On Failure...

Failure isn't fun. Although the statement is rather self-explanatory, I always find myself reminded of that fact each time I meet with failure. Nobody likes to fail. At least, nobody I've met. Oh, there are many who tout their love of failure, and its power to spur one on to greater success. Failure's a teacher, they say. Well, that may be so. But she's a pretty unkind one. Very unforgiving. And not overly reassuring, either.

One of the greatest problems with failure, I think, is that the more you risk, the greater the chance that you will, indeed, fail. And more importantly - the more you risk, the greater the chance that, should you fail,  you will feel bad about failing. Because risking means putting yourself out there. It means trusting and believing. When you fail, it can feel like a terrible confirmation of your greatest fears. 

Failure is, therefore, painful. And although it helps to see that most people experience it in some form or another throughout their lives, that fact is cold comfort when your own failure is staring you, unblinkingly, in the face. 

We call failure by other names, to make it easier to bare. Some people say the only way to fail is to stop trying. So instead, they call failure setbacks. Learning opportunities. Opportunities to try again. While I applaud the positivity in those misnomers, let me give you some definitions of failure:

• "A lack of success in doing something"(Macmillan Dictionary)

• "A falling short" (Merriam Webster Dictionary)

• "An act or instance of failing or proving unsuccessful" (Dictionary.com) 

Not all failure is equally painful, or equally shaping, for that matter. And some failures are daily occurrences. For instance, sometimes I fail to connect with a student. Sometimes I fail to use my time wisely. Sometimes I fail to get up early enough to get to work on time. These failures - and let's just call them that - are relatively minor. Recoverable. Correctable. And, I must admit, learning opportunities. If I fail to connect with a student, I can reflect on the failure and find new ways to improve my teaching style. If I fail to use my time wisely, I find myself stressed and overworked, and I can learn to make better choices the next time. Fail to get up on time? This should result in an earlier alarm clock setting and a greater effort to be prompt. Small, daily failures can foster genuine improvements. 

Then there are the failures that are out of our control. When my husband and I decided we were ready to have a family, I failed to conceive. Or maybe I should say, my body failed to conceive. This was not in my control. But my fault or not, it was still a failure. My body failed me, when it came down to it. This type of failure seemed impossible to learn from, since it didn't result from a personal choice or shortcoming -  simply a physical problem. This doesn't mean I didn't end up taking away lessons from this: thankfulness for my health, a greater appreciation for the miracle of life, an increased sensitivity to couples who don't have children. But I didn't learn to "succeed" from the "failure."  (The conclusion to this story, in case you're wondering, is that the doctors did not fail me, and they correctly diagnosed me (with PCOS) and prescribed a low glycemic diet paired with Metformin - which resulted in "success". I have two beautiful, amazing children.)

Then there are the larger failures that are caused by our own shortcomings, failures that result in the crippling of a dream or the loss of the self-concept you tried so hard to build. Failures like these, I think, are some of the most difficult to recover from - and can be the hardest to learn from.  I think of the Olympic athletes, who sacrificed so much - who gave everything -  to be where they are, only to miss a landing, or break a ski, or get a cramp, or  - maybe worst of all - simply fail to be as "good" as the ones they are competing against. I think of those who apply for a job, get an interview, and then see the job go to someone else. Someone more qualified, or better at interviews or just… more right for the job. I think of the student who really tries on an assignment or a test - who follows the instructions and puts in the effort - and who still somehow falls short. Crushing.

And I think of the writer.  The writer who pours into a piece and its characters. Shapes them. Loves them. I think of the critiques and the edits and the re-edits and the fine-tuning. The search for the perfect publisher, the perfect home for their baby. To that writer - and many of us have been there - a rejection letter means failure. It can be soul-crushing. And whether its one rejection or many, whether it's a personalized response or a form letter, whether its based on a query, that first sample, or the entire piece - it stings.

Regardless of the source of the failure, in my life's journey, I've discovered failure and I are not friends. But neither, I guess, are we enemies. Because when it comes down to it, failure will result in change. Sometimes, the change hurts - but usually, it also allows for growth that wouldn't have happened without the failure. 

For me, my immediate response to failure is tears - many, many tears - followed by a sad sense of resignation. When that passes (and it always, eventually, does) - it is replaced by a new, undeniable hope. Sometimes, that hope causes me to try again - to see the failure as temporary, to grow, to learn, and to try again for success. Sometimes, when the failure is more permanent, the hope causes the creation of a new dream - a new place to succeed.

Because after the sting of failure passes, after the pain of loss fades, after my eyes have dried and my heart has healed a little, I am left with the sweet joy of knowing that while there is life - while there is breath - there is hope. 

There is always hope.  

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Back to Work We Go...

It's been a beautiful two weeks, celebrating the holiday season and enjoying our time together in our crisp, cold, Canadian winter. Now, Sunday night has arrived, and as I sit here, listening to the overdue laundry drumming in the dryer and resting my laptop on the stack of tests I intend to mark before bed, I am incredibly thankful for the time of rest and rejuvenation offered by this Christmas season.  

Tomorrow, work begins again. I'm looking forward to seeing my students and teaching my classes, but I will miss the peaceful freedom of having nowhere to be and nothing that takes me away from my children and my husband and the sweet joy of being with my family.  

But I think it's true, that "in this world of change, nothing which comes stays, and nothing which goes is lost."(Anne Sophie Swetchine). 

Storytelling

I often start my English Language Arts "Narrative" unit with discussion about why storytelling is important. The ideas, at first, often revolve around the craft of fiction writing: students mention (and rightly so) that if you want your stories to be read, you must actually be good at telling them.

Eventually, though, we get to the idea that storytelling is actually important for much, much more than just writing fiction. Making an impression during a job interview often depends on your storytelling skills. ("Can you recall a time when you were challenged in your previous job?" OR "Describe one of your professional weaknesses"). Engaging friends in conversation often requires a certain storytelling skill too, doesn't it? We've all had those friends... or been those friends... who try to tell about an experience and then the story kind of just falls...flat. Storytelling is important.

A colleague of mine - also an English teacher - recently shared her own, true story during the high school chapel. She began it by introducing it as "the story of a girl". As she wove her story together, complete with symbols, numbers, and overt literary devices, she painted such a vivid picture of setting and characterization, that I - and the students in the room - could see it... could see her. The structure of her story drew us in, and the language she used captivated our imaginations and kept our attention completely. 

Her story was about self-doubt and self-loathing. About the lies the Enemy wants us to believe about ourselves. About thinking you are not a valuable person. In all truth, her story made me feel, at first, sick. Sick because I have felt as she felt as a teen myself, and because so many teens now feel as she felt; sick because the beauty of her words belied the ugliness of the lies she - we - believed. As her story continued, the sick feeling dissipated as I was caught up in the beauty of the narrative and suspense of the rising action. As we reached the dramatic and heart-pounding climax, where God intervenes at exactly the most crucial moment, it was all I could do to keep from weeping - or from gasping in wonder. Or from laughing, in joy, aloud. The room was silent and everyone listened intently. Then as she described, with a wry humour and even some imagined conversations, the process of transformation and affirmation God took her through, we were right there with her. 

She just told us a story.  That's all. A true story, but a story nonetheless. But the way she told it was extraordinary enough to demand the rapt attention of a full room of high school students, and to be potentially life changing for the students who most needed to hear the beautiful truth she presented.  

As I listened to some students talking about it later, I thought - this is why storytelling matters. Because lives can be changed when they hear - and understand -  and believe - the right story.