"There are no bad students, only bad teachers," Eric used to say. Eric loved to share what he has learned, and he was really, really talented in teaching. I think he was one of those teachers whom students either loved or feared. There was no middle ground. He challenged you to reach deep, to express, to communicate. To take a position, to negotiate, to stand ground. To explore beyond conventional beliefs, to act courageously despite fear. "No free lunch" was his motto. He was a caring, fantastic teacher.
Eric also encouraged me to become a volunteer teacher at the Puget Sound Community School (PSCS), where he taught for a few terms. "It'll be good for you," he said.
My copped out answer was always the same: "I don't know what to teach." In reality, I KNEW I would love to teach a few subjects, but I was too afraid. Afraid to look stupid, afraid no student would sign up, afraid of the time commitment, afraid to expose what I don't know, afraid of being - a bad teacher.
PSCS was Eric's gig. It was his relationship with the school. The good people were his friends, his students. I didn't have my own relationship with PSCS. The PSCS Seed, like many other seeds he planted for me, never sprouted until his death.
After Eric's death, my relationship with PSCS sprouted overnight, then it took on a life of its own. My friendship started with one extraordinary human being, Scobie Puchtler, a teaching staff at PSCS and a dear friend of Eric. Then it spread to others. It was then I realized and eventually accepted, my husband's death has profound purposes. Not just a reason, but a purpose. To each person he touched, the purpose may be different. Each will uncover at his own timing, through his own experience. My realization and acceptance prompted me to write a heartfelt blog entry, Please Take a Deep Breath on July 15, the 5-month anniversary of Eric's death.
After his death, my fearful attitude towards worldly, mundane things started to dissolve. I have not become fearless. Rather, I become free of the frivolous troubles and worries. The general bullshit games. The corporate handcuffs and correctness. I take on a gentle but powerhouse presence that I have not recognized. It's much more than "finding my voice" - I wasn't missing a voice. Eric's death exponentially magnified and exposed my inner strength like a beautifully sculpted naked body. I strongly believe my gift of inner strength has a profound purpose in humanity. I have a responsibility to use this gift. My strength is given to me to create butterfly effects.
The wonderful thing about keeping a blog and a journal is that it keeps record of my progress and gives references to my milestones. As I work silently to remove my fears, one by one, I came across an old blog entry about my virtual bakery, Daisy's Bread 'n Barter. I wrote about the healing powers of my cinnamon swirl bread on Freddie, and a discovery of my tipping point - "the healing powers in all things have always been love, care, and passion. We cannot possibly fail when we do things out of love. When we deeply care about something, yet doing it with no attachment to the outcome, that's where magic happens."
Eric wrote me a short note afterwards that it was the best blog post I have written. Naturally, I kept the note. That was the beginning of a pivotal, defining moment for me. That was January 28; 19 days before my husband died.
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| My friend Andy Woo's coffee tree |
The 13 of us cannot possibly fail if the class is conducted with love, care, and passion. Magic will happen. It already has.
I am immensely grateful for uncovering one of many purposes of my husband's death. I am forever grateful for the many seeds he planted for me. That was pure love.
My relationship with PSCS is my gig. Not Eric's. And it makes me feel, exhilarating.
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| Eagle soaring. Pure exhilaration. Decatur Island, August 2013 |
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