Strains and Drains and Letting Go

Ufta. It's the end of a looooong finals week, and today was particularly draining--partially because all I had to eat through most of the day were the sugary treats I bought for my class taking its final.

The other reason--the main reason--for the drain involved some difficult meetings with a student in crisis. I can't go into detail, even in this semi-anonymous environment. Suffice it to say this student is facing a potentially life-altering (even life-ending) challenge and is understandably unclear about how she'll deal with it. It's affected her work in classes this semester, and we (the faculty) have been forced to make various difficult decisions to protect the student as best we can as she faces her problem....

...or doesn't. Given the magnitude of the crisis facing her, the student has thus far made the decision not to do anything, convinced that she should continue to enjoy her life as best she can while ignoring the problem at hand. Her past experience (i.e., relatives facing similar situations) has convinced her that any proactive response on her part may just make the situation worse. She seems hopeless and resigned.

The emotional drain from today came from a small meeting between the student and the handful of her professors (me included) that know about her crisis. We had made the difficult decision--on the basis of the student's crisis and its apparent impact on her studies--that she should withdraw from extracurricular activities (i.e., productions) for a time. This is hard news for any theatre person, especially as theatre serves as a release, an escape, for many. But using theatre as that kind of escape does disservice both to the craft and to the people who practice it. The crisis would only get worse, and its impact would eventually affect any production she participated in. Thus we made the choice to enforce a pause.

All of us were worried how the student would take the news. All of us were worried just what we could say, what we could do. In such a situation, you (and I'm doing what I tell my students never to do, using you in a general sense) want to take the student and say, "You need to take X, Y, and Z step right now to address this problem before it becomes any worse." You want to argue with them, break down their defenses and convince them--batter them, if need be--into doing what you know is necessary.

But you can't. College students are adults; this student has the right to do whatever she wants--including ignore the problem. No matter how wise we think ourselves, theatre professors aren't gods. Heck, we aren't even psychologists. Who are we to tell someone how to navigate a personal crisis? Past asking whether there's an immediate danger to self or others (there is not), we can only listen.

So the meeting today consisted of the few of us cautiously probing, explaining, reassuring, trying to listen, and encouraging--all while reminding the student and ourselves that the student alone wields the power to decide on a next step.

I've been on multi-mile-long runs that were less exhausting than just sitting there, mostly being silent, exuding as much love and care and concern and support as possible, ever-sensitive to seeming too bossy or know-it-all, telling a student that we'll support her decision even though we desperately want her to do X or Y to save herself.

The strain of stepping back, of letting go, when the stakes are so high is extreme--not, of course, as extreme as the student's strain. It's tricky: you have to show that your hands are extended to support the student while making sure that you're not coercing the student down a path she may not want or be ready to take. I suppose it's a bit like a parent teaching a child to ride a bike. You run alongside the bike as the kid pedals, keeping a firm hand on the back of the bikeseat to make sure it doesn't topple. But eventually you have to let go, accepting the fact the the risk of falling must be the child's to face. Your job shifts from "keep him from falling" to "be there to cheer when he rides or to comfort when he falls."

I suppose (and here I exhibit my mother's tendency to insert God as cheesily as possible into a scenario), this is the position my faith imagines God as taking--letting go of God's children, giving them a space to fall or stand, to choose wisely or unwisely, even as God knows the stakes involved. And, similarly, I believe God is there to cheer our successes and join us in times of failure or (in this case) random disaster.

When I was young, I used to ask my father all the time what super power he would have if he could choose. He'd inevitably give the same answer: a magic wand that could make problems disappear. Boy howdy do I want that wand. It would make this letting go thing easier.

I wonder if God--God the Omnipotent Almighty Everlasting--wants a wand, too.'

More tomorrow,

JF