Lab's Memorial Gathering: In Leslie's "Element"

I love the work of Sir Ken Robinson, and especially his book "The Element."  A person's "Element" is the intersection of one's skill and one's passion, and he profiles and celebrates those who are fortunate enough to have found theirs.

Robinson devotes a chapter to the importance of finding like-minded people with whom to share and develop your skill and reinforce your passion.  Last week's memorial gathering at Lab School was a moving reminder that Leslie had found her Element, and had both found and built a community with her colleagues.

Caroline and Emily and I entered the school with a bit of trepidation.  We'd been promised "appropriate whimsy," but we were also walking into a room full of other grieving people, with a high probability of "tilted heads" (the traditional "you poor thing" posture)  We needn't have feared; entering Judd 126 was like walking into a loving embrace.

At the rear of the room hung two posters with "Did You Know…" facts about Leslie contributed by fellow teachers.  The range was magnificent - recollections of her staunch advocacy for the teachers' bargaining rights, but also that she made amazing pickles.  One teacher described how Leslie was an "ace" hockey player who held her hand when they took the students skating; another recalled a quote, "I know how you feel about rats, but could you please reach behind my head and get her claws free."


   

Around those posters were several sheets with "petals" in a "Garden of Love" - remembrances from students.  On the table were packets and boxes of flower seed, so that everyone might take some and make the world more beautiful (a theme to return later).

Perhaps most charming, so that everyone might take home a rat, one teacher had made 200 chocolate rats (dark, milk and Norway?)!

 

Fellow teachers spoke, with common themes of sharp intellect applied with gentle touch, speaking truth to power to hold the school to its high standards and reputation, and eagerness to help with any task, event or problem.

In the week before the memorial, I'd selected photos of Leslie to be used in a slide show.  That process actually felt renewing, revisiting everything from our wedding to the girls' birth, vacations to celebrations. Seeing the photos dissolve one into the next, though, over Warren Zevon's "Keep Me In Your Heart" (a song he wrote while terminally ill), evoked a sweet and sad welling up, and I squeezed the girls' hands tight on either side of me.



During the rug time that Leslie used to start or end class, she offered her students time to give or receive a "compliment."  At the memorial, the 5th grade teachers debuted a warmly wonderful work-in-progress video of Leslie's last class of students' compliments for "Ms. Hornig" - remembering favorite curriculum elements, crediting her for their ongoing interest in science, or recalling a moment where she'd recognized something they'd done.  (The Beanie Babies in this photo were passed around, and you couldn't speak until you held a Beanie.)

What I most noted - both as a kids TV analyst and channeling Leslie's eye for developmentally appropriate practice - was how the teachers gave the kids time and space to speak:  they weren't perfect, they weren't rushed, they weren't programmed…they were themselves.

Brilliantly, and in keeping with the day's garden theme, the formal program closed with a YouTube animation of "Miss Rumphius," one of Leslie's and our girls' favorite children's books.  

 

It had been so long since I'd read the book (bedtime after bedtime) that I'd forgotten Miss Rumphius' three life goals, and how perfectly they paralleled what gave Leslie joy and meaning, and were fundamental to her finding her "Element": 

to travel the world
            

  

to live by the sea, and

to make the world
more beautiful.

Mother's Day

The day that Leslie was accepted for graduate school, she was given a fellowship that, once offered, was non-transferable.  The next day, we found out she was pregnant with Caroline.  Soon after, we sat down with the then-chair of the Evolutionary Biology program at the University of Chicago and informed him, with trepidation, about this development.

He lit up with a smile and said, "we're biologists - this is what's supposed to happen!  This is good!"

Fortunately, the fellowship (and graduate school) could be deferred a year, and what happened the following November - Caroline - and again four Novembers later - Emily - was indeed very, very good.

I'm not sure that anyone is a "natural parent"; surely, we all look at this tiny thing in our arms and think, "shouldn't you need a license before getting one of these" or perhaps, "it's going OK so far, but I have no idea how to deal with a six-month-old" (year-old…two-year-old…schoolchild…teen…and so on).


Leslie came as close as possible, though.  At the very least, as with everything in her life, she was a voracious parent (not to be confused with the "attachment parent" currently sparking uproar from the cover of "Time").  Beyond her own beliefs, she surrounded herself with other capable and creative parents, and eagerly modeled from those whose approach she admired, and she read parenting books but tweezed apart the brilliance from the bullshit.

Mostly, though, her analytical eye recognized when something wasn't right, her logical mind parsed what the roots might be, and her loving heart guided her response.  When the girls struggled, she found them the help they needed, and it is fully to her credit (plus their understanding, determination and resilience) that they became the strong, thoughtful and compassionate young women they are today.

 
I was traveling at the time.

I don't say this flippantly, or to fish for compliments.  One of my few regrets is the number of the kids' events I missed because of my work, but even so, the mother's eye is unique and irreplaceable.  Timothy Egan, in a blog for the New York Times today, captures the essence of losing a mother, and the gaps I can't fill:

…[you] lose the true keeper of your memories, your triumphs, your losses. Your mother is a scrapbook for all your enthusiasms. She is the one who validates and the one who shames, and when she’s gone, you are alone in a terrible way.

When Leslie began teaching, her mothering experience was a large part of her qualification.  Even as she gained more knowledge about learning and development, the brain and emotions, she never stopped using her mother's eye and heart in figuring out what a student needed.  Since she died, so many of the comments from parents of former students noted how she saw their individuality and their best selves shining out from beneath whatever challenges they had.

I miss Leslie terribly today - Mother's Day - though it helps that I'm spending the day with my mother.  Emily and Caroline may be mostly grown, but that doesn't mean they need a mother any less, today or into the future (including when, perhaps, they become mothers themselves).

Colorblind and taste-challenged, I lack the qualities even for the superficial - they'll need to take girlfriends along when they need to "Say Yes to the Dress" (a guilty pleasure they introduced me to and, arguably, one where the bar for quality mothering is pretty darn low).

Fortunately, I paid enough attention that I have a reserve of Leslie's wisdom to call on as needed, for less-sartorial, more substantive counseling.  Even more, the girls and I are blessed to have loving surrogates - friends and family - ready and willing to lend a hand, an eye, an ear, a shoulder.  I've never been so thankful for the village it takes to raise a child…or even a young adult.

You never outgrow needing Mom.

Routines and Incantations

Many people have asked how I'm doing, and the answer is…OK.  So many good friends are keeping me busy with evening invitations, but I'm also getting time to acclimate to the quiet in the house.  I still have frequent thoughts of "I have to tell Leslie about that," and as I putter around the house I've found myself imagining that I need to keep it clean for when Leslie returns.

I'm starting to forge my own routines.  While I'm not ready to begin any major projects, I have done some minor sorting and organizing - cleaning up papers (in part to find ones I need), moving some of Leslie's clothes to another closet and spreading out my own, putting together a box of left-over medical supplies in the hope of finding a clinic that can use them.

I'm excited for Emily coming home at the end of this week, though I'm already feeling guilty about the number of trips I have scheduled over the summer.  I expect she'll be well looked after by her friends and their families, and I'm eager to re-immerse myself in work, to see great friends and colleagues, and especially to watch and debate outstanding TV at the international children's TV festival.

--

Among the best gifts Leslie gave me - and our daughters were equal contributors - is the love of dance.  We started attending the Joffrey's performances when the girls each performed in the children's cast of their "Nutcracker," but soon we became subscribers and fairly regular at Hubbard Street and River North, too.

No one was more surprised than I was, when I found myself seeking out ballet performances as I traveled.  I shared a magic evening of Balanchine at NYCB with a British colleague, and snuck out of a conference in Germany to hop a train to Stuttgart, where I lucked my way into a sold-out performance.

Leslie joined an online discussion board for dance aficionados and another for parents of dancers.  There, she happily encountered people who became amazing friends in real life, including her first mentor on learning and the brain when she became a teacher.  Of course, on that board she also played out the side of herself so many people wrote about in recollections of Leslie - the propensity to speak truth and not suffer fools gladly, sometimes to less salubrious reception.

Love of dance also grew from afternoons, evenings and years at the dance studio, where the kids made a second home; where Leslie extended her flexibility, fitness and grace; and of course, where we returned annually for our turn in the "Nutcracker."

All this is a long preface to my having attended my first Joffrey performance without Leslie, last Sunday.  It was a program she would have loved, a realization that kept taking me out of the moment and into memories.

At the ballet, Leslie and I often referred to pieces as being, or not being, our "cup of dance."   I don't have Leslie's vocabulary or depth of understanding, but the opening two pieces - Age of Innocence by Edwaard Liang, In the Night by Jerome Robbins - were very much her "cup."  Each was by turns lyrical and romantic, then athletic and bold, spare in setting to keep focus on the dancers, and - this was Leslie's absolute favorite - suddenly coalescing from chaos into unison.

Any program is a win, as well, if it features a pas de deux with Victoria Jaiani and Fabrice Calmels (who Sun-Times dance critic Hedy Weiss describes as "a giant of a man who flies across the stage with the freedom of a great eagle").

The third piece, a world premiere called "Incantations," was more difficult for me.  It was described in the program in yogic terms, as one extended breath, and by another reviewer as a "tantric swirl of beauty."  It had extraordinary unexpected partnering (my favorite thing - moments that appear headed toward one movement but resolve uniquely instead).

The stabs came from the way in which the piece, energetic and open at first, gradually spun in smaller circles into a tiny spotlight, then stopped.  While not the theme of the dance (to the extent my dance deconstruction abilities understood it), the slowing, pause, and ending was just too reminiscent of Leslie's peaceful passing, too soon.

Lab School Midway Obit

I thought I had posted this when it came out earlier this week, but apparently not.  The student reporter for the Lab Schools' newspaper did just a stellar job of memorializing Leslie.  The recollections of students and faculty are unique from what I wrote or what the Tribune ran; even I gained new insight into how Leslie was viewed at school.

I mailed this to family, and posted it on Facebook, and there is much acclaim for the idea of placing brass rats around the school.  I hope it comes to pass!

I'll post an update on life here soon.