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Three
Teachers Looking back over 60 years the other day, three good teachers and their lessons returned in quick succession: Jimmy, the bear, and Monica. Jimmy. Freckled and living next door, Jimmy was my best friend from ages 3 through 8, until he went off to Catholic school and our daily worlds diverged. Jimmy and I never argued. When we would join up to play together outdoors (which is where we nearly always played), Jimmy would suggest an idea for what to do. If I didn't like that idea, it was my turn to suggest something to do. If he didn't like that idea, it was his turn again, and so on until one of us had an idea that sounded good to both of us. We walked downtown to swim in the local public pool; buried treasure to dig it up the same day a year later; read comic books; rolled around the neighborhood on metal skates clamped onto our shoes; built tents with covers, ropes and clothespins; and hung from my backyard jungle gym. Sometimes we joined other neighborhood kids to play in the street, but it was Jimmy and I who daily appeared in each other's yard to holler when it was time to come out and play. I was astonished in kindergarten when a girl named Patty, whom I thought was a friend, would be nice one day and mean the next. But Patty came too late. From Jimmy, I had already learned with whom to hang out for friends as well as the best way to make decisions with others: Keep sharing ideas until one that works for all comes up.
The Bear. When I first started backpacking, I loved the days, but the nights were my nemesis: Bears might come. One night in a campground before a Sierra Nevada Mountains trip, my long-feared bear materialized in a nearby campsite. Someone had left bacon within reach. There was commotion, yelling, flashlights. "Uh-oh, O'B," I warned my husband. "I left marshmallows out on the table. Can you go put them in the car?" (Just what I thought I was going to do if the bear got O'B isn't clear.) O'B got out of our double sleeping bag and retrieved the marshmallows, but he was having trouble opening the trunk down at the car. Meanwhile, I burrowed into the sleeping bag to avoid what was happening. Then I felt O'B pushing at my side of the sleeping bag. I peeled back the top of the bag to see why he was getting mixed up. The bear was looking down at me. She had been pushing the sleeping bag with her nose. "OK, Mary," I told myself, "for once, stay quiet." I moved out from under the looming head, sat up, looked at her; she looked at me, then turned and ambled off. O'B returned in time to see a bear disappearing into the nearby shrubbery. I had learned a good lesson that night: Not all bears want to eat you up. I have slept well outdoors ever since.
Monica. Monica is co-director of the North American office of an international environmental organization. For 10 years I served on its board, and over the years we worked in common with numerous people. Some few of these I didn't like and detested one or two. But Monica seemed to move with equanimity among all. "So, Monica," I would ask, "tell me why I shouldn't be annoyed by [this or that person]." Or, "I don't like [this or that person]. Tell me what's good about her." And Monica would tell me. It always had to do with recognizing some helpful role that person plays; some admirable quality possessed; some point of view I could well consider. I eventually learned how to think more like Monica, and life (like Sierra Nevada nights) became just that much more comfortable. I think it would be good if our president would ask some wise person why he shouldn't hate citizens, democracy, and people who live on top of oil far away. Mary O'Brien of Eugene has worked as a public interest scientist since 1981. She can be reached at mob@efn.org
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