Dear Lyla,
The vocation that I have been called to, that of a college professor, is full of discovery, joy, wonder and love. It is also rife with frustration, sadness and, at times, a feeling of helpless futility. Some weeks fly by with the hum of activity that gives the building in which I work the aura of a living, breathing creature; students the blood that courses through its veins keeping it alive and giving it purpose. Other weeks move at a glacial pace, each hour seemingly longer and more laborious than the previous; it has been one of those weeks. There is an old saying “when it rains it pours,” and this week seems to be torrential in scope. Midweek came and I felt as if there was no possible way that I would be able to make it to Friday. I contemplated calling in sick and cancelling my classes; I was in the process of crafting a plan on Wednesday afternoon when it occurred to me that it was time to leave my office early to go the after-school program at which I volunteer once a week. My schemes were abandoned as I reached for my briefcase, coat and keys and headed out to the car. Upon arrival the director informed me that, since she had enough volunteers to teach lessons and hand out snacks, I was on craft detail. For the next hour I sat at a table cutting out paper projects that third and fourth graders had made. I was to affix them to a giant piece of yellow paper so they could be prominently displayed. As I cut I admired the bold color choices and the flagrant disregard for formal artistic aesthetic used on these projects; pink, red, green, orange and brown go together very nicely thank you very much. In a word, these crayon offerings were “hopeful.” For the first time all week I began to relax. I surrendered to my inner five year old self as safety scissors and scotch tape became the center of my universe, if just for a little while. As the afternoon wore on the volunteers who had to pass by the long white table in the recreation hall where I was working stopped to admire the children’s work. No words were spoken as I continued to work on my display, but I did observe that each person who stopped to look could not help but smile; hope, it seems, was to rule the day. Several of my students also volunteer at this after school program and I began to notice the looks on their faces. Gone were the furrowed brows, tight smiles and harried looks that had plagued all of us back on campus. Instead their faces housed bright smiles and their eyes twinkled as they basked in the delight of playing with the children. Indeed hope was waging a war against despair and it was winning. It would be disingenuous for me to tell you that I left that evening feeling as if all was well in the world and all of the week’s problems had simply melted away; they had not. There will always be frustration and vexation in our lives, it is unavoidable. We cannot know true happiness without experiencing sadness; the trick is, Little One, to not let hope be defeated by despair. Perhaps we adults get too caught up in the minutia of the world or perhaps we convince ourselves that hope is fickle and elusive; perhaps we ought to pick up crayons more often.
Letters To Lyla 