Air in the tires.

Standing on the side of my car, holding the handle of the gas pump, the man across from me said: “Your tires need air.” Having just suffered a financial challenge at work and a disappointing conversation with a friend, I realized my car and I had a lot in common. Perhaps you know the feeling.

We all travel, trying to get from “here” to “there,” and our tires inevitably get low. Maybe we realize it, or someone needs to point it out, but, either way, when our tires are low we need to look for air. For cars, we just need to find a pump. For us, however, it’s not as obvious, nor easy.

Working among artists, people who continually create and put their creations out for all to see, read, or hear, I’ve learned a great deal about keeping air in one’s tires. The very nature of being an artist requires the courage to be vulnerable, even though reactions of every kind come from every direction. Traveling through such emotional landscapes inevitably deflates tires. A wise teacher of creative folk suggests we keep a file of good reviews, uplifting notes or cards, to which we can return whenever bad reviews or un-kind remarks come our way. Such a file can restore one’s soul, can fill one’s tires.

The same is true for those seeking to live spiritual lives. Looking within and facing inner dragons, wrestling with challenging theological concepts, and giving of ourselves to others because of our faith leaves us susceptible to deflated tires. Like artists, we need places to go, people to whom we can turn, and time set apart to put air in our tires.

I imagine the same is true for all kinds of people. The banker who leads a division through a new initiative, the mother who juggles work and family demands, the teacher who gives everything to his students before returning to his family, the truck driver who pushes through his long drive to arrive before his children go to bed . . . all of them, all of us, need to find a way to put air back in our tires.

Our travels are exhausting, and the world only asks for more. It’s natural that extensive travel leaves tires low. The question is, what will we do when they get low?

Do we listen when someone points to our deflated tires?

Is there a file we can open, a person we can call, arms into which we can crawl?

If so, when did you last open the file, make that call, or crawl into those arms?

Fixing the Truck

“Our philosophy is grounded in the history of the school,” said the Head of School* to assembled parents. “If the truck breaks down, we learn how to fix it.”

I’ve spent most my life in schools, many of which have glorious visions and elaborate mission statements, but something about the simplicity of this school’s philosophy awakened my passion for education.

Recently, I have become aware how fancy schools have become, full of technology and educational theory, marketing plans and shiny facilities. While all of it is helpful in educating children, I am sure, I wonder if the tree of knowledge hasn’t become overgrown. The educational "toys" seem to be the tail wagging the dog, and it leaves me feeling burdened and weary. Listening to the simplicity of fixing the truck, I felt invigorated and inspired once again.

One of my favorite Headmasters told the story of rowing his boat across the lake to to get his engine fixed at the marina. He was greeted by a weathered soul, sitting off to the side smoking his pipe. After explaining the problem, the two looked at the engine and, before long, had it running again. Just then, the owner of the marina arrived, and my friend realized the man who fixed his engine was just a visitor, someone who knew nothing about boat engines. He asked the man how he'd fixed the engine, to which he replied: “Well, you seemed to think I could fix it, so I figured out how to fix it.”

Endowed with all the technology we need, the ultimate computer between our ears, I wonder if it isn’t time to unplug the others, roll up our sleeves, and learn to fix the truck?

* Brad Bates is the Head of Dublin School, a wonderful school tucked beside the mountains of New Hampshire, where children are allowed to learn to fix trucks.

The knife and stone.

It was a knife handed down three generations. To the young recipient, the gift was a connection to his past, a gateway to adulthood. It was his turn to carry it, and then, one day, pass it on to his child.

He carried the knife wherever he went and placed it on his dresser each night with the reverence of a priest, but the knife reamained in its sheaf for protection. His father reminded him it was a gift to be used, so the boy began using the knife more and more each day, always wiping the blade clean each night. Eventually, the knife became dull, and his father taught him perhaps the most important lesson of all: how to sharpen the blade.

“A blade does no good if not kept sharp,” his father began. "To sharpen it, you must rub it against stone. There are many types of stone that work, but only stone is strong enough to sharpen metal.”

As he sharpened the blade many years later, in anticipation of bestowing the knife to his child, the grown man reflected on his life. Moving the blade back and forth against the stone, he remembered the many times he, too, was sharpened against stone. Rejections from colleges, taking the wrong jobs, unhealthy friendships, being lost in self centered thinking, making mistakes, losing friends, arguments with people he loved, the death of a beloved friend, and countless other struggles (or rubs) . . .  these were the stones against which his life had sharpened. Along the way, there were many times he longed for the security of a sheaf, but he was wise enough to now know, like his knife, his life was a gift to be used. Looking back, he could see how the hardest struggles were the ones that sharpened him most.

Perhaps I should point that out when I give this, he thought, but realized it was one of those lessons learned only though experience.