I brought a turtle to my first Zoom meeting this week.
Well, a toy turtle. My school had its first faculty meeting in anticipation of beginning remote learning, and everyone was asked to bring an item/picture/word that reflected our current state. This well-worn toy from my daughters' storage bin really summed it up for me: My colleagues are wonderful, but I didn't want to share my feelings. It felt too raw, too vulnerable. I wanted to tuck into my shell and hide.
The need for human connection is so beautifully apparent these days. I'm moved by the footage of folks finding all kinds of creative and thoughtful ways to express their love. I smile so big as I watch neighbors singing to each other across balconies, and I get teary-eyed when I see cello concerts being performed on front porches. Humanity inspires and humbles me, and I am grateful for the overall attention being paid to everyone's mental health. But what if your desire for connection isn't about reaching out? What if it's about reaching in?
What if, in this current reality, the person you most need to connect with is yourself?
It's a strange thing to know that you're growing, but not know how. I can't yet imagine the person I will be when I emerge from this experience; I can't predict what lessons - if any - I will learn. What I do know that is that, with these long stretches of solitude, away from so many things competing for my attention, I am becoming reacquainted with myself. It's an opportunity unlike any I've had before.
As the week went on, I found myself settling into a contented rhythm. Moreover, I found that I appreciated having something constructive to focus on, something productive into which I could channel all of my energy. And seeing the faces of my young students on my screen in our first class meeting healed my heart in a way I didn't know I needed.
I'm reminded that, while turtles do have the ability to protect themselves, they are also a model in determination. Slowly, but surely, they trod along.
Well, a toy turtle. My school had its first faculty meeting in anticipation of beginning remote learning, and everyone was asked to bring an item/picture/word that reflected our current state. This well-worn toy from my daughters' storage bin really summed it up for me: My colleagues are wonderful, but I didn't want to share my feelings. It felt too raw, too vulnerable. I wanted to tuck into my shell and hide.
The need for human connection is so beautifully apparent these days. I'm moved by the footage of folks finding all kinds of creative and thoughtful ways to express their love. I smile so big as I watch neighbors singing to each other across balconies, and I get teary-eyed when I see cello concerts being performed on front porches. Humanity inspires and humbles me, and I am grateful for the overall attention being paid to everyone's mental health. But what if your desire for connection isn't about reaching out? What if it's about reaching in?
What if, in this current reality, the person you most need to connect with is yourself?
It's a strange thing to know that you're growing, but not know how. I can't yet imagine the person I will be when I emerge from this experience; I can't predict what lessons - if any - I will learn. What I do know that is that, with these long stretches of solitude, away from so many things competing for my attention, I am becoming reacquainted with myself. It's an opportunity unlike any I've had before.
As the week went on, I found myself settling into a contented rhythm. Moreover, I found that I appreciated having something constructive to focus on, something productive into which I could channel all of my energy. And seeing the faces of my young students on my screen in our first class meeting healed my heart in a way I didn't know I needed.
I'm reminded that, while turtles do have the ability to protect themselves, they are also a model in determination. Slowly, but surely, they trod along.
