The few, the humble

There are a variety of different kinds of people who become EMS providers.

During my EMT-B class, and now my EMT-I class, other training classes I've taken, the calls I've been on and the various ride-alongs I've done, I've met many of the local EMS providers.

Most of them, I have a lot of respect for. Almost all of them, really.

Each person deals with the stress in his or her own way. Far be it from me to declare which ways are appropriate and which are not. As long as the quality of patient care is high, I'm not going to argue.

Some are "trauma junkies," who really prefer the "big" calls, and get easily frustrated with some of the medical calls, and especially some of the times when there isn't really much to do for the patient other than get them to the hospital to "be checked out."

I haven't been doing this long enough for that to frustrate me.
I haven't dealt with call after call from people who really should be seeing their own doctor, but who either don't have the money or don't have the transportation to do that on their own.
I haven't seen enough drug seeking behavior to ever assume that that's what is going on.
I haven't had to get out of bed in the middle of the night in a snow storm enough times to be tired of it yet.

And I haven't seen enough of the really difficult stuff to need to have the same macabre sense of humor that some of these folks seem to have.

As a rule, the EMTs and paramedics in this county are a dedicated bunch of people, some of whom have been doing this for 20-something years. All of whom put themselves out there to help other people, whether paid or volunteer. I have to respect that.

I have found, though, that there are some of the local providers who really love what they do, above and beyond the average. Who have a calling to do this. Folks who are really good with people, who stay calm and in control during a stressful situation, and who communicate genuine caring to every patient, regardless of what the problem is. Who don't seem to get frustrated, whatever the calls they get that day.


Those are the ones I want to be like.

I'm working on it.

I'm about at the point of realizing just how much I don't know and/or can't do. How much I need to remember, and how much I need to practice.
Frustrating, in its way, but a lot better than assuming I know everything.

Begin the Beguine

The fall semester starts soon- students will be moving into their dorms this coming weekend.
This means my teaching schedule will be much busier in a couple of weeks.

This time of year, I'm always reminded of when I first started teaching.

Shortly after I expressed an interest in learning to teach, I was invited by the master to be his assistant in the university PE classes he taught.

When I started, pretty much all I did was lead the warmup. That, and watch him like a hawk.
At the time, I was not yet familiar with all his teaching techniques and stories.

Now, I know his, and have a few of my own.

I used to make lists. Lists of stories. Lists of what was covered in each class. Lists of things I wanted to remember about each topic. Lists of equipment needed for each particular class.

There is a rhythm to how he teaches.
Each class, and each lesson, has a rhythm, a flow.
Each series of classes has a plan.
There is an order underneath it all, a predictable, reliable order.
Almost a ritual, even.

It calms the mind, and focuses everyone on what we're doing. It creates a separation between the rest of the world- "before" and "after"- and "now."

From a student's perspective, everything starts with the warmup.

What I needed to learn is that it starts BEFORE the warmup.

My job, as the assistant, was to be ready for the class before I even got there, so that from the moment I walked into the room, the class would begin. Before I did or said anything- at least anything anyone would consider to BE "anything."

It took me a while to figure this out. Not a long while, but a few classes.

This was because from my perspective, still being a student myself, the class began when the MASTER arrived.

I had to learn to separate myself from the other students. To be an instructor. To command (not demand) respect.

At first, I didn't recognize the need to do this because I arrived with the master, not before him, so it was his presence that the students responded to. We would arrive together, he would greet the class, they would all focus on him, and then he would ask me to begin the warmup.

This routine was repeated in every class, whether it was the college class, or the youth class, or one of our other classes.

At some point- and I don't recall when it was- I was given my first "test."

It was the morning of one of the college classes.
I arrived early, as always, and waited for the master to arrive, so we could walk in together and begin the class.
Only he didn't.
When it was the time he usually arrived, he wasn't there.
Odd.
It got later.
Closer to the time for the class to start.

Fortunately for me, I hate being late.

So I went into the class alone.
The students, already having been trained, by repetition, in how to begin the class, simply did what they always did. They waited in the usual place, gave the usual greeting, and, when he was still not there at the time the class started, did the warmup I led, no questions asked.

So far, so good.
But what if he doesn't show up at all???

While leading the warmup, I made a plan.
A simple plan, no doubt.
But a plan.
I knew what the class needed to work on that day. Had it on one of my lists, I'm sure.
So if he didn't arrive, I would simply go on with the class after the warmup, as if we planned it that way.
Even though we didn't.

HE did.

This was a test, I learned later, to see what I would do. To see if I would take the initiative. To see if I would simply sit and wait for him to get there, not starting the class, wasting everyone's time.

He arrived, precisely timed, as I ended the warmup. Walked in, took off his shades, and continued the class as if he had been there all along.

I passed this first test.

Not so much, the second one.

How do you KNOW?

That cricket rescue reminded me of something I want to write about.


My sister is contemplating a career change. Being a very thoughtful, methodical, careful type of person, she has done a significant amount of research into this. She does many things well, even brilliantly, but making quick decisions is not on that list.

She chose a school she wanted to attend, and began the application process. It's a small school, run by two people, one of whom she spoke with, and of whom she formed a positive impression. She was quite excited about the possibility of attending this school and progressing towards her career change goal.

As it happened, she was not accepted to the school. This is a fascinating story in and of itself, that I might write about at another time.

I'm bringing it up now because it is an excellent example of how you can do tons of research, look at all sorts of information, consider things very carefully, and when it comes down to making a decision about what to do, end up being stymied by differences with one person.

If you plan to dedicate your life and your time to studying with someone, how do you KNOW when you've found the right person? How do you evaluate whether you can learn from someone? Even beyond whatever knowledge or skills they have, how do you know when their way of being, of knowing, of teaching, of learning, when their spirit, their soul, is compatible with yours?

When I chose (was chosen?) to study the sword, I based much of that decision on my impression, my perceptions of the fencing master I would be studying with, and what I thought of his ability to teach me what I wanted to know.

The thing is, at the beginning, I didn't know enough about either the sword, or about him, to be able to MAKE a rational decision. So when I first started, I was taking a lot on faith, and, quite frankly, hoping I had made a good choice, and that things would work between us in the intensity of the master/apprentice relationship.

When I first started, I was not alone. There was another student who also expressed the desire to become a teacher. We trained and worked together for quite a while.

The two of us had very, very different experiences.
Some, because we are different people, and came to the situation with different backgrounds, different strengths and weaknesses, and different goals.

But some, because we each had very different communication styles and abilities.

It turned out that she and the master were not a good match for this sort of intensity.

And it turned out that he and I ARE a good match. We work very well together, communicate very similarly, and generally see the world in at least compatible, and usually quite similar, ways.

But how do I know this?

And how did I first come to know it?

There was a moment, a very specific situation that I remember as confirming, in a concrete way, that we were on the same track.

I mentioned it to him today. He didn't remember it- which is part of the point. It was not a big deal, not a memorable event for him. It was simply an expression of who he is. I only recall it because it was the first time I saw it.

It was in the late summer.

In front of his house there is a space he uses to give lessons. It's a rectangular spot, with gravel, large enough for fencing. It is lined by railroad ties (often used as chipmunk highways), and takes up about half of his front yard.

At one end of the space, there is a small raised bed that has been home over the years to a variety of herbs and vegetables. One year there was sweet corn. One year some castor bean plants, something I had never seen before. Very interesting looking.

This particular year, there were several pumpkin plants growing there. The vines had begin to drape down over the edge and grow out into the fencing space about a foot or so.

During my lesson, at one point, as he stepped back, he inadvertently stepped on a small pumpkin tendril.

And then he did something, totally un-selfconsciously, without thinking, as if anyone would do the same thing.

He did exactly what I would have done.

He turned around and apologized to the pumpkin plant. Took a couple of steps forward, and we continued the lesson, as if apologizing, out loud, to plants, was the most normal, natural thing to do.

That I think it IS, is how I knew I had made the right choice.

So far, I think it has worked out pretty well.

quite cricket, actually

The first time I heard it, I wasn't really paying attention.
Then I saw it, and still, didn't really recognize what I was seeing.
But the third time, one of the commentators said something, and I suddenly realized what was going on.

The "bug squad" at the Olympics.
Several times now, a woman with a large net has gone out on the beach volleyball sand court to rescue a cricket and carry it to safety.

Coming from a fencing salle where we regularly stop fencing bouts to rescue ladybugs or spiders, I think that's just fabulous!!

Safety Dance

Risk a lot to save a lot.
Risk a little to save a little.
Risk nothing to save nothing.

Words to live by when fighting fire, no question.

But what about other things?

People often talk about the "risk/benefit ratio." As if we can calculate every risk and make a rational decision.


I've been thinking about risk this week, while watching the Olympics.

I love the Olympics.
Some of it, anyway.

I love the concept of people all over the world who train to become the very best at what they do, getting together with other people from all over the world, who do the same thing. Temporarily, at least, a culture of excellence, instead of the usual excuse-making. A place and time where there is not that absurd popular habit of whining and complaining.

In every Olympics I've seen, there have been those moments where an athlete has stepped up and done something unexpected, overcome adversity, and, for a brief shining moment, brought the world's attention to the power of sheer heart.

Mary Lou Retton comes to mind.

A couple of nights ago, in one of the qualifying heats of one of the swim events, there was a young woman who mystified the commentators by swimming her heart out, even though she only needed to place to get into the next round. While they were questioning why on earth she would work so hard, instead of "saving herself" for the finals, she broke the world record.

Gotta love it.

It got me thinking.

People put a lot of thought into that risk/benefit thing. As if the optimal situation would be no risk, all benefit.

I don't think so.

I think that without risk, there is no benefit.

It's about risk. Taking chances. Giving it all you've got. Putting yourself out there.

And yeah.

Going for the Gold.

You can't win if you don't play. If you want something, you have to go get it- ain't no one going to give it to you.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Safe" may not be the best place to live after all.

A paradox, that.

Emergency services personnel frequently tell each other to "stay safe."
And they mean it.

Perhaps because they, more than anyone, know there's no such thing.

The fluidity and comfort of answers

When I started this blog, I made a list of topics I knew I wanted to write about. On the list is "the fluidity and comfort of answers."

I have no idea what I meant by that.
Too bad, since it sounds like such a great topic.

Most people don't like questions, but they sure love answers. They spend a lot of time wanting to KNOW something, to really know it, no questions, no doubts. (Not necessarily to understand, but that's a different subject...)

When I was very young, I used to envy the Pope because, I thought, he was the one person on the planet who really, truly KNEW whether there is a God, because he had a direct line, so to speak, and could talk directly to God. Everyone else could believe, but they couldn't KNOW. (I know. Lots of people argue with this belief. I don't need to hear those arguments. I was four years old when I had this train of thought, so give it a rest, okay?)

But what if what the Pope knew was that the whole thing about his being able to talk to God was a scam?

Ouch.

Maybe sometimes, it's better not to know.

Like my attic.

I haven't looked in the attic since our house fire. I don't know whether the cleaning company tossed everything that was up there, or whether it's still there, and if so, what condition it is in. A whole lot of smoke went up and out through there, so probably, anything in the way was at least severely smoke damaged.

There was a lot of stuff up there. Old toys- lots of lego, for instance. A box of photographic negatives. Several storage containers of quilting fabric. The hand tooled leather covered "hope chest" that was my high school graduation present.

Nothing I couldn't live without. But some things with sentimental value.

I haven't looked because as long as I DON'T look, I don't KNOW if it has all been destroyed, so in my mind, it can all still be there, undamaged.

Kind of like Schrodinger's Attic.

I have been tempted, but so far, have not given in.

What else don't I want to know?

I don't want to know what certain people really think of me.
I don't want to know what secrets my kids keep from me.
I don't want to know the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow...

One of my personal mantras has long been "people who snoop find out things they don't want to know."

Having so much that I don't want to know leaves room for the things I DO want to know.

But even those things, I understand that it might not be possible to know.

Someone asked the master recently if he ever gives a straight answer.
He didn't give her one.

It's true, he rarely does.

And yet...
often, whatever answer he gives, although it may not be possible for me to understand it at the time as a "straight answer," turns out later to have been the simplest, most straightforward, answer it was possible to give. The literal truth, but so masked by my own viewpoint that I couldn't see it.

So much of the "straight" in a "straight answer" has to do with the receiver's perspective.

Like how a line on a map showing the most direct route to somewhere does not always look straight.

I have often been amused by how obvious the answer was, later, when I could see it.

It's a lot like the FedEx logo.
Once you see the arrow between the "E" and the "x" you can never "unsee" it.

Go look.

I dare you.

FedEx

'tis a gift

Learning is an interesting thing.

Much has been written about teaching, but not nearly as much about learning.

I don't recall any time spent in any school I've ever gone to that was dedicated to teaching anyone HOW to learn.

If this culture wasn't so messed up, that might be legitimate.
Babies don't need to be taught how to learn. Learning is what they do, totally focused and un-selfconsiously.

Come to think of it, my kids haven't ever needed to be taught how to learn, either.
But then, they've never gone to school, either.


I did.

And although the elementary school I went to from 2nd to 6th grade was an awesome place, indeed, and I started junior high with a somewhat different mindset than average, apparently, somewhere along the way, I picked up some bad habits that I've had to struggle to overcome.

The most obvious one, the one I see all the time, is the "teach to the test" syndrome, where classes are taught only in order to enable the students to pass a test. In return, the students, more often than not, study and regurgitate only what is needed to pass the test, and remember it for about that long. For example, how much do you remember from your high school classes? If you took those final exams right now, today, would you pass them?

Didn't think so.

Since a lot of the stuff taught in those high school classes has relatively little, or sometimes no, real world importance, that's not a huge problem.

But lately, I've seen it in classes where I would hope that the students really want to understand and be able to apply the subject matter. EMT classes, for example. There seems to be about a 50/50 split, from my limited experience, of people who really want to know, and those who needed the certification for one reason or another, but were not particularly interested in the subject. They just wanted to pass.

This is a hazard with any class that has a certification exam. OFTEN, the teaching is geared to that exam. People need to pass it.

It's a scary thought.

The other school-induced learning disability I see often- and I'm not immune- is where people who normally find most subjects to require relatively little effort to "pass," don't usually expend the extra effort required to MASTER the subject. And, when they find themselves up against something that is difficult, they don't have the skills required to be able to meet the challenge. They've never had to work that hard to learn anything before.

This, among other things, is what I find enormously appealing about fencing.

When I first started fencing, I was in that category of people who had not really found anything difficult to learn before. What I didn't realize, and therefore, didn't expect, is that while I was very good at intellectual learning, I had very little practice with physical learning. And understanding how to do something, and being able to actually do it, are two very different things.

In other words, it seriously kicked my butt.

And I loved it.

It forced me to learn how to learn in ways I had never had to experience before.

For one thing, I had to learn to allow myself to have difficulty with something, without giving up. I had to appreciate learning as a process rather than as something that just "happened." Perhaps most difficult of all, I had to learn to accept guidance from someone else, rather than being able to figure it out myself.

I've seen this issue with suddenly finding something difficult manifest in two distinct ways, and I wish I had the time and energy necessary to do a serious study of this. I find it fascinating.

Category one is where I started out. At the very beginning of trying something new, I had trouble. A lot of trouble. Finding this a novel experience, and having it happen right at the start of something, I accepted it as part of this new thing- fencing- and every step I took, every bit of progress I made felt like an accomplishment, which was enormously rewarding. So I stuck with it long after I might have given up, struggled through frustration, and here I am today, still learning.

I have had several students who have also been in this category. They tend to continue for a long time- often until they move away, or for some other reason are unable to continue. Most of them do not just quit, or disappear. They keep in touch after they move away. This is so predictable that I particularly enjoy having students who have tremendous difficulty as beginners.

Category two is less common.
These are the people who DON'T find it difficult at first. Like everything else they've ever tried, it's pretty easy. It might require physical effort, a hard workout, but they pick things up quickly and easily, without the bouts of frustration that seemingly plague the category one people. They progress quickly, and greatly enjoy what they are learning. These are the people that some people might view as "naturals" or gifted in some way. Often, they ARE academically gifted, if you want to call it that.

But then...
eventually, they hit that place where it suddenly isn't easy anymore.
Because they hit it after months or even years of finding fencing easy, they don't understand what has just happened. It sucks the joy right out of them. They are, generally, unable to make the shift to appreciating the difficulty.
And they quit. Abruptly.
It's not "fun" anymore.

I have had several of these students, too.
They do not keep in touch. They disappear.

I would love to see studies done on this phenomenon. I've seen it primarily in the limited area of learning to fence. Is it consistent across other fields of study? I think it might be.

If so, then perhaps being "gifted" is not always such a gift.
Maybe it's better to have to work for things.

Hmmm.
I sound like my mother.