Darling Daughter is reading Lord of the Flies in English. Instructed to read on their own toward the end of one class, one boy ("The other outcast like me," she says) was absently wrapping stuff around his hands while reading at his desk. Two other boys started taunting him -- bored, mean & mean-spirited -- until the first kid, embarrassed, silently unwrapped his hands and hid them out of sight. "I thought that stupid kids was gonna cry," one of the bullies later said to the other. "Yeah, but I hope he doesn't go Columbine on us." Darling Daughter, usually unfazed by most everything besides baggy jeans, was upset enough to tell me the whole thing over dinner.
First thought, the teacher -- ignoring the whole scene -- missed a rare, perfect moment to bring 2008 high school relevance to a 1954 novel about young British boys who brutalize each other while stranded alone on an island. But that said, I couldn't shake gut-wrenching painful empathy all night. The poor guy -- already insecure just 'cause he's 16 forgodssake ... I actually felt all this humiliation and anger, especially for doing nothing but trying to keep from squirming in English class. I got lost in the vast well of all 16-year old humiliations, bolstered by some fury at the bullies.
Definitely not my best downstream moment. The Abraham folks distinguish between downstream and upstream, that furiously paddling against the current is probably not the best way to live (enjoy, contribute). They say drop the oars entirely, of course. But for those of us far more plodding, they suggesting we just find a slightly improved thought to redirect the boat a little.
Figurin' my pain piled onto humankind's history of humiliations wasn't particularly helpful, I tried other options: The "We all have our own experiences to bear" and "Everything is in divine perfect order" felt totally bogus. In the free-will/fate equation I'm definitely a Discipline Yourself to Make Conscious (ie kind & loving) Decisions type. Besides kids should never be humiliated or treated cruelly. By anyone, ever. Even if they were G.W. or a serial rapists in a former life.
I tried sympathy, too, but it was too easy to slip back into feeling (fueling) this overwhelming free-floating humiliation. I tried to imagine the boy's stellar qualities, all the ways in which he excelled. But I don't even know the kid's name, let alone personal strengths to celebrate.
Basically I had nothing.
So I tried Love. Just sending the poor kid love. I didn't even know what I was doing, frankly. I just started thinking about my heart as I breathed, imagined opening its windows, love on the tails of each exhalation like the crayon scribbled scent of those old cartoon pies cooling beneath breezy curtains. And the more I breathed, the more I felt love grow. I stopped doing dishes, leaned back against the quiet counter, and began to spread it around, more to the boy, then to the bullies, even some for the teacher. Finally flew some to my daughter asleep upstairs, and suddenly felt the whole house relax.
And I felt better. The whole thing felt better. Not the Better that comes with inevitable distances of time, new things to worry about, or Letting Go. But this precise situation felt better right then. As if the humiliating incident in 3 minutes near the end of English class that had worried me sick, finally took on the amount of importance it rightfully deserved -- virtually none. Overrun with love, the yuchhy alternative just deflated, as if it recognized its puny size in comparison and vanished. I knew my daughter and I would sleep better. I'd like to believe the boy slept better, too, stirring slightly as the sting floated away. But I don't know him, and I don't know how any of this really works. But it seemed downstream enough for the night.
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