Doubt

Doubt slides over me

Like a sleek silk scarf

Slipping cross my eyes

Diffusing visions once familiar

Coiling round my neck

It tightens

I hold my breath,

For even breathing

Proves unnatural

Now still,

All traces of doubt dive underground

Undetectable

I can see, I think

I can think, I see

Until I breathe

A tickle

A presence persistent

Ah ha!  There you are

I think

I’m going through a rough time right now.  I’m breaking in a new pair of resale jeans.  It’s not going well.  Out in public, people look right past me.  Their eyes land instead on younger women in skinny jeans with the cuffs rolled up to show their stylish boots. Their layers of shirts and vests and sweaters that look haphazard and slopped on are clearly well thought out.

Really, the thing is, I’m filled with self-doubt and feeling inadequate because I’m letting some recent interactions pull me down.  I’m disappointed by how easily this happened.  I feel like I’ve been struck with an injury, like a kick in the shin, and I limp tearfully into my day.  It’s amazing how I’m kneading in past injuries so that the hurt bubbles and swells like a rising, fermenting ball of sour dough.  I guess I’ve been in the rising phase for the past couple of days. 

This week I was told how inadequate I am.  And I became so.  My anger was nearly uncontrollable.  My words were thoughtless.  My rage pulled the rug out from under my feet and I felt like I’d made no progress as a grown up in the past six years.  I carry self-doubt with me and crumble easily when someone looks at me the wrong way.  I’m still bubbling with anger.  It reminds me of a sour experience a few years ago when I let someone else determine who I was.

One of my fellow teachers had decided it was her place to tell me my faults.  “Can I tell you where I find fault with you, Ms. Leghorn?” she said during class.  She’d never really been this straight forward.  Usually her criticisms were couched in jokes, so I could laugh and pretend along with her that she didn’t really mean it when she called me a “prima dona” or a “slack-off” because I wouldn’t grade all the students’ papers.  But this time there was no hiding behind humor while she pointed out my errors. “You had your back turned to the students for the past ten minutes.” She imitated my position as she continued. “Never mind that you have a class of twenty-five students in the room.”  It was true.  After I circulated the room, while she graded a this-just-in paper with her head down, but facing the class, I decided to get a jump on determining what we’ll read next week.  While she circulated with students, I bent over the book and jotted some page numbers for four or five minutes.  So, yes, it was true.  I had nothing to say when she decided to point out my deficit. 

I took this interaction all over the place. 

I defended myself: I do know how to use my physical positioning in the classroom.  I’m the one who gets the students on track and blah, blah, blah.

I attacked my enemy: Hey, Black Kettle.  Yeah, that’s right.  I’m talking to you. There are many ways to turn your back on students like when you blah, blah, blah.

I whipped out wicked words in warfare, all willy-nilly, without wit: wormy weasel; wavering weakling; wanking wimp!   

I slipped into despair: I’m a lousy teacher.  She’s going to spread the word and tell everyone what I’ve done. I’m not only a lousy teacher, I’m a lousy human being.  I’m untrustworthy and selfish, with frizzy hair and jowls and my new jeans sag in the butt.

I slouched through the rest of that week, sloppy but without thoughtful arrangement.

Remembering that experience this morning is loosening the squeeze of doubt around my neck and I can breathe a little more freely. At the time, two very precious tools helped me.  The first tool was service.  I had forgotten one of my most important roles as a co-teacher; I’m supposed to be a trustworthy, supporting partner.  I don’t want to be a color blind black kettle.  Whether this co-teacher had ever heard me complain about her or not, I have.  I even slipped once and joked about her with the students.  Never mind that she’d done that to me many times in front of the class.  I remembered that onions cry too and that she was most likely coming from a place of pain when she burned me.  As soon as I located that role again in my mind, that place of service, I felt a peace flow through me, then and now.  I feel good about myself when I act as a caring, supporting, building up kind of gal.  If I knead with love and effort and vision, I can be the person I want.  John Ruskin said, “The question is not what a man can scorn, or disparage, or find fault with, but what he can love, and value, and appreciate.” 

The other tool that I can employ is reaching out to friends who love me and know me as a growing human being with faults, friends who appreciate my efforts and my generosity.  I have a bank of experiences to fall back and bounce on, times when I was enjoyed, loved, valued.  Thank goodness I have that warm, doughy cushion to help support me.  If I remember I’m a spiritual being striving for a deeper understanding, that I will fail and try again, maybe I can keep my ego out of the mix and be proactive rather than reactive. I can spread some sweet honey on top of this bubbling mess.  I may even go out later and hunt down a new pair of jeans that show off my petite seat. 

But for now, it’s time to stay in and bake some lovely orange cardamom scones.  I’m working on not going sour today.

Orange Cardamom Scones

I’m going to half this recipe before I perfect it.  You might want to too.  This makes 16 scones, 16 too many if you mess up, which, if you’re human, you’re likely to do. Then you be the judge of whether you've done a good job or not; no one else should define you.

3 c. unbleached flour

¾ c. sugar

4 t. baking powder

1 t. cardamom

1 t. salt

1 c. chopped pecans

½ c. cold butter

½ c. buttermilk

¼ c. fresh orange juice

¾ t. orange extract

Combine all the dry ingredients, including nuts.  Chop in butter until you have a course consistency.  Don’t overdo it.  Slowly add the buttermilk, juice and extract all together, a little at a time.  Use only enough to make the dough hold together but not so much that it becomes it sticky.  Shape into round or cut into 16 triangular scones.  Bake at 350 degrees for 15 to 20 minutes, until a little brown on the bottom and very lightly brown on top.  If you want a little more sweetness in your life, combine honey, a sprinkle of cardamom and a splash of orange extract to spread on top.