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Lessons From a Mama Duck

July 25, 2018 By Kathie Z

I’ve always loved ducks. They’re silly and beautiful, graceful and awkward. The embodiment of cheerful contradiction. And the image of a line of ducklings waddling behind the mama duck? The epitome of maternal leadership, in my opinion.

My husband and I had just enjoyed a terrific breakfast at a sidewalk cafe where we met a friendly, young couple seated next to us. They, being recent transplants to the city, wanted to share some of their favorite insider gems. We told them we’d been visiting this upstate city for years, but our visits would probably be less frequent as our daughter had just graduated from the city’s college. Our conversation swayed away from the city’s many attractions to our daughter’s plans. The four of us engaged in a terrific talk about the gift of time and the need to take it while finding your place in the world.

Buoyed by our great talk, we set off on a walk through the city’s central park. Designed by the same architect of the Central Park, it’s a gem. After visiting my favorite sculptures, my husband and I headed towards the park’s exit. My attention was drawn back into the park, though, by a family of ducks swimming effortlessly in a stream. I walked towards the stream, watching as the mother duck hopped out of the stream and led her brood of ten, formed in an orderly line, across the walking path. The mama scaled the rocky slope with ease, leading the way for her ducklings. Halfway up, the first in line began to struggle. The second duckling stayed close while the remaining ducklings turned around and found an alternate route to their mama atop the hill.

I turned to my husband, “What will they do?” I was worried these two ducklings would be left behind. Realizing it could not walk up the rock, the duckling decided to leap. Its sibling followed suit. In moments, all of the ducklings had made their way to the top of the hill. I cheered a little yay for the ducklings. Their grit had prevailed and the duck family was again reunited under the cover of greenery.

Our duck celebration was short lived. We heard a high-pitched chirp from the stream below. Peeking down we saw a lone duckling swimming in the stream. We quickly figured out that this duckling was the eleventh duckling, separated from its brood!

I turned to my husband and said, ““Oh, no! What do you think will happen to this little one?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

We stood there at the side of the stream watching the duckling swim to and fro. Its chirps got louder as it became more agitated. We stood by helpless, but rooting for this little guy to be reunited with its family. From atop the hill, we heard the mama duck vocalizing to the duckling. At last the duckling seemed to hear her and it found a rock on the edge of the stream and made its way out of the stream. It took a step onto the path and chirped some more. It paused, listening for its mama’s reply.

Just as it appeared we were about to witness a happy reunion, a little boy walking on the path with his family trailing behind spied the duckling. “Look!” he shouted, pointing excitedly and running towards the duckling. “A baby duck! A baby duck!”

Instinctively, the duckling froze. As the little boy neared, it ran back to the stream and hopped back in the water. The little boy moved closer to the stream to get a better look as the duckling swam in the opposite direction, chirping louder.

Ugh. I was frustrated. The little boy’s innocent enthusiasm had triggered the duckling’s fight or flight response and it had chosen to flee.

“The duckling’s been separated from its family,” I said across the stream to the little boy and his mother. The mother took her son by the hand and led him away. I stood on the other side, watching. Feeling helpless.

Where was the mama duck? Why wasn’t she helping? The duckling swam towards a group of ducks swimming downstream; but they quacked loud quacks that seemed to say, “beat it!” The duckling frantically swam away, into a protected spot of stream and chirped even louder. The duckling was clearly exhausted.

I walked to the bench where my husband was sitting and I said, “I wish I could do something to help.” “I know,” he answered. We sat there quietly, watching. Would this little duckling try again? Or would it remain there at the edge of the stream, alone.

After some time, the mother duck emerged from her hiding spot atop the hill. She scurried down the hill followed by the other ducklings. She ran across the path and jumped into the stream. The other ducklings followed behind. The lone duckling swam quickly towards its mother and found its place in line with its brothers and sisters. All eleven followed their mama’s lead to the edge of the stream.

“Well, that was good,” I said smiling at my husband.

“Yup,” he smiled back. “I was beginning to think we might spend our entire day here,” he teased.

As we walked towards the park exit, I couldn’t help but make the connection between what we’d just witnessed and our breakfast conversation about the gift of time.

Watching the duckling’s struggle had made me so uncomfortable. I’d wanted to help, solve its problem, make everything all better. But I knew I couldn’t intervene with a wild animal. It was not my place.

And isn’t this the same struggle we face continually with our own children? Watching them struggle and lose their way triggers uneasiness. And all too often a desire to jump in “fix” what appears to be “broken.”

But that mama duck stayed put, remained engaged, but from a distance. The duckling needed time to struggle, space to try to figure things out on its own, learn. And she gave that gift of time before coming to lead the way.

“Wow,” I marveled. “That mother duck taught me a great lesson, just now.”

Regardless of age, our children are going to face challenges. And like that duckling, they may lose their way and cry out for help. But we, parents, must give our children the gift of time. Time to make mistakes, time to try, time to struggle, time to figure things out and find their own way. Although it can be uncomfortable, downright painful to witness, it’s our responsibility to step back and exercise patience. And when they’ve invested the necessary time? Tried a bunch of solutions? Found themselves in a corner, truly in need of help to finding their way back to their path? That’s when we can step in and lead.

©Kathie Z.

The Empty Nest

July 18, 2018 By Kathie Z

This weekend my husband and I had the good fortune of attending a friend’s wedding in Newport. It was a magical event full of love and joy. And when in America’s first resort town, the ocean calls. So yesterday, we spent our day at one of Newport’s beautiful beaches. Just the two of us.

When our girls were little, and our funds were very limited, day trips to the beach were one of our favorite things to do. Hours passed quickly while the girls played in the waves, sculpted sea creatures from sand and searched the shoreline for special rocks. These trips were magical in their simplicity and ease. Each day ended in contentment and the promise of a good night’s sleep. These were days that all was right in the world.

As the day wore on, more and more families filled the beach. A young family set up beside us.

“Look,” my husband whispered, “It’s Ariel,” referring to the little girl’s swimsuit. Ariel had been our daughter’s favorite Disney princess and her image had graced so many of her swimsuits. Instantly our conversation turned to our children. We shared memories of days at this very beach and discussed our kids’ current events.

We marveled at how quickly the time has gone. It seems like mere days that our children were in the single digits of life, frolicking in the waves, sporting images of their favorite princesses. For a brief moment, I felt a passing twinge of sadness, watching the family beside us play. I missed my girls who weren’t little girls anymore.

But the sadness was quickly replaced with excitement. My girls are young adults now, forging their way in a world that needs their special gifts and talents. Whose opportunities are endless.

And then it hit me. Although I didn’t consider it when my children were elementary school aged, playing make-believe and admiring princesses; letting go is precisely what we’ve been preparing our children for their entire lives. We’ve encouraged them to let go of our hands, frolic in the waves, and make their own way in the world bit by bit.

In a few weeks, the four of us will meet up in a house by the water. We’ll sit in the sand, search the shore for special rocks. Doubtless, my heart will be filled with gratitude. For I know these days pass quickly, too.

©Kathie Z.

Interconnectedness

February 25, 2018 By Kathie Z

A little more than a week ago, on Valentine’s Day, there was another school shooting. Another.

Looking at my last sentence, I’m stricken by the directness of it. Another.

I’ve been an alphabet soup of emotions ever since. I am heartbroken, frustrated, confused, angry. I cannot believe I am writing about school violence. The thought of school violence becoming a “thing,” something that happens over and over again hurts my head.

But I’m a teacher, a mother, a writer. I make my living by using words; choosing them carefully, using them effectively. I understand the power of words; their ability to inspire or discourage, empower or belittle. So, I must write about this.

When I first began teaching, in 1994, school violence wasn’t even on my radar. I’m sure I would have defined school violence as punches thrown. Over the past two decades, though, the violence has ramped up, morphed, become deadly and come closer to home. Literally.

First Newtown, in our tiny state of Connecticut, a mere 40 miles away; home to one of my dear friends and her family. Now Parkland. Geographically far, but still close.

In the past week, I’ve followed the Parkland story closely. Sound bites, video clips, headlines. I am awed by the eloquence and strength exhibited by victims and parents, alike. I am astounded by the ability of those grieving to speak up, speak out. Forge their grief into action.

Last weekend my husband and I visited our daughter at her college, my alma mater. The flags were flying at half-staff in honor of the victims of Parkland, one of whom we can sadly claim. The victim’s father, an alumna of our little liberal arts college, was a class ahead of me.

Walking on campus on a gray, snowy day I was struck by the interconnectedness of it all. I hadn’t known this man decades ago when we were both students, but I feel a kinship with him, nonetheless. My husband, daughter and I discussed the lowered flags, the senselessness of this tragedy. Another one. Again. Then I remembered another gray day, a little more than a year ago when my husband and I received those texts from our daughter. She’d just witnessed a shooting and was hiding in a locked stock room of a crowded shopping mall. She wanted to tell us she loved us and let us know her phone battery was dying.

I remembered the wave of gratitude that swept over me hearing her voice a few hours later. The police had arrived, secured the area. Miraculously the shooter had missed his target. An odd realization struck me. That gunman had nearly shot someone; his intended target, a young father pushing his baby in a stroller, my daughter, her friend. In an instant, he could have taken someone’s baby from them. What, I remember thinking at the time was, what could make somebody decide to shoot someone else? Harm another’s baby? Then I thought, this person, this gunman, was someone else’s baby. How could this happen? Was it a lack of awareness? Some broken connection?

It’s a question I’ll never know the answer to. What I do know, though, is we are all connected. Every one of us. Whether we’re conscious of it or not. And words have the power to strengthen or weaken those bonds.

To honor all that have been senselessly lost, I will do my best to remain mindful, continue choosing my words carefully. Because words are the currency of education, empowerment and unity. Which, like us, are interconnected.

One Hundred Days

February 7, 2018 By Kathie Z

We educators may seem a bit time obsessed. In our world, every single minute counts. Literally. We plan our lessons to the minute, use timers to stay on task, and make every attempt to transition smoothly and swiftly. We even have bells that ring at key points in our day to remind us it’s time to start or stop or be somewhere.

Time is constantly moving and there are many days I feel like Lucy in the chocolate factory; trying to accomplish as much as I can in the precious minutes I’m given each day. Because we have so much to do, so many concepts and skills to teach. Before we send our students on to learn more, do more, soar higher.

This week we reached a milestone, the 100^th day of school. The 100^th day is one of the best days of the year. It’s a fun-filled, celebratory day. A day of reflection and acknowledgement. We marvel at how far we’ve come together, how much we’ve accomplished.

I love this day because I get to experience the wide eyes and broad smiles from students as they realize they’ve overcome fears and developed tangible skills. To see a child discover that she no longer struggles to read or complete math problems is a powerful thing to witness.

In our second grade classroom, the 100^th day of school is one of joy. A day where we take stock of all of the effort invested, take time to acknowledge individual accomplishments and shared successes.

Coincidentally, this week marks 100 days for my oldest daughter, as well. This week she starts the 100 day countdown to graduation. In a matter of months, my daughter will be a college graduate.

For me, her mother, it’s exciting to consider what lays ahead. I’d love to say it’s the same for my daughter, but her excitement is tempered by the presence of the unknown. And as we know, the unknown can be the source of a lot of stress. And this stress can lead to a full-on crisis of confidence.

Sensing her ambivalence, I instinctively steered towards compassion rather than offering my usual next step problem solving suggestions of “Link in with so and so,” “Go to career services,” or “Reach out to your advisor.” Knowing that this daughter forms her beliefs based on evidence, I took the tactic I take with my seven year old students when they are experiencing self-doubt, questioning their capabilities. I told her to reflect on all that she’d accomplished and write her successes down.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” she dismissed. But I persisted. “No, I’m serious. My kids at school are doing this this week. It will give them the sense of pride and motivation to tackle even harder things.”

“No, I will,” she said. “It is a good idea.”

I heard the weariness in her voice. So I started rattling off all of the ways she had demonstrated bravery, pushed past ambivalence, went for it and experienced success; big and small. That got her talking about some challenges she’d long forgotten about. Things that helped her to grow into the amazing young woman she is.

Then I got thinking. Why wait for 100 days to pass before reflecting on accomplishments? What if we engaged in reflection, recognized specific challenges conquered more often? Say monthly or even weekly? And why reserve this review, this celebration for our littlest learners? What if all participated in this exercise, young and not so young? Kept a record of accomplishments to look back on those days when confidence isn’t optimal? I think that would be one powerful practice.

Welcoming the Good

December 31, 2017 By Kathie Z

We’re at the waning days of the year and the same old same old topic has started to clog my newsfeeds. What’s your resolution? How to make this year the best year ever! How to really accomplish your resolutions. In years past, I would have opened each and every article, scoured their contents and distilled the salient points which I would work to replicate. Because who can’t benefit from some self-improvement? Goodness knows I certainly can.

Yesterday, though, when my sister asked if I’d figured out my resolutions for the coming year, I told her quite simply, “I’m not making any resolutions this year.” “What?” she replied, obviously stunned. Being my closest confidante, her surprised reaction made complete sense. Aside from being my closest sibling, she is my exercise buddy, wellness accountability partner, creative work collaborator and my dream sharer. She knows first-hand the myriad of goals I set and work towards accomplishing bit by bit. All in an attempt to replace my own criticism with accomplishment.

But this year, I decided that the resolution thing isn’t for me. Bear with me for a moment: I’m not saying that I’m giving up on goal setting. No way. What I am doing, though, is rather than engaging in the traditional resolution setting that includes writing down a list of ick I want to discontinue or change, I’m choosing to celebrate the positive.

What if we siblings, parents, children, partners, teachers, loved ones chose to continue doing good and positive and promote doing even more of the same? What if at the advent of a new year we reflected on all of the things we have done that make us proud of and set goals of continuing this practice and experiencing more of these good feelings? What if we reflected on the various ways we did good and worked towards replicating these good deeds? What if we made time for quiet and appreciating the small moments of beauty? Carved out time to spend with the ones that truly matter? Listened? Laughed? Expressed gratitude?

I believe that by focusing on what’s working rather than what’s not, we can move forward in a more productive way. By welcoming more good into our lives rather than struggling to push the unpleasant away, we are inviting joy. Good begets good. That’s why this year I resolve to keep on keepin’ on.

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