Ducklings

When my daughter was in kindergarten, she learned a song about five ducklings. Each day the ducks would go out and play and each day fewer would return, until finally there were none. Then…

Sad Mommy Duck went out one day

Over the fields and far away.

Sad Mommy Duck called

“Quack, quack, quack.”

Five little ducks came running back!

The song hit me square in the heart and brought tears to my eyes. I had no idea at the time I’d have a hand in making it come true.

Yesterday was a Baha’i Holy Day, so my daughter (now 10) had the day off of school. We went into town to meet some friends for lunch. As we pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, a mother duck and her ducklings were crossing the driveway. They didn’t pay any attention to the car and, even though we beeped the horn a couple times, we had to creep into a parking space to avoid hitting them.

We were a little early, so we decided to take a walk before lunch. As we got out of the car, though, I kept watching the ducks. They were acting so strangely. The babies were scattered all over and the mother was just wandering around.

Then I heard it—another kind of chirp, frightened and distressed. We looked all around, but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Then I saw the grate over the storm drain. Sure enough, trapped inside were two little ducklings, scrambling and jumping, trying to get out.

I tried to lift the grate, but it didn’t budge. I looked at the mother duck, quacking desperately for the babies she could hear but not see. There had to be a way to help. I tried the grate again and finally it moved. Between the two of us, we lifted up the grate and I knelt down and scooped out the babies. The mother immediately gathered her brood and headed off.

Later, when our friends came into the restaurant, they told us of the mother duck’s run-in with a crow. The crow kept trying to get her babies—swooping down when one would stray off. But the mother called her ducklings and kept them close. The crow landed right in front of her. She and her brood swerved around it. Eventually the crow gave up and flew off.

Two disasters averted within 15 minutes. What courage and dogged persistence to keep her babies safe!

During lunch I watched the mothers of toddlers, ever watchful, getting a bit to eat in the odd moment when the children were occupied. I listened to the mother of an emerging teenager and the struggle for independence. I looked at my own daughter and at all we’ve gone through together.

What an enormous effort goes into raising our youngsters—ducklings and humans alike. We pour our hearts into them and are, ourselves, transformed in the process. There is indeed nothing more precious, more fundamentally life-altering, than a child.

Bless them, every one.

Into the Woods

I went into the woods today, my thoughts churning with unresolved problems. I tramped up the hill… and stopped. A bed of violets spread out purple and green before me—my grandmother’s favorite flower.

I hiked and hiked and hiked. The breeze caressed my face and I slowed down. The smell of spring, the song of the birds…

I stopped under a Sequoia tree. Huge and old and solid. Generations upon generations have brought their problems here. The Sequoia has heard it all. Suddenly my own problems didn’t seem so big. I looked up and saw these giants swaying in the wind. So solid from the ground, but dancing at the top.

I walked on. Water, ivy, paths and roads. Deep carpeted forests. Light networks of branches, luminous leaves glowing new green in the sunlight.

This has all been here long before me. Whatever I must face today will pass and another challenge will come. And the forest will remain. Quietly breathing. Reminding me to do the same.

Umoja

When I was living in Chicago, I discovered the Fleetwood-Jourdain Theatre, the local African-American community theatre. They put on some wonderful productions. I saw one play there and it made me so homesick for the theatre experiences I had in high school, that I stopped by one day to see if I could help out. I was a bit nervous, being a white girl from po-dunk rural Oregon, but I went anyway.

The troupe was rehearsing Sophisticated Lady, a collection of Duke Ellington’s music. One of the guys was performing his tap dance number and apparently the rest of the cast hadn’t seen it before. He was fantastic! Afterwards, two of the girls held their hands over his shoes like they were sizzling hot. I was hooked.

Gwethalyn Bronner, the director, gave me the job of manning one of the spotlights. What a perfect vantage point to see the show!

Dress rehearsal was just a few weeks later. It was Saturday and we planned to run through the show twice. Everyone got into place and we did the first run-through. It was a bit rough in spots, but not bad, really.

But it was clear Gweth wasn’t satisfied. “Okay everyone, it’s time for an Umoja Circle.” A what?

We all gathered in one of the rehearsal rooms—cast, crew, musicians, everyone—and formed a circle holding hands. Gweth explained, to those of us who hadn’t been there long, that umoja is Swahili for “unity.” It’s one of the principles of Kwanzaa, the celebration of African history and culture that occurs around Christmastime.

Then we started chanting “Umoja means unity.” As we chanted, Gweth described her vision for this play—what she saw in it and what she saw in us, what we could accomplish when we all put our hearts into it. Around the circle we went, each person given a chance to share their thoughts, their vision, a prayer, a poem, whatever was on their mind.

When everyone had had a chance to speak, Gweth led the chanting louder and louder until it erupted into a huge cheer. I turned to the guy next to me, one of the musicians, and suddenly there was a connection between us. We saw in each other’s eyes that we were part of something greater than ourselves and we knew the other person would give it their all.

And we did. It was already 9pm when we started the second run-through. This time it was a show! The air crackled with the energy of engaged hearts, unified in a single purpose. And that energy carried through the entire run of the show. Every performance started with an Umoja CIrcle and ended up being a celebration of life and the power of the human spirit.

Seminal cells

In her book, The Soul of Money, Lynn Twist describes the process by which a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly. At first the caterpillar lives a pretty normal life, crawling around and chewing leaves. Then at a certain point, it develops a voracious appetite and eats everything in sight. Eventually it stops and encases itself in a cocoon. We all know this from 4th grade biology.

But here’s the surprising part. Inside the caterpillar are particular cells—seminal cells—that know how to make a butterfly. Eventually they find one another and start working together. The caterpillar then becomes the nutritional soup from which the butterfly is formed.

When we look at the world, we see the same thing happening. Modern society, with its voracious appetite, is consuming everything in sight—forests, seas, land, air. We are barraged with constant messages to buy more, have more, spend more.

But here and there, individuals and groups are catching a glimmer of what a sane society could look like—dynamic and peaceful, prosperous and sustainable. Slowly they are finding one another and starting to work together.

These “seminal cells” are finding out what they love to do and what they are passionate about. They are harnessing that energy to create new ideas, new structures, new ways of doing things. They put their hearts and souls into the work. And they attract resources as a result: like-minded people, contacts, partners, ideas, conversations, tools, material means. They are collaborating with those around them and coming up with creative solutions and new ways of looking at the world.

These people are under no delusions about the state of the world. They know things are in bad shape. But they have decided they can and will do something about it.

Mr. Brown

My high school drama teacher, Dana Brown, was amazing. Actually he had already moved away before I even got to high school, but I still claim him as my teacher.

You see, I grew up in a town of about 580 people in Western Oregon. The biggest entertainment was the high school football games. One year the stadium blew down in a storm and the whole town got together and built a new one. Sports were the big draw, not art.

Along came Mr. Brown.

I have no idea how he did it, but he gathered people from all the neighboring small towns and created community theatre like we’d never seen. These were full-scale, quality productions.

In Fiddler on the Roof, he convinced the local sheep farmer’s wife to be the Fiddler, and taught her to walk backwards and fiddle at the same time. The mild-mannered wife of the middle school principal was the ghost in Yente’s dream, screaming like a banshee.

In the Wizard of Oz, the sheep farmer’s daughter played Dorothy. The Lion was played by the Agriculture teacher and he was hilarious. The social studies teacher played the Tin Man and his wife played Glenda, the good witch. My sister and I got to get in on that one—she played a Munchkin and I played a winged monkey. We would dance and sing all the way home from rehearsal.

It was an extraordinary experience. And poignant too. My sister ended up in the hospital with a serious medical condition a few days before the show opened. So the entire cast and crew showed up at the hospital to cheer her up. Dorothy came in full costume.

It was amazing to see the level of professionalism and dedication these people put forth. Who knew this cluster of small towns had such hidden talent?

But really, I think the talent was Mr. Brown’s. He took a ragtag group of ordinary people who had never been on a stage in their lives and helped us see the light shining within us. He showed us that we are capable of so much more than we imagine. And when we work together, we can make magic.

Speaking the Truth

Today’s lesson in extraordinary collaboration is “speak the truth.” I’m not talking about not lying—that’s a given. I’m talking about saying what is true even when it’s difficult and no one really wants to hear it.

I’m dealing with a situation where people are not being treated honorably, myself included. It has taken a lot of private ranting and reflecting and self-examination to be able to sit down and clearly describe what is going on and how it affects those involved. And what I choose to do about it.

Speaking the truth is not easy. It is not a license to lash out in anger. Anger only obscures the message.

It is a process of sorting through my own experience and determining what are the facts and the principles, and what are my own reactions and biases.

It requires me to scrutinize my motives and make sure I am speaking with the purpose of shedding light on an issue, rather than exacting revenge.

Speaking the truth means choosing my words wisely and stating those facts and principles as clearly and succinctly as possible.

It also requires action. Once I speak the truth, what am I going to do about it? What action am I going to take to correct the situation?

And it requires detachment. My job is to state the truth as clearly as I can and then let it go. It does not matter how people respond. If I’ve done my job well, the truth will find it’s way to the ears of those who can hear it.

Under a tree

I’m developing a workshop around the idea of ‘extraordinary collaboration’ and it’s turning out to be an amazing journey. Yesterday I decided to just take some time and reflect on the concept. So I grabbed my old foam kneeling pad from the gardening supplies and headed to the orchard to sit under a tree.

A noisy plane flew overhead. It seemed appropriate somehow—the noise and commotion of the everyday world had my thoughts in an agitated jumble. So I sat and waited until the noise died down. Then I heard birds. All kinds of birds, busy with their flurry of spring nest building. As I listened, my thoughts quieted and I could hear their different voices. Two crows flew overhead.

When my mind was calm, I turned my focus to the idea of extraordinary collaboration. I mentally placed the phrase in the space in front of me and watched to see what would happen. Snow began to fall. (Snow! In April, no less.) I listened to the flakes land on the leaves and on my jacket.

Suddenly I realized—this is collaboration too! Extraordinary collaboration is nothing new. It’s how nature works. Rain (or snow) falls and nourishes the earth. The sun shines and warms the soil. The earth nourishes the plants, which feed the animals and the people. Birds scatter seeds and build nests. Animals harvest the plants and nourish the soil. All of nature is extraordinary collaboration. It’s how the world works. We don’t have to invent it—it’s in our very blood and bones. We just have to remember and tap into it, bring forth this collaboration in our own lives.

I realized too, that sitting still is a part of the process. When I sit still long enough to let my thoughts settle, I can start to hear what my soul is saying.

A lot of the work of putting together this workshop is very active work—developing the concept, creating the activities, finding participants. But there’s an essential part of this process that is very quiet. It’s about sitting still and listening for what needs to come next. This is extraordinary collaboration too—collaboration with one’s own soul.