I walk up the back staircase of Two Rivers Middle School carrying a stack of books, a travel coffee tumbler, a water bottle, and a hundred and thirty freshly printed worksheets. I feel like Gus Gus, that goofy mouse who tries to carry too many kernels of corn back to his hidey-hole in Cinderella’s mansion while faced with a devilish cat. My devilish cat: three seventh-grade girls coming down the staircase in the opposite direction. Let’s call them Diamond, Natalia, and Courtnee. These girls were terrifying, in that just-began menstruating kind of way. Diamond was a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me. Natalia wore a SpongeBob Squarepants backpack. Courtnee — all four-foot-seven on her — blinked her gorgeous churlish eyelashes at me and rolled her eyes in disdain.
“Hey girls,” I said. I did not ask for help, just clutched even harder to the teetering tower of contents in my hands.
“Miss Gibson,” said Courtnee, with a click of her tongue. “You do too much.”
What are you learning right now? This summer, in the midst of the heat and humidity, mosquitos and house flies — what are you turning over and over in your mind? This summer, the lesson I seem destined to absorb is the same lesson my seventh-grade student tried to teach me way back in 2010: Do less.
Courtnee’s sage statement echoed in my head the rest of that academic year. Students filed into my classroom, listened to my forty-five-minute attempt to make sense of world geography, then filed back out again. They listened, or didn’t, watched the powerpoint slideshow I’d made, or tuned out. They fell asleep in class, or stayed alert with that vacant expression in their eyes, desperate to please. I was desperate too. Desperate to do a good job, to win at teaching, to prove to everyone, including myself, that I was not just good, but great. Once, a student threw a dictionary at my head because I’d poured out her Coke in the water fountain. It’s one of my deepest regrets. Why couldn't I just let her have that Coke? She’d paid good money for that Coke.
Of course, there were reasons I preferred to keep food and drinks out of the classroom: hundreds of them. Every morning, countless little brown pellets decorated my desk and floors, sour-smelling presents left behind by a team of real-life Gus-Guses. My classroom had mice, but no air conditioning. I had thirty-five students but only thirty-three desks. I had lessons to plan and places to be and students whose academic futures rested on my performance. If I just kept rushing, rushing, rushing, then perhaps the tidal wave of fear wouldn’t crest and take me under.
“You do too much,” Courtnee told me that day in the stairwell.
And she was right.
She’s still right.
You do too much, I think to myself, as I rush my kids out the door for a camp they never asked to attend.
You do too much, my calendar tells me — with all its red alerts reminding me of appointments and playdates and events — most of which are optional.
You need to do more, scream the mountains of laundry, shoes, dishes, and e-mail that never seem to shrink. A band of itinerant procreating Legos have staged a non-hostile takeover of my home, waging a war of attrition against my bare feet. They’re winning. The insurmountable tasks of parenthood, marriage, writing, friendship, and homeownership threaten to swallow me whole. In those moments of overwhelm, Courtnee’s seventh-grade wisdom returns. Only now, her voice sounds less churlish and more charitable. It’s less of an accusation and more of an invitation.
You do too much.
It struck me hard, this summer, during our week at Laity Lodge Family Camp. In a beautiful Canyon along the Frio River in Leakey, Texas, our family spent seven days without access to cell service or Wi-Fi — tethered only to a “camp bell” that rang to signal the next activity, whether that was to line up for a delicious meal, or to head out for arts and crafts, fishing, archery, mountain biking or hiking. We took long naps. The kids didn’t touch toys or screens — they ran around outside and got red-faced with sweat and joy and exertion. I was still tired, but I felt better in my body. Less frantic. More present.
Patrick felt it too. We went on a hike one day, just the two of us. Dust kicked up around our feet while we walked, one foot in front of the other. “I’m afraid,” he said.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to miss or mismanage these moments. I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and realize, I’ve missed it all.”
When we returned from Texas, I met with my counselor and unloaded all of the questions that kept stirring in my heart. Covid had slowed our lives down considerably, but we’d ourselves to get pulled — once again — into the rip-tide of American hustle culture. In this age of unprecedented distraction, tycoons of business are paid millions and millions of dollars to find new and inventive ways to keep me tuned out, numbed out, scrolling, buying, liking, and hating.The busy-ness, the fullness. The compulsive plan-making. I wanted to do less. I wanted to feel the way I had felt then. But that was vacation and this is my real life…
Right?
She had me pull up my calendar and walk through the next week. Systematically, I canceled every plan, every desired but untenable coffee date, every well-intentioned commitment to which I simply could not remain committed. And what I felt then was utter, complete relief. What if what I need is less? A whole lot less?
Baby steps, she told me.
One foot in front of the other.
Recent Favorites
BOOK: Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. This novel tells the story of Damon (aka, Demon), a young kid from rural Virginia, the son of an addict, who finds himself lost in the foster care system, amid a rapidly changing and dangerous world. I can’t stop talking about this book — Kingsolver embodies this earnest, honest kid’s unflinching perspective. At times outright heartbreaking, this book serves as a parable, exposing just how invisible certain people are in society, and demanding that the reader stop and see. The strongest narrative voice I’ve ever encounter since I read Catcher in the Rye and met Holden Caufield. (Oh, and it won the Pulitzer.)
WATCH: The Bear, Season 2 (HULU). It’s never too late to start over. I absolutely love this show. If you haven’t watched Season One — the show follows Carmen (Carmy) Brezatto, a classically trained Michelin-star level chef who returns home to Chicago to take over the family sandwich shop after his brother’s suicide. Season Two starts with said sandwich shop in shambles, and the team trying to open a new concept — a high end concept — which seems nearly impossible for this rag-tag crew of rejects, ex-cons, divorcees, and ner-do-wells. It’s got all the elements of a heartfelt, earnest, American turnaround story. The writing is fantastic. If you only watch one episode, make it Season 2 episode 7, called Forks. You will thank me later.
One More Thing…
I am considering teaching a Fiction craft workshop with the Porch in the coming academic year. Possible topics include: The Novel Outline, Character Development for Dummies, How to Start a Daily Writing Practice That Doesn’t Suck, Writing Your First Book and Becoming Super Super Not Famous, How to Bang Your Head Against Your Word Processor Without Breaking the Computer, etc.
Really, though, if you have ideas or hopes or dreams about what we could work on together in a class-like setting, please let me know. I promise not to pour your Coke down the drain.
— Claire
Please teach a Porch class! I'd take any of those, but particularly the last one.
100% relatable. I am finding myself in these same shoes. I keep trying to keep out the unnecessary, but the battle with all the wonderful extras (friends, serving, exposing my children to many different activities, etc) is a hard one. Do less....