former after-school program student of mine was shot and killed on the street near his home in Rochester. He was 15 years old. He was charming and smart and funny with a disarming grin and the longest eyelashes. Comments on the online news story ranged from speculative and jaded to judgmental and ugly. If I can do nothing else for him, I can at least relay a truer, fonder picture of him. I know almost nothing about his recent life, but three years ago he was troubled, yes, but hopeless, no.
Many days he and another boy in the program would pick fights with each other until I took them out of class and made them walk the halls checking on the other classes with me. They had to sit quietly in front of me while I did paperwork. I asked them over and over why they played this the same way, and got little insights into their difficult lives. When I talked of suspension from the program because of the repeated disruptions, this boy cried. It was all he had after school, and, indeed, he attended nearly every single day of the 16-week program.
Tonight I am thinking about all of the children like him--those trying to be cool (but know they were raised better and are treading on dangerous ground), those who don't have a place to go after school and are left to find their own activities; those who walk to grade school past drug dealers and boarded houses over sidewalks covered with broken glass. Those who are on constant watch for classmates or gang members who would stab or shoot them. My heart aches.
Life here is so different. Yes, there are drugs and alcohol. Yes, there is bullying. Yes, there are children who need help, but there are fewer in survival mode. And they aren't dying as they walk down their own streets. What kind of meaning does MY life have? I've been given considerably longer than 15 years. My hope was to make a positive contribution, yet I left a life of contribution behind to live a creative life, which I believe is my path. How do I live a more meaningful creative life? These thoughts "coincidentally" have been trickling in with September's slower, cooler pace. Today's headlines opened the floodgates.
A few days ago I took some photos of flowers around Spirited. The light was fall light: low and cool. I thought the sunflower was a bit sad (truth be told, there are others still getting ready to bloom.) Tonight the early death of this sunflower seems more fitting.
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