My wife is always finding mouse droppings around our house. I, on the other hand, never seem to find mouse droppings. This is actually a complex situation. I do believe my wife has a slight neurosis. I also believe she does find mouse droppings. By contrast, I seem to be relatively indifferent (to a point!) about mice. Furthermore, a mouse dropping is the kind of minute detail that I’m unlikely to notice; it is swept away with the multitude of other fragments on the floor or counter that I also pay little notice to. Finally, a potential mouse dropping does not often provide the kind of concrete evidence that may easily resolve the tension of contrasting understandings; that little black fleck could be a mouse dropping, or it could be…

When Tia happens upon a (potential) mouse dropping, she immediately reacts. There is usually a trace of panic in her voice, and the overall vibe or priority of the household has suddenly been shifted or halted altogether. Even if she says something as gentle as “oh shoot, we have mice,” I am more likely to hear, “everyone stop what you’re doing right now! Mice are infiltrating our home, taking over our lives and world!” This is the amplifying effect of annoyance. It could be that I am in relative peace, mid-sentence, mid-chapter of a gripping novel. It could be that I’m frantically working within and towards a deadline. It could be that I’m on the verge of an important strategic decision in another high-stakes game of chess with my six year old son. It could be that I’m finally about to change that long-burnt-out lightbulb, methodically making my way down an ever-neglected to-do list. Most likely, I’m simply lost in the peace of a daydream. The interruption is annoying as hell.  

“Ugh,” I let out loud. And somehow it is an “ugh” that clearly conveys annoyance, not with mice or a mouse, but with my wife. “Really Tia, with all else going on in our lives, you need to find mouse crap right now?”

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I have a distinct memory of an early-June drive, returning from the nearby town to our home on the campus of our rural school. The school year is “winding down” (we say that all the time in education, but when does a school year ever “wind down”? Instead, it barrels like an 18 wheeler, before finally making a sudden and desperate stop). In my rare moment alone, my mind is swirling in and around the approximately one million, seemingly high-stakes, urgent boxes left to tick as we culminate and honour a year of learning while ensuring a graduation that properly celebrates and inspires. June is indeed the exact definition of “so close, but ohhhhhhh, so far.” It is somewhere along this drive and within this swirling state that Tia phones and delivers the devastating news: “we have lice!”

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!

I know exactly what “lice” means. Since the children have begun attending school, we’ve been through it a few times. At that moment, I am absolutely suffocated by the overwhelming thought of it all: the endless stripping and remaking of beds, the bagging of pillows and stuffies, the plastic-wrap on our head, the smell of tea-tree, the laundry. Oh, the laundry! And, of course, the endless, methodical picking at and searching through each other’s heads and hair.

My immediate, (mostly) internal reaction to Tia’s announcement of lice, is “why now?” Actually, more honestly, it is something closer to “how dare you find lice right now? Could you not have waited a week until this bit of madness is over? Sure, Maki is relentlessly scratching her head, but can that not just as easily be ignored?” Quite simply, “I don’t have time for lice right now.” The final, added layer of complication is not the lice itself (themselves?), but rather the tiny little eggs called nits that harbour the lice. Lice before my eyes is not anything I can dispute. It’s a flailing little piece of grossness, and so clearly a life form. A nit on the other hand, is but a speck. It could be anything! It could even be a very tiny piece of mouse poop! And so, as we dig through each other’s hair, taking full account of every tiny little spec, the distance between us grows.

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Mice poop, lice and nits. Teeny, tiny pieces of matter that bring into focus the absurdities of a life. How can something so small ensure such massive disruption? How tightly must a life be packed so that it has no space for even the tiniest, nearly imperceptible additions? When we finally put the brakes on (the 18 wheeler screeching to a halt), step back, breathe and assess, what does the invasion of poop or lice allow us to see? I believe it more than simply chaos on top of chaos. Quite seriously, it is an opportunity to ask myself, who have you become? Or, what has become of YOURself? Not only your priorities, but also your general way? As much as I and we are able to eventually laugh about our differences and the overall absurdity of extreme tension erupting from relative nothingness, there remains a disturbing truth; the immediate response to the concerns and experience of my life partner is, in essence, dismissal. For my own “peace” of mind, I am actually ignoring the situation of our home, and the health of our children and family? Madness indeed.

All of this, of course, is a symptom of the MESS. We get caught in the weeds, and we do not have space or time for what matters most. Our personal value systems are continually compromised because we are too consumed by what seems to demand as opposed to what actually matters. What’s worse, is that we continually hate ourselves for it. For me, it is an empty feeling. A cruel mix of regret and longing. Desperation for the past, the moments I missed, a do-over. A desperation to be better. It is an anxious feeling most easily tempered, I believe, by immersing (distracting) myself back in the MESS. And so, it is a cycle. A trap even. 

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As an aside, I offer this brief analysis of a good run versus a bad one. Running has become an important part of my life. I rely on running consistently as I chase both physical and mental health. My best runs are meditative. They return me to the moment, bringing a sense of peace, calm and clarity that I may carry back into all parts of my life, allowing me to be better – more present – in each of my roles. Amazing thinking happens on good runs. Often I experience an epiphany. On a good run, I am less mindful of pace or distance or time. It just is.  A bad run, on the other hand, is more defined by a scattered brain. My thoughts are racing, and so I am racing too. I can’t seem to settle enough to fall out of my brain and into the moment. Sometimes, with enough focus, bad runs are transformed into good ones, as chaos is turned to peace; that process is, really, the point. Too often, however, the chaos defines the run, ensuring a bad or an unhealthy pursuit. On a bad run, I am mindful of pace, distance and time. I am in fact mindful of each step bringing me closer to the end. It is frantic. I am, perhaps, racing back to the MESS. Or maybe I am in pursuit of pure exhaustion as a tonic to temporarily and artificially temper the MESS. I am calling this a bad run because it is a misuse of the exercise. It neglects its power. It is a missed opportunity. At the very least, however, a bad run will clearly indicate the extent to which my life, at a given moment, is caught in the MESS. 

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Trauma, I should say, exasperates all trappings within the cycle. The weeds are thicker, the anxiety – regret, longing, desperation – greater, and of course the capacity to manage within and beyond the MESS is even more greatly reduced. For me, the response to something like mice and lice intensifies. As soon as life becomes even slightly unmanageable, my trauma is triggered, and in my irrational response, I become incensed by a lack of respect as I spiral downwards through the inescapable “film” playing in my mind. “Why are YOU doing this to me,” I think, in ever-escalating anger.  When I fall too deeply into the weeds, I distance myself from the moment, but also from myself. I lose control of the film: when, how and even if it is played. I also know that from those depths, it is a long journey back to relative peace and calm, a journey surely characterised in part by sleepless nights and a brutal lack of self compassion that will be externalised through a short temper and emotional distance. And with the ever-present trappings of the MESS, where do I go? How can I possibly find my way back?

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While I believe the trap of the MESS and the infuriating cycle offer endless opportunities for analysis of the human condition (not to mention a society purposely and continuously distanced from inward honesty and pure connection), it is also a powerful lens through which to view our students. Maintaining that lens may even offer a potentially clarifying and grounding approach to our students. To what extent are you (however unintentionally) positioning your students within the mess – perhaps by responding to what feels urgent as opposed to focusing on what actually matters? Therefore, how well (or fairly) are your students positioned so that they may constructively and thoughtfully respond to either planned or unforeseen disruptions (challenges) that can offer the potential for epiphany and the most powerful and lasting kind of learning?  To what extent, really, are your students able to open up to, and be present in, what truly matters? To what extent are you caught in the MESS, perhaps preventing you from responding to student behaviours with understanding and curiosity? How, for instance, is a student’s outward dismissal of a specific expectation being interpreted and therefore confronted? Are you responding with annoyance? Or, conversely, are you able to harness an opportunity to learn more about a student’s day, learning experience, life? I believe the simple process of stopping, honouring the moment, and demonstrating concern and listening is a powerful portal to unending learning journeys, possibilities and outcomes for any student, characterised by support and empowerment. What if, for instance, you allowed yourself to clearly see the trauma present in a particular student’s life? How might that affect your perspective and approach? How might that impact the student experience of school and learning? How might that positively ripple into other parts of life? Not all cycles need to be negative. 

I will argue that as educators, our single most important objective is to be present for our students. This, more than any test or assignment, allows us to assess student needs. From here we can continually adjust approach and plan learning that engages as opposed to alienates, that empowers as opposed to frustrates. A very close second most important objective is to continuously model health. The students do not need to see the stress of our jobs. They do not need to see or know how busy we are. They need to continuously witness us responding to challenges – in whatever form – with openness, care, thought, positivity and even (when appropriate) excitement. They need to aspire, in some way, to be a little like us, to maintain a similarly healthy outlook of, and approach to, life. Our students do not need to see that a career, a chosen path in life, is just a job – an unending series of tasks that require completion so that we can go home each night and forget about it. Compartmentalising “work” is not the same as balance. Balance, I might suggest, is better characterised by an ability to be present in a moment as opposed to feeling tasked by an expectation. Of course, virtually any school culture almost assuredly ensures that these two essential objectives remain elusive. We are all too caught in the MESS and so asking any educator to meet their two most powerful and important objectives is entirely unreasonable. Each of us needs to be asking, how do we avoid the weeds, how do we free ourselves from the MESS? Because, as it currently stands, we do not even have space for mice and lice, let alone the complex needs of each student.