January 4
Headstands are an interesting yoga pose.
As you measure out the proper distance to place your
forearms on the mat, bracing your head in a cup made with your hands, you
mentally prepare yourself for the inversion. Lift one leg. Breathe in. Kick up
with the other. For a moment you linger in limbo, your body working against the
laws of gravity that push downward. With proper focus, you straighten out,
long, strong, and in control. You breathe out.
Things look different upside down. Your brain tries to make
sense of this changed perspective. Time seems to slow. Instead of letting your
gaze wander around the room, you choose a point to concentrate on while working
to block out distractions.
I think it was at the moment I was standing in a headstand
watching the sunrise over the Himalayas on my family’s Poon Hill trek that I
realized how my perspective has changed since living in Nepal (not to mention
that Machhapuchhare looks equally stunning upside down!). The opportunity to
show my new home and school to my family during their recent visit forced me to
look at everything through new eyes; I was surprised by how much I now take as
“normal.” The windy mountain roads paired with aggressive drivers. The constant
curious stares on the street. The ringing bells and small handfuls of tikka
rice scattered through the house as remnants of daily prayer. The seemingly
endless plates of rice (ok, sometimes that last one still overwhelms me…)
This changed perspective especially extends to the
classroom.
Arriving in Gorkha bright-eyed and armed with
newly-purchased school supplies five months ago, I imagined a classroom where
my co-teacher and I would work in perfect unison to improve student vocabulary,
grammar, speaking and writing skills. Although I recognized this expectation
was more ideal than completely attainable, I now realize just how much my
experience has modified this initial picture. In reality, my day starts with
the uncertainty if my co-teacher will show up to school. In reality, I teach
two science classes without the support of a Nepali speaker to answer the
questions that the puzzled looks indicate. In reality, I often times find
myself fighting to manage bigger classes and teach over the shouts of “Miss!
Miss! Missssss!”
This week, however, I’ve been enjoying the view from the school
balcony during the short recess break. Standing up there watching the various
games of tag, chungi, and hopscotch across the dirt field, I am reminded of a reading
from a community organizing class at PC. Heifetz writes how as social organizers,
it is both helpful and necessary to remove ourselves from the action of the dance
floor and occasionally move up to the balcony for a better view, a new
perspective. We have to alternate between acting and reflecting, participating
and observing. We have to ask
ourselves what’s working? What isn’t? What needs to be changed? How?
My family’s visit and the brief break from teaching allowed
me to reexamine my initial expectations and create new goals for the last two
months of teaching. It was a helpful reminder to take a break from the dance
floor, dust the chalk from my hands (and face, and neck, and sweater…how does it manage to get everywhere
anyway?), and breathe. Re-center.
Throwing yourself into something new, like teaching and
living in a different culture, can sometimes feel like you’re fumbling to get
into a headstand. You’re head over heels, unable to tell up from down. It is
easy to get caught up in the challenges of absent teachers and students, lack
of resources and large class sizes. But by getting caught up in these
distractions, it is easier to lose your center of focus, your balancing point. Instead,
through reflection and concentration, you adjust to this new perspective and
gain a new view of yourself, of others, of the world you live in.
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