meltdowns
I tend towards anger. Or so I say.
So as I witness my student - brilliant, quick, creative - spiraling down the path of meltdown, I also glimpse at least a little bit of myself. I don’t know how to help, knowing that the journey is a slippery one lacking solid holds or branching paths. Sometimes you just have to slide on down to the bottom before getting back up.
When I say that I tend towards anger. Sadness? Failure? Hell no. I wave my little wand and turn that shit into boiling, bubbling frustration accented with hot, quick, specs of rage. It feels safer, less vulnerable. I am powerful when angry. No. I feel powerful when angry. I (supposedly) know that I am not to direct such energy at other people. So (as an “adult”) I usually allow the bubbling mess to overflow and am left sitting in a cold, pathetic pile of self pity. You know, a meltdown.
Trying things, really trying, is hard.
After watching my student put effort into word after word, most of which are actively tricking him, and eventually, after admirable persistence, giving in to the hopeless, helpless feelings, I take myself to the skatepark.
All week, I had been swirling and floating in daydreams of my 360 jump. As I walked down the street, drank coffee on the bus, or sat at the tiny green desk in between students, I would remind myself that I can now fly through the air and then keep skating. It was really fun. When I arrived at the slab of concrete with blocks to jump on and lots of room to play, I found that I couldn’t even jump up onto a block.
Not one. I do this all the time.
My legs refused.
I could step up onto the block. Jump right next to the block? Fine. Jump off? Okay, sure. If you want. I could step up even while going fast.
Jump? No. Jump? No. Okay, okay, but surely this time on this small little feature…..Nope. Give myself a countdown three two one. My feet smack toestop first into the concrete, legs collapsing awkwardly above as I crumble and sit on the stone block. Apparently my feet would prefer to smash themselves into a wall than give this thing a try.
I am lucky to be at the skatepark, where I expect and want to be challenged. Nobody but me cares what I accomplish. At the place where I have chosen to run into walls, I find myself involuntarily but very vocally cursing my stubborn legs. Yelling at them. Laughing, out loud, at myself. This, I realize, is where I can give up or keep digging, keep trying. If this was all someone else’s idea I know I would’ve left in a rage long ago.
But I don’t. And eventually, for no particular reason, my feet agree to leave the ground. Maybe they just realize they’re going to have to do it sooner or later. I jump up one more time and then let it rest. Learning new things will come another day. Today, it was the trying that was hard, the persistence that is an accomplishment.