MR. OHLY: 7th grade

I believe I went to school for so many years of my life just to meet Mr. Ohly. By the time we met in the seventh grade, I had already sat through over 7,000 hours at one desk or another. I "did" those hours because I believed I had to. Later, after I had completed more years of college, I stopped to wonder one day, "what was all that about?"

I believe it was the meeting of Mr. Ohly, a 7th grade teacher. All the other years of sitting, listening, and reporting back a variety of facts, were the background context for his gift to me. A gift I felt at the time, yet only fully appreciated many years later.

For only a few seconds, Mr. Ohly put his warm large hand on my shoulder as I sat at my desk doing an assignment. It was the kind of touch that is filled with recognition, kindness, encouragement, and the "you are OK just the way you are, love." I didn't know that in my mind then. I didn't have words.

As he moved to the next person in front of me, his hand shifting from my shoulder to the shoulder of the girl in front of me, my eyes watered, and my head went down automatically to hide the tears. Had I felt safe to feel completely, I would have cried. I knew it then and I
knew I would have been embarrassed and even been made fun of. I was not ready for that.

So, instead, I had quiet tears. A silent voice inside me whispered, "he likes me. He just likes me."

NOT TOO SENSITIVE

My friend, Sara, a mother of two children, recently told me that as a little girl, she was told she was "too sensitive... and made too much of things." As we walked, she shared how she came to
believe it...and often made herself wrong for "sensing and feeling" things that others did not, or at best, did not notice.

She wondered what she could do to "not" be so sensitive, to not feel things so deeply, and to just be "like everyone else."

As a little girl, she noticed when people were being nice instead of honest. How adult voices changed when talking to children. How her stomach ached a bit when she thought she was not being told the whole truth. She blamed herself for even noticing these things. "It seems that so many people around me are pretending, hiding; afraid to reveal who they are inside, and what they are seeing or feeling. I am too."

Sara's story matched mine, and many people I have known, "Instead of the label Too sensitive," I suggested, without knowing what I was about to say, "You have a gift of exquisite sensitivity;
the ability and willingness to feel deeply. You get to notice the background, unspoken, unexpressed, truth of things. Medicine women, Shamans, and often people mentally diagnosed, have this skill and gift, and they too are often marginalized or dismissed."

Sara smiled, open for the first time, to the possibility that she may not be wrong or a bad person. "But...but...but what do I do with this so-called gift if it causes others to be critical of me, or roll their eyes?" We were both silent. The kind of silence that comes naturally just before a revelation.

"I know," Sara said, "If my exquisite sensitivity is a gift, and I believe it is, then I can simply practice being respectful of others, especially children, I can take seriously the things my children say that often sound silly or obvious. I might ask them another question. I can be more sensitive to their perception of how they see the world. I can give to them what I would have wanted, and want right now. I can even honor myself for thoughts that seemingly make no sense." She paused. "I sound like some wise woman, don't I? Hmmmm....I am."