What Really Matters?
By Sarah Callender | June 8, 2020 |
Friday was the last day of school–at least, the last day with students–and as we neared the end of class, I looked at the exhausted faces of my 7th graders in their little Zoom boxes. One was bouncing, as he had been for the past twelve weeks of remote learning, on what I imagine was an exercise-ball-cum-desk-chair. Another was practicing his pitching skills by throwing a ball against his bedroom wall, then catching it. Then throwing it, then catching it. Another, this one a girl, was smoothing and adjusting her hair in her “Zoom mirror.” She had been adjusting her hair for twelve weeks.
But I said nothing about any of it. The last three months had made us all weary. And it had been an especially difficult and traumatic week.
I took a breath. “Well, my lovely students, we have 15 minutes left of class. Fifteen minutes until you are officially 8th graders. So we’re going to use this 15 minutes to do one last thing.”
The Pitcher stopped throwing his baseball against the wall and turned to face his computer. The Hair-smoother stopped smoothing. The Bouncer kept bouncing. It’s hard not to bounce when you’re thirteen and you’re sitting on a rubber exercise ball and the world is on fire.
“There’s no easy or quick way to get out of this mess our country is in,” I said. “But we can start moving in the right direction by doing small things. In the next fifteen minutes, we’re going to show our gratitude for people we care about, for people who care about us, by writing thank you emails. You can write thank you emails to your parents and guardians, to a sibling, a classmate, a relative, a coach, to a friend … anyone who you are grateful for.”
A hand went up. “Can we write to a friend?”
“Yes,” I said, reminding myself that even the smartest 7th grader has the brain of a prehistoric reptile. “You can thank anyone … a relative or a coach … a parent or guardian … a friend. And it doesn’t have to be a long note. A two- or three-sentence thank you email is plenty.”
“What if we don’t have paper and an envelope?”
“Right,” I said. “That’s fine because we’re just emailing our thank you notes.”
“And how long do these have to be?”
They were prehistoric reptiles who had been attending online school for twelve exhausting weeks.
“And,” another student chimed in, “what if we don’t have the person’s email?”
I glanced at the time. “Well, since there’s now just thirteen minutes left in class, let’s write to people whose contact information we do have. OK?”
From each of their little Zoom boxes, they showed me a thumbs up.
“Great,” I continued. “And just so you know, I’m going to do this too. And I’m going to write one to you all because you all make me happy and hopeful.”
For thirteen minutes, I wrote, and they wrote (or pretended to), and when the make-believe bell rang, I reminded them that they were amazing, that they were my hope-givers.
I think they knew I was telling the truth. I hope they did.
Then we all said a chorus of goodbyes and waved frantically at each other, and one by one, I watched their faces leave the meeting, until only I remained. I clicked the “End meeting for all” button, closed my laptop, and burst into tears.
The theme for 7th grade English is Justice. Never in my teaching career has a thematic unit felt so tragically relevant. Never in my lifetime has there been such a bevy of current events to use as examples of injustice.
Over the past several months, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what really matters. Does, for example, proper grammar matter? Does it matter that my own teenagers keep their rooms clean? Does buying organic milk matter? Does it matter that my son’s SAT score isn’t all that high? Does it matter how the dishwasher gets loaded or whether clean laundry gets folded and put away?
Does a three-sentence thank you email matter?
I think it does. Maybe sending and receiving gratitude reminds us that in spite of quarantines, in spite of nasty rhetoric meant to divide us, in spite of racism, we are still connected in essential ways.
I have come to understand that my teenagers’ inefficient and nonstrategic dishwasher loading techniques don’t matter, not at all.
But human connection does. For so many reasons.
The author, Susan Vreeland, writes:
Where there is no human connection, there is no compassion. Without compassion, then community, commitment, loving-kindness, human understanding, and peace all shrivel. Individuals become isolated, the isolated turn cruel, and the tragic hovers in the forms of domestic and civil violence. Art and literature are antidotes to that.
Without connection, there is domestic and civil violence? Yes.
So it’s incumbent upon us writers to create the antidote to violence? Yes!
When we read fiction, we spend ten or twenty hours walking in the shoes of another. Recently I have read a story about a pack horse librarian in Kentucky, another about a crew of radical tree-huggers, and another about a gaggle of ghouls that abides near the crypt where Abraham Lincoln’s young son is interred. All three works of fiction plunked me in the middle of worlds that were totally unfamiliar. And by the end, the settings all felt like home, the characters like family. Even the most unfamiliar characters have somehow slipped into my heart. Their voices and their stories are now stitched into my psyche.
Susan Vreeland is right: Isolation, cruelty, and violence don’t have a chance in the presence of human connection.
Gratitude matters. Connection matters. Stories matter.
In this recent Op-ed piece, Frank Bruni discusses what will happen if liberal arts colleges are not around to teach The Odyssey and Moby Dick.
Bruni explains,
We need research scientists. It falls to them to map every last wrinkle of [Covid-19] and find its Achilles’ heel.
But we also need Achilles. We need Homer. We need writers, philosophers, historians. They’ll be the ones to chart the social, cultural and political challenges of this pandemic — and of all the other dynamics that have pushed the United States so harrowingly close to the edge. In terms of restoring faith in the American project and reseeding common ground, they’re beyond essential.
Yes! We need to read stories that expose us to difficult things and reveal ways that a character can move through those difficult experiences. Those are helpful stories right now. We need to read those stories.
And we need to write the stories that will reseed our common ground, stories that will fill our air with oxygen, making it easier for people–all people–to persevere, to thrive, and yes, to breathe.
What matters most to you these days? What metaphorical trees are you planting to increase the oxygen in your life and in your communities? What stories have you read recently that have helped you breathe?
Thank you for reading and for sharing. I hope you believe me when I say I appreciate each one of you!
Art compliments of Flickr’s Trending Topics 2019.
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
Thank you for this, Sarah. This is exactly what has been on my mind, as I ponder every word I say about my upcoming debut novel in verse and ask how it matters in the tapestry of important issues that face our children and the crucial #antiracist work on which we need to focus.
You’re doing a novel in verse? the WIP I’ve been struggling with seems to want to be written that way and I am terrified
Cassandra: I’d love to hear about it, and would be happy to talk to you if you want to connect through my website. One thing I’d say is to repeat the words of a fortune cookie I received long ago, but keep posted in view: “Those things we fear only want our love.”
Thank you… and I’ve finally realized what the website box on the Comments form is for. I’ll add mine this time! Your book description sounds wonderful.
Yes. I guarantee it matters … and I can’t wait to read it. Is it middle grade? YA? Keep going, Carol. It matters!
Beautiful, Sarah. This made my day. Thank you for all you do and share as a teacher, writer, human. Gratitude, compassion, hope and the power of words – exactly the message I needed.
Thank you, dear Mary, for taking the time to comment. YOU have made my day. :)
This blog is right on point. I have been invited to do a number of Zoom meetings with classes (grades 4-8) as a visiting author. They usually run about 45 minutes and are a combination of teaching and “classroom” interaction, and are attended by the students, teachers, administrators, literacy coaches, and other support staff. The kids are amazing, the teachers remarkable, considering the circumstances. What I have noticed consistently, in all parts of the country, is a profound sense of loneliness. They (both students and teachers) are so happy to see a new face, have a “visitor,” talk to someone new. We have always gone over the scheduled time at their request — not because I’m so fascinating, but because they desperately want the connection with another real person who is interested in them.
Gosh, I love this, Anne. Thank you for sharing your work and your passion for story with students! And I am 100% certain the teachers are as grateful as the students.
May I get in touch about having you chat with our middle school students in the fall?
:)
Hey Sarah – So great to have you here today. It’s always so welcome, and yet today it feels particularly providential. Honestly, your words are breathing new life into my weary writerly soul.
We’ve had a number of conversations here in the WU community about how our stories still matter, and they’ve all been vital to my perseverance. But in spite of those conversations, the thoughts can creep in: In the light of what’s happening, how can what I’m doing really matter? You’re–quite literally–telling me how.
May I tell you one of the things that keeps me going? I had a yard foreman when I ran the lumberyard–a farmer whom I came to respect, in part for his folksy wisdom. Once, when circumstances were particularly troubling, he read my despair, and told me, “When things look hopeless, put your head down and work. Nothing good comes of worry. And even if good don’t come while you’re workin’, ‘least you’re gettin’ something done.”
I’ve never forgotten it. Say, maybe I should send him a note of gratitude. I hear even a three-line email can help. :)
Oh, and here are three sentences in regard to someone else:
1) I appreciate Sarah for her own brand of humor and folksy wisdom.
2) Today Sarah showed me the importance of my ongoing task, giving me renewed hope and a boost of energy to do it.
3) I am so very grateful to have Sarah here in the WU community, and in my life.
Stay safe and be well. Enjoy your summer. Stay hopeful.
Thank you, Vaughn, for your your empathy, kindness, and for the words of this wise former colleague. So true.
One of my writing partners, a much-published journalist, non-fictionist, and memoirist, is writing her first novel. She is having the same terrors and concerns about the “frivolity” of story. I believe story can save us … I know it saves me on a regular basis!
xo!
Thank you, Sarah, for this beautifully illustrated reminder of the value of our work. As we have begun to emerge and make visits to family and friends, my heart is so happy for real-life connection. I am thrilled to have a reason to put on a pair of earrings and paint my toenails. I am thrilled to have a conversation that doesn’t involve accidentally interrupting someone you didn’t realize was talking because their internet is slower than yours. I was thrilled to hug my mother and shake a friend’s hand. Just to touch another person besides my boys was so meaningful.
And we touch people, soul to soul, when we write and read, don’t we? A writer reaches out in search of a reader who gets her, who will listen to her deepest thoughts about the world and understand, and a reader reaches out in search of a writer who gets her, who can put into words those thoughts and feelings she has had but dares not name.
Beautiful, Erin. These are perfect words.
And I am SO jealous that you can now hug loved ones! I cannot wait to hug my parents, my friends, my colleagues.
Such a simple and necessary thing, a hug.
Here’s one for you!
Well, we’re not supposed to hug, but she needed it so badly. And so did I. The mental health toll all of this has taken on people is overwhelming when you let yourself truly feel the emptiness, the hole it has bored into your life. It grieves the spirit something terrible.
Sarah, you made it. As did your kids. That last assignment was gold. And I love that you let them know they made you happy and hopeful.
What really matters now are the same things that mattered before–God, family, writing. This family I speak of, it’s big, because it includes not only those borne of blood, but those of the spirit, of desire, of friendships forged through stories.
God bless you.
Thank you, Vijaya, for these beautiful words. I will cherish them … because they are true!
:)
Sarah, I’ve missed you, and so glad to read your piece this morning. Would it be wrong to say–that Covid19 has just underlined parts of the life I’ve been living? Oh yes, there was the party to celebrate my brother’s birthday that ended in a zero–and the next day, the world seemed to shut down. But in my present life, I could go on reading, writing, and using the power of the keyboard to shout out my anger at what was happening. “Are our leaders crazy when it comes to protecting the health of this nation?” Sadly, yes. Look at the death toll. Then my son’s marriage postponed. And we have to have strangers in our home BECAUSE WE ARE SELLING OUR HOUSE, MOVING BACK TO CHICAGO. This is called crazy time. And my husband is immunocompromised. But so far, we are healthy as the world around us seems to rebel. But rebelling is good, as long as you wear a mask. I can’t hug my grandchildren, but you would LOVE having them in your class. And they would love you. Thanks Sarah for keeping the flame of normalcy burning. Brains develop. The question I will be asking for a very long time is what happened to the brains of many running our dear beloved country? Be safe, Beth
There is so much “wonderful” in this comment, Beth. What happened indeed! It continues to shock me. I know I should no longer be shocked, but I can’t help it.
Your son’s wedding! No hugs for grandchildren! And a move back to Chicago. Do take care of your sweet self … and thank you for every word you shared here.
xo!
Thanks, Sarah. Great reminder to us all. It is the easiest thing in the world to get lost in the avalanche of details these days and to totally lose sight of the transcendent, the desire and need for which, of course, exists in the heart of every person. Great quote by Frank Bruni, as well.
Apparently Abe Lincoln loved chocolate. Or am I imagining that?
Best regards!
Dear John,
Abe loved chocolate? Yes, let’s go with that! It’ll be just another reason why I love Abe.
Imagine what Abe must be thinking about the state of our country. That poor, dear, melancholy man.
Thank you for sharing your words. It is SO easy to get lost in the avalanche. WU is the best antidote for that. :)
Happy writing to you!
Thank you, Sarah, for brightening my day. Your words were exactly the ones I needed to hear this morning. And I’m forwarding them to the members of both my writers’ groups.
Judy, thank you. I am forever relying on the words of others … especially these days. I think that’s what we writers do for each other: help supply each other with words when our own go missing or are all gummed up in our mouths or brains or wherever words get all gummed up.
Happy writing, both to you and your partners!
Thanks for sharing this, Sarah. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you post, and I’ve always enjoyed your entries, mostly because they usually resonate with my own thinking. I live in Minneapolis, just a bit outside of all the “activity.” I have many friends who are actively involved – either they’re out protesting, out cleaning up the damage or collecting food donations, or trying to keep their homes and neighborhoods safe by chasing off looters or ferreting out the gasoline soaked logs and rocks stashed in the bushes. Meanwhile I’m editing my mss for the umpteenth time, sending sympathy cards to friends whose parents or grandparents have died from COVID and having conversations with my hairdresser who just had uterine cancer surgery. Posting everyday activities and little things on Facebook or my blog seems petty, but this is what I need to do – offer a larger perspective, find community and common ground, and instill gratitude in the small things. Eventually, in my own way I will participate. It won’t be big or newsworthy, but small actions do make a difference. Best to all of you on your daily journey as writers!
Oh, Carol. My heart feels heavy … and it also feels hopeful because you truly are helping people breathe.
I have been feeling heartbroken for MN because really, there are no friendlier people than Minnesotans.
Please keep editing your manuscript. If it’s half as lovely as you, it’s a gem!
Talk good care (and thank you for the very kind words).
I do not know if you recall my demeanor years ago when I commented on a regular basis here at Writer Unboxed. Quite often, I expressed how my feelings were stirred when interacting with other Unboxers or how an Unboxer’s post grabbed my emotions.
I learn more about the writer’s POV than the topic of discussion when I read posts here, especially when the individual “Embraces the Naked Self” (Thanks, Robin). I imagined myself drawing nearer to that person and sometimes did, which I found out after I escaped the digital world and met them in the corporeal world. Plus, it gave us something to talk about. This is not to say the writer didn’t help me to understand the topic of discussion better than I did before I read the post. They did, but my desire to connect is damn near always on autopilot.
I treasure beneficial relations and connections. They help keep me grounded because I live more by trust and belief than fact—and well—sometimes, connecting just feel really good.
There is no story out there that can help me breathe. I don’t need a story to help breathe these days. The support system I built years ago provides plenty of oxygen and many people from Writer Unboxed are a part of that system.
WRITER UNBOXED HELPS ME TO BREATHE!
It has since 2012, well before breathing became part of a new slogan.
Um, I don’t have a metaphorical tree, but if I did, it would be a Sequoia or Redwood (because of my WIP).
Last but not least!
This guy misses reading your posts (gonna change that). I’m still slightly bumped we only had a slither of time to converse in November 2016. It was such a wonderful conversation that we had to cut short.
Dear B.B.
A slither was definitely not enough … Not even a slather would have sufficed! Thank you so much for appearing in my inbox. Because of my teaching load (and my time-consuming teenagers) I have had to cut back on my WU posts, so it feels especially wonderful to reconnect here.
I hope you, dear Sequoia, are finding time to write and take good care of your great self.
Thank you for these words!
sarah
“Because of my teaching load (and my time-consuming teenagers) ”
THIS STATEMENT IS SO AWESOME!
“I have had to cut back on my WU posts”
There are plenty of old posts that will entertain my satisfaction.
Thank you Sarah, such a lovely reminder that small things can make a big difference, and connection is at the heart of things
Thank you, Cassandra, for taking the time to share a comment! Happy summertime writing to you.
:)
This is wonderful, thank you, Sarah. The touching story of your last class reminds me of a favorite teacher, Verna Rollins–I had her for 7th and 8th grade English, and she was wonderful in so many ways. I wonder if I can track her down (if she is still around??) and let her know how much I appreciated her wisdom and gifts. :-)
Also–the Susan Vreeland quote is so helpful! It’s syncing with some of my ideas about theme in the current WIP and bringing them into better focus.
I’m grateful for the connections here at Writer Unboxed today (and every day)!
Hello, dear Alisha. How are you? So lovely to see you here today … and to think about Ms. Rollins and the impact she had on you.
I hope you are well and can get some good writing in this summer. You’re such a lovely person.
:)
Why thank you! :-)
I have been making gradual progress on the writing front–story/character development, not yet drafting. Today was a good day on that front. This spring has been an excellent time to (re)learn that every little bit counts.
I hope you have the time and energy for some good writing this summer too!
Sarah, my 7th-grade reptile brain has changed little in the days since, but it can still appreciate warm and wise words, yours. I went to a BLM protest on Saturday in my little town (which is 70% or more Hispanic), and the goodwill, commitment and peaceable connection between people gave me a glimmer of hope, in the midst of all this crap.
I have sent messages of gratitude to a few people recently. If your students forgot to send you one (that reptile brain again), here it is: thank you for making a difference in peoples’ lives.
Dear Tom,
While technically you and I have never met, I know with 100% certainty that you are the least reptilian person I’ve ever not met.
I’m so glad you have found some glimmers. These days, a glimmer’s pretty dang good. And I am sure you and your kindness help others to find and see glimmers as well.
Thank you for being here today. Made me smile to see your name!
Sarah,
What a gift you gave your kids when you asked them to look at another person and discover their value. Amen to that and enormous hugs to you for being that teacher.
Thank you, Susan.
My mom is exuberant in her gratitude, and I think that kind of thing probably gets inherited.
Enormous hugs right back … thank YOU for being that WU commenter. ;)
What a great post, a worthy post to start another week. It strikes me in a couple of places:
Unless it’s expressed, gratitude blesses only those who feel it., but not its object.
Mr. Bruni talks about us being closer to the edge. My thought is that we’re not. The edge is rendered more visible, more palpable by the events around us today, but all of us, in everything we do, live our entire lives close to that edge. Our thoughts and actions matter all the time.
Finally, how fortunate those prehistoric reptile brains are to have your guidance. Thank you for being there.
Wow, Bob. I have mulled over your lovely words all evening.
Thank you for the reminder of our constant proximity to the edge. We need to live and love with that sense of urgency.
Thank you. :)
Wonderful post, especially the Vreeland quote — that really resonates for me today.
Thanks and gratitude from Brisbane, Australia
Dear Al,
Thank you … and yes, I do love that Vreeland quotation. She was a wise and beautifully-worded woman. :)
Take good care of yourself, and happy writing!
Sarah
I cried where you said you cried :)
I’ve been blessed to be able to do a lot of writing recently. What goes back on my long To Do list now, thanks to you, is real letters to real kids I’m missing – maybe with some enclosed stories for them to enjoy and illustrate ~
Thank you, Anneliese. Are you also a teacher? I’m so glad you’ve been able to write recently. As soon as this week of meetings is over, as soon as I can submit my grades and narrative comments, I will be writing alongside you (and possibly crying alongside you too).
xo!
‘What matters the most’ is a hard question for me to answer. It might be the desire to stay present, take it all in, and fight to get to the other side of this storm while making the most positive possible change from the chaos. It’s going to take a while. So it also matters that we take care of ourselves, pace ourselves, survive. Breathe.
I’ve been seeking joy in small things. I’ll grab my camera, and study the birds, then share the photographs. I’ve learned how to bake bread, which is a very small thing (though not for my waistline) but feels triumphant because I’ve never been able to do it. I’ve become a pencil-and-paper writer again. I received a heartfelt letter from a friend going through hard times, and sent one back. I take the time to really appreciate my friends; I’m genuinely so proud of the fight I see out there, the determination for justice and the desire to do good. I’ve reconnected with my manuscript, grateful for a distraction that sometimes feels like a life preserver. I’ve been appreciating my dog, maybe more than ever, as she gets older before our eyes; the gift here is she can no longer hear thunder to be afraid of storms. But it reminds me how fragile we all are, and that the slip-fall of time, which feels magnified right now, will not wait for any of us.
And maybe that’s it, what matters most: I want my minutes. I want to find a way, every day, to seize the day.
I miss your voice, your wisdom, and your sense of humor, Sarah Callender, and I’m so very glad to see you here for a needed dose of it all. Those kids are so lucky to have you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Sarah Callender. You remind me again why we’re here and why we write. I’m a few days getting here, but I’m so glad I read this.