The gift of connection from Klingenstein's Head of School Program

Last January I was selected to be part of the Klingenstein Heads of Schools Program at Teachers College, Columbia University.  It’s been a year since that adventure ended in a restaurant on the west side of Central Park, and recently there haven’t been many days that I don’t think fondly about the experience or of one of the 18 Heads of School I was so fortunate to get to know. 

Before we left New York we gathered our contacts into a chat group so that we could stay connected between Vietnam and Argentina, between Singapore and Philadelphia, between Pakistan, Ecuador and California.  Every once in a while, something chimes forward to our group, a shared article, a celebratory acknowledgment, a personal loss or professional problem, a request for advice or information – each one a gift of connection and reminder of the power of the work we undertake and the friendships we formed in the short two-week time in a big beautifully imposing city.

Shadows and light, Broadway Avenue, upper west side NYC

Connections built in part on long walks in the cold of winter as our feet pounded the cement sidewalks along Broadway Avenue. The conversations lifting us up, helping us process our day, and building bridges across schools, cultures and countries.  As we left our cocoon of the hallways of Teachers College each evening and turned our phones back on, the real-world streamed forcefully in like a raging river overwhelming the banks of our consciousness. Mass firings, destruction of long serving agencies and attacks on immigrant populations -- each piece of news flowed at us and over us differently.  Some moments were personal affecting our loved ones and our families, and some moments were professional affecting our faculty and students.  And each moment centered us back into the difficulty of doing the job we most love: leading a community forward.

A lonely bike in the snow

I think it is those walks that I miss most of all.  Never has 3 miles felt so effortless, or so welcomed an undertaking.  Most mornings I walked alone, after stopping for coffee and a breakfast sandwich at Zabar’s, I would settle into sounds and scenes of a city coming to life as I covered the 45 blocks between our hotel and Teachers College.  On the return someone was always up for the journey back to the hotel, skipping the subway stops along the way, braving the cold and the oncoming darkness of a winter afternoon.  Listening to my peers sharing about their lives and their schools, witnessing their grace and gratitude, as they processed what we learned and our reactions to the world, was wonderful to be part of each day.  For 2 weeks there was a rhythm and a routine, a drum beat calling us forward to the next meaningful experience. 

Walking the kids to school, Upper West Side

This connection to a group of people through a carefully crafted set of shared experiences might be the single greatest gift that I received as a Klingenstein fellow.  For two weeks I was thrown back into the world of big ideas, expansive conversation, and expertly facilitated discussion. I was inspired by their stories and struggles, by their humility and honesty, as I got to know these 18 school heads from around the country and around the world.

Some of these incredible people off on an adventure downtown

I’ve returned to walking each morning.  I’m alone, on a treadmill in my garage, but there is a solidarity and purpose in my actions that connects me again to these people and our collective work in schools.  The chaos of the darkened world outside is kept at bay as I strike forward in that comforting and familiar rhythm. I begin each day continuing my journey of leadership that I was so fortunate to share.

Lately, there doesn’t seem to be much relief from the darkness creeping through our country but these connections bring me a little bit of hope for a new dawn, and for that I am eternally grateful.

A new day, Columbia University

Fly Fishing, Friendship, and a Fish to talk about

I think that there is a great deal of chance in what binds people together. The decisions we make, both big and small, gift us with the people who will end up part of our lives. Where all relationships seem to have the same chance of success in the beginning, I have found that the ones that last share two important qualities: working to stay connected and sharing a passion.

Fortunately, my fishing crew Rich, Jeff, and Ross fit this description and the experiences we shared on and off the water have given me lots of time and opportunity to reflect on what’s most important to me.

The four of us all started fly fishing separately. Rich and Jeff have the most years under their belts and the deepest connection exploring the waters of Western Maine. It was nearly 10 years ago that some twist of fate brought us all together at Black Fly camp on the fabled Rapid River in Northwestern Maine. Ross was the last to join the group and the most youthful. Jeff, Rich and I had known each other pretty well in our mid 20’s. We attended each other’s weddings, shared the joys of starting our families together, and then over time life kind of got in the way and we drifted apart. As our children have moved on, we’ve reconnected through our love of fly fishing and learned that this time apart was easily forded like a rapid in the cool water of a trout stream.

Our trip to Black Fly sparked something in the four of us and we kept at it, finding time to throw a line, share some food, and some laughter each year. I can’t tell what brought each of the other 3 to fly fishing and I know I was one of the last to pick it up. But ever since that first fish was landed in a stream in the Poconos, I’ve been hooked. This trip in June was 20 years in the making closing the loop and drawing tight a knot of friendship threaded between four friends pursuing a passion.

We started planning our big western trip in the dead of winter. To be more accurate, I started planning it and then bludgeoned them into saving their money. Destination? Idaho for 5 days to fish on the South Fork and Henry’s Fork rivers. Getting there would be complicated, for sure. Never could we have anticipated that United Airlines would cancel some 8000 flights in the days before we left, setting off a chain reaction of events that would affect our outbound and return travel.

Jeff and Ross made it on time while Rich and I were delayed a day, arriving in Victor, ID at an AirBnB around the corner from WorldCast Anglers. When we finally settled onto the couch late that evening, I encountered familiar feelings with my friends; jokes, questions and mutual excitement about getting out on the water together, hoping to land a fish to talk about.

Jeff, looking a bit more like “Grizzly Adams”, had spent 3 days traveling from Montana where he’d fished with his son. Ross, trying to balance the pressures of leading a fledgling company and accepting the grace of his wonderful wife at home with their 4 girls, was a study in appropriate distracted enthusiasm. Rich arrived last having spent the previous 24 hours trying to become an honorary “Swifty” having been stuck in Minneapolis where a Taylor Swift concert had taken over the city.

JK the “grizz” on a break.

We stayed up late into the evening dancing around the edges of each others lives. Testing the waters of politics and sports hearing about each others kids and spouses and wondering what the days on the water would bring to us. It was clear that the older we got the more we appreciated the ease of our reconnection and the comfort that this realization provided.

We laughed a lot. We laughed at ourselves, we laughed at the confluence of the day’s events and the idiosyncratic personalities of our fishing guides. We also laughed about our aches and pains and our age. Save for Ross, our 55 year old bodies and ingrained habits woke us up before 6am seeking out caffeine from the local coffee shop. Each day we stood at the drive-up window chatting with the shop owner as we awaited our jump start to the morning oblivious to the cars lining up behind us.

Stepping out into the day I was reminded of awe inspiring expanse of the western sky. The clouds dancing across the bright blue background like brush strokes of white painting the scene framed by snow tipped mountains. Driving through the endless succession of Idaho potato fields on a ribbon of black asphalt in an undulating sea of green, it seemed like we would never get to the mountains and the weather could never get to us. I couldn’t help but feel small in an appropriate sort of way, an almost insignificant part of this big beautiful landscape.

Watching and waiting

Sitting on the banks of the Henry’s Fork, stalking fish, we watched their rhythm and movements, through polarized lenses, hoping to get one cast perfectly timed and landed in front of these selective trout. This form of patience is something I am not good at, but I could appreciate the moment of being with my friends in such stillness enjoying our adult version of parallel play. We seemed to find the quiet and calm energizing - our silence amongst the sounds of the water moving at our feet. The day ended too quickly when we were forced from the water as the sounds of thunder broke the solitude when an impending storm hurdled down the valley towards us.

A storm brewing

Our drive back to Victor through torrential rain, hail, and plummeting temperatures served as a strong reminder of how we could go from peace and tranquility to darkness and chaos. In the quality of the changing light we were reminded of how unequal that relationship is between us and mother nature. As the sound of the rain and hail pummeling the hood subsided, carefully curated music from Jeff’s iPhone filled our ears and gave us license to just enjoy the landscape and the rolling of the truck toward town.

The following morning we packed up for a guided overnight trip on the South Fork, all but Jeff had done this trip before and we were anticipating long days, cold evening in camp, and of lots of fish. Anglers head to the South Fork for its tailwater that boasts more than 5000 trout per mile.

Floating a river while casting has its challenges. Whether casting onto the edges of a dark green waterline or into a deep swirling eddy, or up against the bank under branches and bushes, you are constantly mending as the guide tries to keep the boat moving just as fast as the current so that your fly stays in the zone as long as possible. You wait for the slight movement of the indicator, that break of the surface toward a dry, and then set the hook and feel the tug on the line. That feeling of childlike excitement is reminiscent of unwrapping a gift, a curiosity of what might be under the surface. Adrenaline kicks in every time you feel the tug and hook a Brown, Rainbow, Cutthroat or even a lowly Whitefish.

We pulled into camp after a long day with our shoulders sore from the casting of heavy nymph rigs and our bodies exhausted from standing and balancing in the summer sun. The solitude of the box canyon offered a comforting end to the day and invited the four of us into conversations and stories, fish missed and landed — another chance to wade into the currents of our friendship with only the need for sleep beckoning us to call it a night.

A double. Rich and Ross on the South Fork.

I had already landed the biggest fish I’d ever caught, a 22 inch male brown trout, and as the end of the second day on the water was nearing, on the final few miles of water, both Jeff and I were losing focus. Our thoughts of the inevitable return to our lives were invading the calm but our guide was continuing to encourage us to cast and keep the lines in the water. We were willing but less attentive, slower to react to the set, and smiling inwardly at his insistence that big fish lived around every bend and under every bank, knowing “he says that to everyone”.

And so I cast toward the bank, mended as best I could, and followed the indicator - a twitch, the set, and it felt heavy like I’d hooked a log. Then the line cut across the water and I thought it had to be a foul hooked Whitefish. But Geoff our guide screamed, “That’s a big fish!” The rod bent as I fought for control and the line screamed, zipping off the reel, suggesting an unseen monster looking for cover. I kept the pressure on, trying to redirect the dart up river, and then it exploded out of the water. A huge shimmering mass of gold, white and brown, I’d never seen a trout that big before.

A boat full of Jeffs

The rest of it is a bit of an adrenaline-fueled blur. Me trying to keep just the right amount of pressure on the fish, the guide trying to find some softer water to pull off into and land the behemoth. We drifted toward the bank and I saw the shallow water littered with branches and I shouted, “he’s going to break me off!” The guide spun us out into the current with both of us now facing up river and sternly told me to get the fish up and into the net. I pulled straight up reeling in the line at the top and pulled again. He screamed “Pull!” The splashing fish broke the surface and then darted from the net. One more pull and reel in at the top and somehow the huge net was full with that unseen monster. He slammed the net into my hand and said, “Hold it in the water and hold on!”

I’m not sure why the 2x tippet held or the fly firmly set into the upper hooked jaw of this male Brown trout or how I kept the fish in the net as we ran a set of rapids…. but it all worked out, the gods of fishing were smiling on me that afternoon.

That night at dinner in Jackson we started talking and planning for our next trip. Who knows where it will be or if we will be able to make it work. As incredible as it is to have caught a fish like this one, being able to share it with 3 friends who most appreciate what it is to fly fish was the gift I’ll always remember. It is through these moments, thinking back when the rods are packed up, that I realize how important these friendships are to me. I’ll always make time for these three knowing I’ll never catch a bigger fish and hoping to never get too old to stop wading into their lives.

Geoff our guide and me 27+ inches of Idaho Brown

It was a really big fish…

A Journey to Kindness and Respect

Traveling has always been something that I’ve enjoyed, and when I get to combine it with talking about Lincoln Academy, all the effort feels that much more worth the while. Recently I took to the skies for Vietnam to join with Director of Admissions Lu-Shien Tan to meet prospective families and agents in Ho Chi Min City and Hanoi.

To make my international travel jitters all the more interesting, I received a call two days before departing from a nonchalant Lu-Shien informing me that I did indeed need a visa to enter the country. He added offhandedly that I could probably apply online. I did apply, in fact, and managed to get approved minutes before I left for the airport. 

Vietnam is a long way away. My journey was more than 24 hours on two planes and one layover in Tokyo. All went without issue until I stepped off the plane in Ho Chi Minh City, pleased to see that I had landed a bit early. It was only after I made my way to the customs desk and handed my documents to the agent that he informed me to go back to the line and wait.  For what, I had no earthly idea. I was too exhausted to protest and did as I was told. 10 minutes later I was waived forward by the customs agent and informed that my visa had just become valid at midnight and I was free to proceed. I thanked him and noted his kind smile at my clear relief, the first of many kindnesses to come. I made my way out into the steamy night air where my ride was waiting.

One of my constant companions in all my travels is my camera. The camera is nothing special, really, but carrying it has become essential to me because it gives me a reason to get out into the city or countryside to explore. I’ve never been one to jump into new social situations, cultural or not, and my camera is the perfect introvert’s foil and looking through its lens draws me out even when everything in my being is saying to stay in bed.

On the street, Ho Chi Min City

What I saw of Vietnam in these two iconic cities was spectacular, and I look forward to returning some day. The people I met, from hotel staff to families we interviewed and various educational consultants - all displayed curiosity and kindness, respect and support for me as a visitor to their country.

A perfect example of this kind of exchange took place in Hanoi when I was toured around the city by a woman named Gee on the back of a motorcycle. What I thought might be an impersonal sightseeing tour became anything but that. As soon as I sat behind this young lady, I was quickly admonished for putting my feet on the ground. Even with my 200 pound frame to support at every turn and stop, Gee proceeded with no need of my help. In fact, as we rode through the traffic-filled streets, she informed me that I might have to sit closer to her and I was grateful. There appeared to be no rules of the road; horns served as reminders that others were turning and alleyways were full of pedestrians, bikes and other motorcycles. All of it struck me as a chaotic dance fraught with opportunities to crash. A little nervously, I tucked in and we made it through without incident. 

Needless to say, Gee was an outstanding driver and after settling into the motorcycle seat I felt truly safe on our four hour tour of the city together. She offered me a glimpse into her life: youngest of 6 children, the only girl, her father’s injury in the war, and her inability to attend school and need to take care of her family. She made her comments to me in a casual manner through her rudimentary English but all of it brought me in closer as she continued to show me her city.

Apartment block in Hanoi

On our tour I had the opportunity to listen to an older man play traditional Vietnamese instruments. While in his tiny apartment, I learned that he was a veteran of the war and it brought home  the toll that our war had taken on this beautiful country - in ways I could not fully comprehend. Even still, there he sat playing his music with a bunch of strangers, and as if that were not enough of a gift, he rose to give each of us a handshake and hug as we departed. 

Walking out of that small apartment with the rest of our tour group I felt awkward and uncomfortable.  I felt I didn’t do anything to deserve his kindness, I knew I couldn’t comprehend what his life had been and how he had overcome the circumstances he faced in part due to decisions my country made.  But I also felt strangely connected to him by the fact that I was a military brat, my brother and I were born in Germany in 1966 and 1968 early in the Vietnam War where my dad was stationed on active duty.  His tour ended shortly after my brother was born and he never stepped foot in this country, but many of his friends, fellow service members and several of our relatives did.  And now I had.

Kindness and respect.  This moment in the trip was but one moment that reaffirmed for me the importance of these two qualities personally and for our collective community.  Being kind to one another, particularly those you do not know, do not have any idea of what they may be struggling with, or may have overcome to get to be here at school each day.  The act of being kind to one another is as simple as a smile, a thoughtful phrase, or welcoming gesture.  It doesn’t need to be grandiose or flashy and even the simplest things can make a world of difference.

Respect is the essential partner of kindness.  Respect for difference, for the person in front of me, for their differences, visible or invisible.  Respect for their convictions even if I disagree, or think I disagree based on what I’ve heard.  Spreading rumors, innuendo, and gossip isn’t kind and it isn’t respectful of the individual or our community.

Morning Reflection, Hanoi

The Lincoln Academy community is as unique as each member who joins.  Whether student or employee it is made up of so much difference.  Christians, Muslims and Jews, Koreans, African Americans, Lebanese, Turkish, Spanish and Brazilian.  People from Bremen and Newcastle, from Boothbay and Caribou.  People who’ve moved here from away and people whose families have been here for 5 generations.  People who love this place here in Lincoln County and those that can’t wait to leave to see what the world has to offer. Gay, straight, transgender, introverts, extroverts, athletes, actors, scholars, fishermen, and farmers.  There are too many combinations and permutations represented to possibly list and too many to know for certain all we need to know about one another.  It is because we are so different that we need to respect those differences. We are all part of this community with a common goal of learning and to truly learn we must be open to our differences.

In my travels I was once again reminded of the power of respect and kindness and I also affirmed my commitment that there is no place for disparaging or disrespectful comments, no place for culturally insensitive or offensive language and no place for racist, antisemitic or gender phobic comments. That is not the community we want and it is not the community I will support.

An older man halfway around the world gave me and example of kindness and respect and if he can do that for me, a stranger, it is the least we should expect from one another in our community. 

Fishing for connections

Gabe came into my office before the holiday break, an unusual occurrence as our paths rarely cross on a given day or week except at the fly-tying class on Tuesday afternoons. He asked if the St. George River was “open water”, and I said that I thought so and that it was stocked in November. 

“Ok, so you want to fish over break?”

Fishing in the winter in Maine is not something that I’d normally consider; in fact, I’d never taken the rod and reel out on a piece of water past the traditional trout season which ends in October. But Gabe seemed pretty invested in the idea, so I said sure, and asked him to sort out what days might work for him and that I’d arrange it with his mom.

Connecting with students about fly fishing has been one of the many things to be thankful for in this 3 year pandemic roller coaster ride. In the fall of 2021, we implemented a new component to our schedule called Focused Learning Block (FLB). This is a time during the academic day when faculty and students can explore interests, share some down time, and make connections. Our class was the brainchild of Prema Long, an LA biology teacher who was looking for a good reason to tie flies with students.  In the class we have tied lots of different patterns starting with nymphs largely because they are easy to tie, use few materials, and serve as a staple in anyone’s fly box. My connection to Gabe came through this class.

Our adventures began last spring on a cool, overcast Sunday morning in May. Gabe and Sam, both members of the Fly-Tying FLB, met me at Borland Hall before 7am and we loaded into my car for a ride up to Union, Maine to fish a stretch of the St. George River.  There had been some rain during the week and conditions were favorable, but I knew that catching fish was in no way guaranteed even on my favorite spot on the river. Once we’d rigged up, the three of us set out to find some water to fish.  I moved into a familiar section of the river, across from a downed log at the head of a deep run that fanned out into a nice riffle.  I tied on the tiny zebra midge in a two-nymph combination and in a few casts landed the first fish of the morning.  A second fish brought my companions running to ask me what fly was working. From that point on we had an incredible morning of fishing; best of all, most of our catches resulted from the tiny nymph we’d tied in class!

Gabe’s and my second trip in the middle of winter posed different problems: slow takes, ice in the ferrules, and staying warm in cold running water. But none of these seemed to be as big an obstacle as the problem that materialized for Gabe when he discovered that he hadn’t packed his reel! With a failed call attempt home to his mom, he muttered under his breath and then sat down. I could see him thinking and I offered to take turns with him with my rod, which he politely refused. Somehow the idea of Tenkara, a Japanese fixed line and rod set up, came up, and before I knew it,  he was off rigging up his version of a Tenkara rod.  He passed the rod through a spool of 1x filament, threading the line back up through the ferrules and then tied on a leader to complete the set-up. Though I was skeptical about his chances, I found his effort and resulting product pretty inventive. 

After Gabe landed a few and the cold set in, we headed back home. As I put away my gear, I couldn’t help but think about the depth of learning that had taken place over both trips: the tying of the knots to the flies, the cast, the mend, the drift, the strike, and the landing and releasing of the fish.  Physics, entomology, aquatic ecosystems, art, skill, and patience all bundled together.  There wasn’t a quiz or an essay, no need for an exit ticket to assess the learning that had happened, either. Their smiles were all the feedback I needed.

There is so much that can be built out to further this learning. An examination of the tensile strength of 5x leaders, an investigation of the failure mechanism of knots when they lose flies, or an aquatic life study using a seine net to find exactly what species of insect are in the water column just to name a few. A hobby like fly-fishing incorporates academic disciplines and they are easy to see, and this kind of experience is made all the richer when observing the energy and investment of students. 

Building choice and engagement of student interests into curriculum is difficult work for certain, but it is essential work to do, and if this time in education during a pandemic has taught us anything, it is that students have become more discerning consumers of their own education. They have an increased awareness about  the value of their time and want it to be well spent, organized, and meaningful. In many schools across the country students spent days outside of school where they  prioritized between school work, socializing, and jobs. They could decide when to do their online work, especially if it was asynchronous. In our community many students worked jobs to help make ends meet and, in part, to keep them healthfully engaged when so much looked so confusing. As educators this is a wonderful gift, one that is on its face intimidating as some of the traditional methods we have used in our classes for years will be scrutinized, but it is a gift nonetheless. No doubt we will all have to change a bit to meet their expectations, and I’m excited about this change for education.

The River Runs North

Getting to Pelletier’s campground this June where our outfitter was based required us to travel along the US-Canada border from Fort Kent. While the border was quiet, shut down due to the pandemic, the Canadian influences were ever present.

As we pulled into the campground, our guide Norman L’Italien met us enthusiastically. Short in stature, closely cropped grey hair hidden under his green baseball cap, he set us straight to work getting the canoe off of our truck. We were prepared to do most of the heavy lifting but were a bit skeptical when he told us that we’d need to get our canoe atop the two already strapped down on the van.

Norman nimbly scaled the ladder directing us to lift and slide the canoe toward him on his precarious perch. With the bow resting at an angle to the outer boat, the stern supported by the two of us, he performed a guide’s equivalent to the “clean and jerk”; and like an experienced power lifter, he swung the canoe perfectly into place as he’d probably done a thousand times before. After getting our arrangements in order and gear stowed, he reviewed our route with us, suggesting portions to avoid and marking hidden springs for fresh water. And noting our canoeing experience and desires to start our 5-day journey with a run of the Chase Rapids, Norman whimsically offered his final bit of wisdom, “Well, at least you’ll get to dance with your partner right away!”

While my partner was experienced in such “dance” moves, I was awkward and out of sync.  In those couple hundred yards of water below the Chamberlain Dam, my partner Rich described the two strokes I’d need: draw and cross draw. I practiced once or twice and off we glided toward the rolling and boiling water.

Morning reflection, Round Pond, Allagash waterway

When you canoe the Allagash River there’s an immediate realization that you’re moving downhill.  Interestingly, the horizon line of the river is below your feet as you dip the paddle and push water behind you moving northward into the welcomed silence of nature.

Following my partner’s lead, I learned quickly to read the water, find the “V” in the river, duck by guard rocks, and scout the sleepers waiting below the surface.  We made the best choices we could in the moment, sometimes scraping boulders and other times confidently taking on water while riding the heavy waves.

As we glided into Bissonette Landing where our gear awaited us, the adrenaline pumping in my veins melted into the background of the vast silence surrounding me. I began to exhale for the first time in 18 months, finding the joy in solitude. I wondered what lay ahead in the 60 miles of paddle strokes and the rhythm of moving from place to place each day.

Reflecting back now it occurs to me that planning this trip in the dead of winter had been respite enough, but that there had been moments when it seemed Rich and I would never reach the water. As leaders in independent schools, we needed the buoyancy of hope in imagining this new journey, and found the potential draw of a shared experience gave us strength, comfort and urged us forward toward the Allagash.

This trip was our off ramp, a way to decompress and find meaning in experiences unlike any we’d faced in our lives. It was also my way to reflect upon all that had become of me and the upside down world. And now here we were finally in the Maine woods absent of the hectic pace and disruption of technology; our cell phones had no signal and, for the first time in memory, we had turned them off stowed them away.

In the evenings we sat in our bug tent after dinner and just watched. The changing light in the clouds, the sounds of the loons and eagles, the movement of the water was all the entertainment we needed. Through these shared observations, we talked, laughed, and enjoyed the silence.

Entertainment for the evening, sunset on the Allagash

I’ve been blessed to have a few really wonderful long-lasting relationships. These few have always felt “easy” with little pressure involved, an opportunity to pick things up where we’d left off. I had a friend to ski with a couple friends to fish with and a wife with whom to share the day to day. Maybe I’m not alone and other men experience friendship this same way. But for the first time, in the darkness of those early days of “flattening the curve”, I realized that the work for me to stay connected with others mattered as much as actual time spent together. In the past, the hardest part of friendship had been arranging the schedule, juggling kids, or waiting for optimal conditions to arise; more often than not, a friend and I would figure something out last minute and enjoy our time together. But I would always think in the car ride home that I wished I’d connected with my friends more frequently. Often those drives would leave me thinking I might have shared more about my life or inquired deeper into theirs…

During the pandemic when texts, emails and calls were all we could manage, I began to understand that those efforts to stay connected were as meaningful as getting to a final destination. I saw the act of friendship as a vital part of me, not something to ignore or feel awkward about. In committing to this trip - the planning, the expense and the conversation - I recognized that the work of friendship, was an important element I had been missing.

And as the trip came to an end and we loaded the truck for the 6 hour drive back home, I wondered, once this was all behind us in this year or the next, would we remember how much we all needed each other? Would we realize how much we depended upon our friends, family and colleagues? Would we find the discipline and commitment to do the work of friendship?

As the virus continues to course through our communities and country and my time on the Allagash becomes more distant I will need to tend those connections and friendships I’ve made to help keep me afloat and moving down the river.

Morning light, final day on the Allagash

Pandemic Connections

These days getting mail (the paper kind, with a stamp on it) seems more and more like a rare occurrence, so when I started receiving some from a former colleague, I was thrilled. These weren’t long dissertations on the state of the world or even attempts to catch up after many years. They were simpler than that. Most often, I would find a newspaper cut out with a yellow post-it note, describing something about why he thought I would appreciate the article. The topics ranged from education to engineering to sports or commentary. But in the midst of this global pandemic, the kindness he imparted to me and the reconnection he was attempting by doing this mattered a lot, and I placed them in a neat stack on my desk in my new office as Head of School in midcoast Maine. Sometimes the note came on a hand printed card his wife had made for him. She’s an accomplished artist and those messages, in particular, have a special place among my growing collection.

A few examples of note cards Jo-Ann made. Used with permission of the artist.

When I was a young faculty member with a master’s degree in electrical engineering, everything about this colleague intimidated me: his booming laugh, wild greying hair, his extensive vocabulary, even his love of poetry and jazz. I had been hired to be a math teacher, soccer coach, and dorm parent; these things I could do. I really enjoyed working with teenagers, but other than some teaching work I’d done as a graduate student, I badly needed help in the classroom.

I think many of us who arrived at teaching through independent schools have stories about grizzled veteran teachers who brought their subject to life even for the most reluctant of learners. They wove an intricate fabric of high expectations with personal inspiration. They knew when to humor students and when to demand something from them. They understood when to discipline and when to soothe, recognizing that each student was unique but part of a group of learners headed on a journey. He helped me realize that it was too easy to simply focus on the attitudes and roadblocks presented by the student in front of me. The real opportunity lay in helping them connect to their potential through the material at hand. Maybe most importantly, he showed me that there were many roles I would play in the classroom and that my confidence in the subject material was just a piece of becoming a good teacher. I needed to create an environment for the students to grow and discover their own direction and motivation as learners.

It’s a lesson I deeply appreciate.

In the flow of a week, month, or year, with lots of challenges and obstacles in front of me, I mustn’t lose sight of what students can become through their time in schools. My job is to help them see a path of possibilities and help them choose a direction, knowing that it’s their job to take what they learned and put it into practice and to embrace the humility necessary to accept that I may never know if my actions made a bit of difference.

It’s nearly 30 years since I started my career teaching and working in independent schools, and while there was a period of time when my friend and I lost touch, it seems fitting that we have reconnected as I have begun to lead a school community, a goal he tirelessly encouraged me to pursue.

In these dark days of our global pandemic, I am so grateful for these kinds of gestures, ones that I have witnessed among friends, colleagues and family members. It seems that in this time when connection is difficult and yet so deeply desired, we all benefit from this kind of intentionality, that just a simple email, text, or old fashioned letter can make a meaningful impact on someone else. While there seems to be no end to the chaos and divisive nature of our national discourse, I remain hopeful about the humanity expressed by the simplest actions and words.

Thank you Bud.

You have made a difference in my life, and I am eternally grateful for your support and friendship and, of course, the letters.

Another of Jo-Ann’s prints.

On Fathers

On February 7th 2020 in a raging snow storm, my father in law, Dr. Richard S Heilman, “Poppie” as the kids called him or Dick as most of the rest of the world knew him, passed away at the age of 85.

What I’ve realized in these long days since “Poppie” passed is that I have had two fathers for the past 30 years. I guess it’s in the name, “father-in-law” and perhaps for many men that is as close as it gets, the in-law part denoting the obligation to get along and the requirement to honor your spouse’s lineage. But as I struggled to write this for his service and to deal with the longing that comes with loss, I’ve certainly found out that I was far luckier than most.

March 7th 2020

It is wonderful to see so many familiar faces, so many friends, colleagues and relatives of Dick and Barb’s.  I get to start this celebration of Dick’s life this afternoon. While working on this service with Missy and Erica, I knew I had the best chance of getting emotional, so they volunteered me to go first.

For those of you that remember the obituary, I was not one of those boyfriends that stayed and talked to Dick for hours. My first memories were of him sitting alone in that wonderful yellow wing-backed chair, his throne, in the living room by the brick fireplace in Charlotte, reading the NYTimes before dinner.  Early on I found Dick to be a bit intimidating sort of a buoy that I had to learn to navigate among a sea of women.  Worse still, I was an introverted engineering student, land locked in my interests, with seemingly few inroads other than my grandfather’s connection as a fellow Radiologist. The Heilman family unit was tight and tough to break into.  But after 30 years I know how special a family they are and what it means to be part of them.

Though I didn’t have a lot to say to Dick early on, I always appreciated what a good listener he was, and the more he listened the more I started talking. Most of you in this room, at one point or another, sat with Dick and know what I am talking about.  Many of us sought medical advice.  I can tell you that he was right every time I sought his advice, well, almost every time. He did make a mistake diagnosing a broken bone or two. To be fair, Dick’s specialty in Upper GI Radiology didn’t cover much of the stuff I asked him about, but a couple of things were always true about his responses.

First, as I said, he always listened.  He was incredibly good at that.  Yes, there were times when his face gave away his thoughts, mostly around politics or property taxes, but he had a gift for listening in a way that offered confidence to the one talking.

Second, he never said anything to undermine the advice from someone else.  He asked thoughtful questions and listened to you talk through your options.

And finally, if he didn’t know much about the medical issue you asked about, he learned about it.  He researched it, found people he knew from his long list of trusted friends and colleagues, and helped you get what you needed to move forward. 

Dick taught me a lot about being professional. He treated his work with a level of dignity and purpose and never disparaged another doctor’s guidance, even if he disagreed with them. While he may have been disappointed at the growing corporate invasion of the doctor-patient relationship and associated quality of care, he loved his life’s work and showed the best example of what a doctor should be.

I have the unique perspective of being the son in law. I got to know Dick as he was winding down his medical career and winding up his grand-parenting career.  His curiosity was his greatest asset when it came to being a grandfather.  He approached this role with a similar sense of confidence and even-handedness, learning along the way, often from the grandchildren themselves.  In his first ever babysitting job, our oldest gave him pointers about how to change his diaper. “Tab in the back, Poppie, tab in the back”.  Dick told that story many times.  On another occasion, he let that same grandchild, now at 13 years, drive his skid steer, against our urging.  With a smile on his face and a confident calm demeanor, Dick taught Jeb to drive a construction vehicle, helping him realize a childhood dream. Be assured that safety was always on his mind, sometimes to a fault, like when he refused to let his adult daughter help him put a roof on the shed at camp. I don’t think she ever let him forget it…

True to form, Dick loved time consuming, complicated projects.  From constructing marine railways, to putting the water in at South Hero, or building osprey nesting platforms, Dick was always moving, working and tinkering.  There was one universal constant, however. He never seemed to have the right tool for the job or the exact materials required.  He always had something that could work, because he saved so much stuff, knowing they had a future use.  He had a plan, and he figured things out, sometimes against the odds.  I know some in the family did not believe his thrifty ingenuity to be his most endearing quality.  How we lasted with that Fisher Pierce Bearcat motor on the boat for so long is beyond me.

The places he created and called home with Barb are filled with wonderful examples of incredible craftsmanship.  The architecture, the Paintings, ship models, and those iconic Heisse steel birds that I’ve photographed at all times of the day. He appreciated great craftsmanship and craftspeople and never stopped trying to do things to his best, in his own special Dick Heilman kind-of-way.

On a visit to Maine this summer Dick and I took a ride up the coast toward Tennant’s Harbor on a beautiful summer afternoon.  He was probably looking for his next boat, his eternal quest, and I was up for the ride.  We parked near the boat landing at an ice cream store, and he agreed that a cone would taste good.  The portion size was so much larger than the small we’d ordered, and we walked out to look over the harbor. We could hardly carry on a conversation. The cones were melting so fast we had all we could do to keep the ice cream from running down our hands. What a sight! Two grown men with ice cream dripping everywhere, enjoying the view and sharing the moment, no words needed.

 We are here to celebrate a life well lived and a man well-loved and we are happy you are all here.   

A Heisse bird on the wall. South Hero, Vermont

Weekly Message from Head of School

May 14, 2020

“The Question Concerning Reactionary Modernism; applying Herf’s theory to Heidegger’s late work.”

As I mentioned in this message two weeks ago, my son Andrew has completed his college work and earned an honors degree in political science and philosophy. He elected to write a thesis for his major and recently he encouraged me to read it. I did read it, and while that fact was something in itself, our conversation afterwards has led me to think more deeply about the essential elements of effective education and offered insight into our work ahead at Lincoln Academy.

Endeavoring to read–and understand–post-modern German philosophy is new to me,  and as I struggled with the vocabulary and key concepts in the 26-page paper, I was reminded what it feels like to learn something new. In the ensuing conversation, Andrew played a patient waiting game, eager to demonstrate his knowledge while helping craft my understanding into order and alignment with the thesis of his work. As we talked, shared understanding, and formed connections, it was the conversation, the shared  discourse that mattered most to both of us.

If we examine what we most want for our students, beyond the concepts and content it is that they can have these conversations, they can find confidence in their understanding of a subject to carry on a dialogue like a historian or a writer, a mathematician or a scientist. That they can ask thoughtful questions of a lobsterman, mechanic, researcher, or health provider.

One aspect of this forced move to virtual learning is considering what a classroom truly is. The ongoing project of collecting “Quarantine Work and Learning,” is one effort to  recognize and even redefine where learning truly takes place. There is no doubt that we all miss the “magic” that happens inside the walls of our red brick buildings, but learning and the application of knowledge occurs and thrives outside the traditional physical definition of school. For us at Lincoln Academy, our next challenge is to implement what we have learned over these past two months and apply it as we build our offerings for next fall and beyond. I believe our teachers have powerful insights into student  successes and struggles, and I have no doubt they will help to lead us toward solutions that will help all students build confidence as life-long learners.

We are nearing the end of the 3rd trimester, and with it will come opportunities to reflect and recharge. I am grateful for your patience, support and belief in our Lincoln Academy community. Please be in touch if we can do anything for you.

Stay safe and be well.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

Weekly Message from Head of School

April 30, 2020

Message from the Head of School

The End Crowns the Work… Even for the Class 2020

My son Andrew handed in his final college paper over our April “staycation.” Just like that, he was done with college: four years gone in the blink of an eye. Like so many parents of seniors in 2020, I gave him a hug and told him how proud I was of his accomplishments. I really meant it: I am proud, and more importantly I know he is proud of his college career. Still, I have to stop myself from wanting a different ending to college for him, a chance to celebrate with friends and teammates, to find the tie and coat, head to obligatory commencement activities, and process what it means to savor this chapter in his own way on the campus he grew to love. I have to stop myself, because no matter how much my heart aches for him, his classmates and all of the seniors here at Lincoln Academy are sharing the same experience: they are finishing their school experiences in a different world than they started in. I have to stop myself because as our motto reminds us, the end crowns the work. 

For me, the “end” in our motto does not refer to a ceremony or a celebration, it is realization of how the work has shaped the direction of your life; has brought into focus what is most important. This clarity of purpose becomes the crown; it is what the work tells my son about his convictions and talents. Perhaps my desire for a more normal end of his career, a graduation with pomp and circumstance, shows that what I really want is for things to be normal, the way they have always been.

And as I watch him move about the house this week, play catch and cook dinner with his brother and sister, and begin looking for his next step, I see what I am certain many of you see in your children, spouses, partners and family members. I see resilience. There is something about this moment: we have embraced humanity in a way that is empowering and leveling. Perhaps the fact that we are all struggling right now has allowed us to see our own strengths, find our own resilience, judge ourselves less harshly against our peers.

The Lincoln Academy faculty and staff helped bring our seniors to the place where they can start to see how the end crowns their work. All of us are struggling to find a way to honor this accomplishment authentically, practically and safely. One thing I know for certain is that this celebration will be different for this group of seniors than for any other in the school's 219-year history. We have a good team working on the best options to honor the graduates and help them close out their time with us at Lincoln. I remain confident in our students and their resilience, and I am grateful for the chance to share this moment with them.

We know that families are also seeking ways to honor and celebrate students right now. If we can help in any way, do not hesitate to reach out.

Be well and stay safe.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

Weekly Message from Head of School

April 17, 2020

Message from the Head of School

On Connection

I saw Liam today. It made me smile. He was just taking a drive in his pickup truck, his hat on backwards as usual, and when he saw me we chatted about his family and mine. Liam was one of the first students I got to know at Lincoln. While our first interaction ended with something like, ”I don’t think so man,” there is one thing I have grown to appreciate about Liam and our relationship: he knows how to connect.

Connection is what I miss most right now. Seeing the glimmer in Liam’s eye from my safe 6-foot distance reminded me how much I miss those moments with students, how much a simple expression provides an incredible amount of information and comfort in a nanosecond. This is the hardest part of teaching right now. I’ve never met a successful teacher who doesn’t love teenagers. They may pull their hair out, lose sleep, and get eternally frustrated, but people who thrive in education love the energy–in all forms–that comes from connecting with students.

Teaching is more Art than Science. Even for me, an electrical engineer by training, there is a state between 1 and 0, between on and off, the gray between black and white that makes all the difference in teaching and learning. This is where connection matters. Watching a master teacher weave this into a lesson is a beautiful thing to behold. As I head into the April “staycation” next week, I know I need to improve my teaching in this new medium for the next 4-week push. I know I need to hear the feedback from students and parents and try to find a way to restore that connection, even from a distance.

There is still so much that we don’t know at this point, about how our efforts to flatten the COVID-19 curve will affect this generation of students and teachers–will affect all of us, for that matter. At Lincoln Academy we do know that we will finish structured virtual classes by Memorial Day, and that we are amending our methods as we learn more about what works and what doesn’t.

Einstein once said, “a person first starts to live when he can live outside of himself.” In these challenging moments I have found certainty that every day is a new day to contribute to and participate in a community–even when that participation is mostly virtual. I hope you all find time over this break to re-energize and reconnect, and that you will find courage in each new morning to bring your best to the day and those around you.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

Weekly Message from Head of School

April 9, 2020

Message from the Head of School

Fishing and Reflection

Driving up route 131 on my way to Union and Searsmont I was struck by the beauty of the rolling hills in this part of Maine. I was heading out to fly fish on the St. George River with a mix of nerves and excitement. I stepped out from the well-worn routine of my life over the past three weeks after Governor Mills–apparently an avid angler herself–listed fishing as an acceptable activity. I arrived at the pullout, suited up, and found a piece of water to fish.

There is something about fly fishing: the rush of the water, the constant mending to get the drift right in the current, and of course having the line go tight then landing a fish. It all happened for me on Sunday, and after a couple of hours in some very cold water, I got into the car to drive back to Borland Hall. 

This week we have learned that we will not have a sports season this spring and that we will continue remote learning through Memorial Day. School, a place intended to play an integral role in how students grow up, feels to some like it has been reduced to just homework. As I reflect on my time on the river this weekend, that simple act of normalcy, I realized how much we have all sacrificed through this isolating yet strangely bonding act of social distancing in effort to flatten the curve. I can only imagine how difficult it is for students, parents, faculty and staff to have so many human interactions replaced by the screen of their phone or computer.

Today I want you all to know how proud I am of each of you. How thankful I am for the effort you are putting into your courses, no matter how large or small. How much I appreciate what you are living through and the burdens you are carrying at a moment when all of us are a bit uncomfortable most of the time.

I, too, long to return to LA: the halls, my Algebra II classroom, speaking from the floor of the gym. For now, those thoughts keep me moving forward, continually mending my doubts toward optimism and waiting for that moment when I see you all in person once again.

Please know all of us here at Lincoln Academy want to help any way we can. No ask is too small: we are committed to making the best of this situation and helping our school community. Please reach out to your teachers, to me, or to Ms. Brinkler if you need help or you know someone who does.

We will get through this and we will be stronger for it. Be well and stay safe.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

Weekly Message from Head of School

April 2, 2020

I’ve been working through my stack of bedside reading, and am currently in the middle of two books: Kristin Lavransdatter by Nobel Prize winning author Sigrid Undset and Erik Larson’s new book The Splendid and the Vile. They are an unlikely pairing, one about a woman in 14th century Scandinavia and the other about Churchill’s leadership during his early years as Prime Minister as England faced the inevitable German invasion. Both characters grow through hardship and crisis not of their making, and both seek to find personal strength from their families, faith, and routines.

Reading these novels in quiet moments–mostly when the house is not buzzing with 20-something energies, and when the dogs have settled into their spots–offers a chance to reflect on the personal, familial, and professional challenges of leadership. Being engrossed in the lives of these two characters as they face adversity offers a reminder of the importance of courage and optimism. Until now I think I have under appreciated moments of courage in our community. These include students’ embracing the new challenges of learning remotely, teachers’ adapting their expertise to totally new ways of delivering material, staff members’ making our campus safe, serving families in need, and perhaps most importantly, connecting with parents and guardians who are dealing with real challenges as they navigate uncharted waters with families and loved ones. Thanks to all of you so very much for what you have brought to our community in this time of uncertainty.

As we close our second week of remote learning there is so much to celebrate, and I am excited to see elements of our school community continue to develop. Tomorrow we will post a Virtual Community Meeting on our Instagram story, and while I’m a novice on many social media platforms, I’m excited to know that our students and faculty will have a new way to keep some of our traditions alive.

This newsletter contains updates about virtual learning, food delivery, and more news. Parent and student feedback in recent weeks has helped us improve our communication and offerings to students. Please continue to keep in touch. I know I miss seeing all of you in person each day, but we will do our best to keep the spirit of the LA community alive and well in these challenging times.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

Weekly Message from Head of School

March 27, 2020

“Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.”  –-Victor Borge

The laughter coming from the living room here at Borland hall helped me find my way to this message. Having recently filled our empty nest with our three 20-something children, my wife Melissa and I have both remarked at how much joy we have found in the sounds of laughter.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the distance between us, between our faculty and our students, our peers and their loved ones and the wider community that is the midcoast region of Maine. Our physical distance-that principle underlying social distancing-seems at times much greater than it should be. Digital connections are now our only connections, and they do provide some comfort, reminding my generation of a time before email and cell phones; a time where, when we could not connect face to face, we relied on written words and an occasional collect or long distance call to express love and support.

Many generations have found community and connection in a far less connected world than we occupy now. In these first two weeks I have seen myriad examples of communication: spontaneous ukulele jams on the couch, Zoom sessions with extended family, letters, emails and texts of support and gratitude have woven a new fabric of support that wraps around my family, friends, colleagues, and me.

 Our first full week of remote learning is nearly done. Thanks to our faculty, staff, students, and parents for the investment, patience and constructive comments and questions. We are doing all we can to get students connected and engaged in learning activities. We all need to remember that this transition to a new mode of education happened over the course of just a few days, and forgive ourselves and each other as we sort through the inevitable hiccups and updates. As I have seen my cousins and siblings work with their children at home, I thought a few reminders would be helpful:

1. Assume good will and good intent.

   • LA faculty and staff have an incredible can-do attitude and they are doing all they can to make things better. Many of them are also parents with children at home so have dual roles.

2. We are in an asynchronous environment.

   • Immediate response to each email is unlikely. Responses will be made within 24hrs. Office hours for students and discussion boards are ways to get information quickly.

3. Develop a schedule for your family in terms of work, play, exercise and relaxation.

4. To the greatest extent possible, support your students’  learning by letting them lead the way.

I continue to find courage in the face of incredibly challenging times from the voices, actions and evidence of support firmly in evidence in our community. While empty parking lots and quiet buildings may indicate a closed school, we are anything but closed. Our learning community is alive and well outside the school walls, and the virtual community is keeping all that we hold dear here at Lincoln Academy in our hearts.

If you need assistance or know of a student or family that may be struggling to connect, please reach out. LA is closely involved with the Lincoln County Relief Initiative that is helping provide food and other essential needs during this difficult time, and we can help connect local families-whether they have a current student or not-with needed services.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

Weekly Message from Head of School

“Gratefulness makes two hearts glad.” –Else Pannek

I have struggled this week to find my footing, and I imagine I am not alone. Balancing the work of school and the new reality of having my adult children back under my roof at Borland Hall has allowed me to rediscover the importance of gratitude. Throwing a baseball with my sons in the parking lot, going for a jog with my daughter, and making dinner at home have all provided me moments to practice gratefulness.

People here at Lincoln Academy have done so much that I am grateful for. Our academic leaders have provided clear and concise information for us to follow as we begin this remote learning journey. Led by our social workers, Tory and Lisa, and our Chef, Mikael, food deliveries have begun to those families most in need. It is easy to get lost and disheartened by the news, to let fear take control in the face of uncertainty, and to lose sight of those elements right in front of us that we sometimes take for granted.

The LA community of teachers, staff, students, parents, alumni, and trustees is an incredible source of strength and inspiration. I am especially grateful to be part of this community at this moment in time. As I’ve often said in the last few weeks, I know I don’t have all the answers, but I have great faith in those around me to ask the right questions as we find our way forward.

This coming week I think you will see more elements of our community come shining through. Disruption often inspires creativity, and I have seen this in our teachers in the last week. Remote learning has its challenges, but I believe it has the power to bring us together to connect in meaningful ways. Watch our webpage and social media to see how this joint experiment unfolds. On Monday we launch our remote schooling, so make sure your students connect for each class during the time scheduled and let us know about issues that need to be resolved.

As we enter week two together, let us keep our collective commitment to help “flatten the curve.” Keep practicing social distancing, use technology to connect in meaningful ways, and know that our joint efforts will benefit our entire community.

Please reach out with questions or concerns, I know I look forward to starting class remotely next Monday.

Jeffrey S. Burroughs
Head of School

One Final Game

My middle son Andrew played his final college soccer game last weekend. Melissa and I made the trip to Halifax and brought his older brother Jeb with us. All five Burroughs were in Canada for a double header weekend.  The University of Kings College soccer program has two Burroughs playing for the Blue Devils.  Liza in her second year and Andrew in his 4th and final. 

The weekend did not turn out as either child had hoped. The goals didn’t come, the minutes ticked away, and the results didn’t materialize.  For Andrew, this weekend marked the end of his formal soccer career.  I’m certain that anyone who’s experienced the end of his/her own athletic career knows the feeling of emptiness that can follow, especially when things don’t end the way you’d hoped they would.

Most often, I’ve seen these final moments from the sidelines. Even my own soccer career came to its end with me sitting in the stands watching my team lose in the first round of the DIII NCAA tournament.  It was on that day that the seeds of my coaching career were planted, a career which has afforded me many chances to witness moments of splendor and heartache through “the beautiful game”. 

As coaches, we see the end of things for our players. We see the end of games coming when most don’t; we see goals happening before most people do, and we share the joys and sadness of seasons coming to an end with our players kicking their last ball.  For me, like most coaches, there has always been one more game, one more training session, and there has certainly always been a “next year”. Maybe the hardest part of me stepping away from the game as a coach this year has been losing that rhythm of a season from beginning to bittersweet end, the way it flowed in my blood and kept me whole and sane on most days.

On that perfect Halifax day, there was not a cloud in the sky, and yet the realization that I had watched Andrew’s final game brought tears to my eyes.  Oftentimes fathers and their boys communicate through sports in a way that is natural, maybe instinctual.  It is not to say that women don’t do this too, but there is something different about it with boys and their fathers.  We know that through our interactions about games we can connect in a way that we can’t manage in other places; we hint at what is most important to us about our relationship, even if we know we can’t find the courage at the dinner table or when helping with homework.  Watching our kids’ competition and sharing the love of a game, we grown men find tears in our eyes when the games are done and the season has run its course.  With one glance we can share our acceptance and appreciation, even if the words get stuck in our throats.  That day I found myself relieved, exhausted, and a little uncomfortable, knowing that this kind of communication that Andrew and I had enjoyed for so long had come to an end.  There won’t be any more shin pads, socks, or boots to buy, no more miles put on the car traveling to games, nights in hotels during tournaments or texts and phone calls for debriefs. Sadly, these fond times also come to an end.

 I’ve always wandered when a season is over, feeling like I’m out at sea waiting for a wind to catch my sail.  As I traveled the long drive home to Maine, I realized that Andrew was about to move into that state of drifting. He understood that the time he spent with his teammates over 4 years was ending.  I remembered what that felt like and I knew what I would have done as his coach to ease that longing and loss, but as the miles rolled on, I realized that neither coach nor father in me was needed. My job was done. He would take it from here.

I’ve known for a while that it was time to really let go, but the finality of this weekend made it easier. I had to embrace the inevitable change that all parents see coming and are never fully ready to welcome. This change offers the promise of beginning something new with all three kids when I welcome them home this winter.  I know that the kind of joy I’ve experienced with each of my children, from their earliest moments, will be shared between them and their own.  Coaching “the beautiful game” has made my life better. It has connected me with so many people over my career, but most meaningful to me has been watching my own kids develop and embrace their own connections, the sport’s universal language, and its life lessons.

UKC Blue Devils!

You’re a Freshman too

Sunset at the Lyon Farm, St Johnsbury, VT

Two months into the school year here at Lincoln Academy I continue to see promise in the education provided by town academies in a manner that is so specific to the place, purpose and connection built here in Newcastle. I have now had the chance to address our school in 4 weekly community meetings the following post is true to the message of the second address. In my first address I ”joined“ the freshman class as I too was new to Lincoln Academy.

I rediscovered this picture in my collection of photos when I was looking through some old writing.  It’s not a great picture, taken on an early generation iPhone.  There is more to this picture than its composition of a child throwing a frisbee and an adult with a puppy trailing along into the sunset. This picture was taken within a few months of my move to St Johnsbury, Vermont from Bath, Maine. More than 10 years ago I asked my family to take a leap of faith with me to a new school in a new town.  While my wife and I knew Vermont, my children did not, and together we were on our way to an adventure. We often found ourselves taking walks in the fields of the farm where we rented a house.  I still enjoy taking walks with my dog to relax and think and I share this picture with you to let you know more about me as we build our LA experience and to share my appreciation about the importance of human interaction and connection.

It seems these days that so much is competing for our infinitely divided attention.  We are bombarded with messaging on all sorts of media and, to me, we seem a bit too eager to be distracted at the expense of something much less tangible.   We find the allure of instant gratification by the ding of the text message, the like of the Instagram post, the accomplishment of keeping the streak alive or the ability to listen to what we want, when we want, to be entrancing.  But I’m not sure we ever truly take stock in what we are missing in these choices and to what extent these actions are having on the collective us. Walking in that field 10 years ago with my family there was a commitment to being present in the situation, not distracted by the immediate and unimportant but sharing moments personally, face to face. 

Humans are intimate beings that thrive and grow best in conditions where face to face interactions are encouraged, celebrated and embraced.  Where the notion of being present is not a conscious choice but an unconscious state of participation. I resist the notion that the influx of technology has changed us in a meaningful manner for the better or worse.  While I do see the power in holding a small computer in the palm of my hand, I do not see it as a true builder of human interaction.  Being introverted by nature I see it most often as an all too convenient barrier used when I am most uncomfortable. While there is little doubt that I can find the allure of this iPhone in my pocket tempting, there is also little doubt that it can replace authentic personal connection to the community I live in. 

Central in all communities has been communication.  How communities communicate and value that communication says a great deal about them.  In that light much of my week has been focused on building communication into our fabric.  I’ve spent time thinking and talking with anyone that would listen about how important it is to open channels of communication, to use these channels and to assume good will and best intentions.  I appreciated the chance to meet with a group of student leaders to share honestly and openly our opinions and feelings about topics we hold as important.  We have the opportunity to define our community together over the coming weeks, months and years and what we value by how we communicate.  I want to start today by asking us to commit to being intentional in our actions and interactions as we go through our days.  I am asking that we re-examine how we communicate and focus on minimizing the background noise. Further, that when we communicate a school-wide message that we do so first and foremost in person and in a manner that respects and includes the widest audience possible.

I’m going to close with an interaction I had.  One of my “peeps”, a member of the freshmen class came up to me at the girls field hockey game. My puppy Arlo was probably the draw and as this student recognized me they said something like…

”You’re the person who runs the school, right?”, 

I said “Yes I’m Mr. Burroughs”

He replied.  “Oh yeah you’re a freshman too.” 

I’ll take that as a good sign that I’ve found a place here in our community . I also will also savor that bit of “freshman” in me knowing that to see the school through their eyes will allow me to see beauty and wonder in places that my 52 year old eyes might miss.

Boys on a bench, NYC . Photo courtesy Jeb Burroughs www.jebburoughs.com

We’re all from somewhere

I cross the bridge every morning as I walk Indy from a new home and on a new route.  Gone are the familiar blocks of St Johnsbury, gone are the cool pathways of the Mt Pleasant Cemetery, and gone are the mornings free of mosquitos and black flies; we’ve landed in Maine.  Newcastle Maine to be specific and as I take on the role of the 44th Head of School at Lincoln Academy, there will be many times that I find myself crossing the bridge from Newcastle to Damariscotta and I hope that I always will find the same excitement and interest in those crossings as I have in these first days since moving into town.  

Coastal towns in Maine hold their own special beauty, their own unique character and charm.  It is different then rural northern New England, or the Northeast Kingdom, as it was known to me for the past 10 years.  Mountains and tall trees are replaced by rocky coasts and the smell of salt water.  

As the emotions and exhaustion of moving house and leaving our home of a decade fade to the background, I welcome the newness of this adventure.  As the bittersweet sorrow of leaving friends and loved ones is tempered by the hope that we will see them all soon, I look forward to crossing more bridges.  Bridges to a new community, to a new set of friends and colleagues and to a new life in a different kind of beautiful place that is coastal Maine.

I am buoyed by my hope for the future, anchored by my belief in the school, its students, parents, teachers and staff.  I’ve included a portion of my first address to the faculty, delivered in their final faculty meeting before the summer began. 

I’m from away, or at least that is the way I was described in the NEK.  Even though I grew up in Williston, Vermont I was not a true Vermonter as I was born in Stuttgart Germany where my father was stationed in the late 60s.

Everywhere I’ve been I guess I’ve been from away.  I’ve lived in Maine and Vermont for all of my life, except for 13 months in Germany to start my life and 6 weeks in Scotland when on assignment at IBM. For all of my professional life I’ve been living in Maine but from Vermont or living in Vermont having come from Maine. 

Many people have asked me why are you leaving Vermont and returning to Maine.  My answer is simple, I fell in love with Lincoln Academy.  Independent town academies do that to people.  They are unique educational institutions, the oldest and I think the best model of education for a community, in the American educational landscape.  Steeped in proud tradition, expert in serving the needs of all of its students, town academies thrive in partnership with local schools, town organizations, non-profits and like-minded community groups.  We build careful intentional relationships with our constituents and create supportive and challenging community, intentionally.

There is so much that I’m looking forward to in beginning the challenge of leading Lincoln as your next head of school.  I can’t wait to teach, to observe, to talk to each and every one of you.  Perhaps most importantly I want to listen.  Listen to you, to the students and parents, the alumni and community members. 

In listening I know I will gain the understanding to move us forward, I will find the commonalities amongst us to build bridges and I will build the courage in us to make changes to prepare our community for the future.  The work ahead is difficult, worthwhile and rewarding work. 

In my first 10 days of being a Head of School, a role I’ve been preparing for nearly all of my career, I’ve seen the quality of the community, the care and devotion of the faculty and staff and perhaps most importantly I’ve seen excitement, hope and belief. Excitement for the new chapter to begin, hope that each new set of challenges will be met with optimism and belief that LA is, and will be, a place where bridges are built and crossed by people making paths to their future no matter where they are from. While once again I find myself “from away”, it is already beginning to feel like I’m home.

Girl on a beach. Used with permission from Jeb Burroughs. www.jebburroughs.com

Skiing with Spike

The famous single chair at Mad River Glen

Over the holiday break I found time to rest and recharge.  I did what I love most to do. I skied with my kids, shoveled snow, read books, took some pictures and reconnected with my children and my extended family in the Burlington area.  As I was thinking about what to talk about in chapel on this January morning I started with something that Spike said to me when we skied together this past Sunday.  But before we get to that, I think it’s best that I tell you a story about Spike and me to set some context.

Spike is one of my very best friends. I’ve known him since 5th grade when he moved to Williston from Fishkill, NY.  While it seems since we left high school that we have lived our lives in separate orbits, we do always seem to come into alignment from time to time, most often around skiing. In our high school days we used to go to youth group together on Sunday afternoons and had the task of bringing my siblings and a couple of my cousins in for choir practice before hand.  He and I had a routine where we’d go to Upton’s to play some video games. Upton’s was an arcade on lower Church street, and in those days you had to buy tokens to play those classic games like Centipede, Asteroids or The Tempest.  After exhausting a few dollars worth of tokens, we would go looking for things to climb, “going on a run”, we called it.  There was a wall that we accessed near the corner of St Paul and Bank street that if you ran along a railing that separated a ramped loading dock you could make your way up and over it into a court yard.  So we did what most do when they encounter a wall, we climbed over it.  One evening in the late fall, we were heading “on a run” and Spike looked down into this dumpster that is below the loading dock and notices there are books in there.  “Let’s check it out” he says. I followed him into the alley because Spike loved to read; me not so much.  We were rummaging through this dumpster filled with books that had their covers ripped off and he was all excited about what was finding.  Just then a couple of older kids walked by and shouted something like “What are you doing? Looking for food?” laugh and keep going. Spike always one for a smart comment yells something back like…”Yeah what’s it to you?”

They come running down into the loading dock area and yell “what the ____ did you say?” At the moment of crisis, I think Spike was literally in the dumpster while I’m getting ready to get the crap beat out of me cause we’re trapped and these two are really angry and a lot bigger!  Just as they reach us Spike, scrambling out of the dumpster, holds a couple books up and says something that draws their attention to the books and we slip away.  I don’t remember exactly what was said but it wasn’t the only time he got us into trouble and somehow got us out as well. 

Spike on the way up the single chair

We skied at Mad River Glen on Sunday despite the cold and I knew we would have fun. We always do and this time was no different than all the other times we’ve skied together over the last 40 years.  Skiing steep runs through trees and riding that fabled single chair lift up to Starks nest is something, that if you are a skier, you really need to do.  We skied with his son Brendan, or at least we both tried to keep up with him and one run late in the day as we were bopping down the woods off Fall Line, I pulled up to Spike who was waiting, and we just started talking.  I can’t remember how we got on the topic but it was about our kids and some memories of skiing all together at MRG one winter.

He said, “ I meant what I said, our kids are better skiers than we ever were at their age, but I think they are also better people than we were…”

I don’t know why Spike said it and I guess it really doesn’t matter as I believe it is true and it has stayed with me this week.  I can see moments in my life where I’ve thought that about my children, and I know that many other parents would say the same thing.  I also know that my children have made me a better person in turn. Spike’s comment got me to appreciate that a critical aspect of relationships and friendships is that they do make us better people. In this recognition this week I found a great deal of hope.  At a time in our world where nothing seems to be uplifting, I was reminded of the power of friendship, of shared experience, of being in a moment with people that know you well enough to comment on your life and the lives of your children.  Those moments are the ones that are truly worth the effort. Those are moments that have truly made my life fulfilling. Those are the moments that we as humans, as teachers and students, as coaches and players and as directors and actors can look for and look forward to in our lives together.  My players, my students, my friends and my children have all made me a better person over the years and it is something to be truly thankful for.

Photo courtesy of Jeb Burroughs . www. Jebburroughs.com

There will be lots of change for me in the next 5 months as I move on to take the leadership of Lincoln Academy, but that is true for each and everyone one of you too. I don’t know how many more times I’ll get to ski with Spike this winter and I know that I’ll have to work hard to make it happen in the years to come as I move to Maine. But this morning as we all look to embrace the change that is coming I wanted to remind you of the power of friendship that you all share with people in this room.  It is the fabric of a wonderful school community, the fabric that will be used as the foundation for the next group of seniors, teachers and leaders in the months and years to come. It is something to be cherished, supported and celebrated, it is our collective strength as a community and the “Spikes” that make it real for us deserve some recognition and our thanks.

Moments

The true beauty in being able to travel to wonderful places is the reminder of the possibilities life holds when revealed through experiencing new cultures and unfamiliar surroundings.  Some of my favorite moments come when walking through streets of a new city in the dawn of a fresh morning taking pictures of the people and places I find as I wander.  People working, talking and doing everyday activities, are moments I cherish. Me, alone with a camera, a stranger in a city with no language to share, just accepting the gift revealed by observing what is there in front of me.  When I talk to students and families about the Academy in my travels abroad I am always amazed at their courage and their curiosity.  I’m amazed at their desire to have a better education and I am amazed at the possibilities they see in us, in our school and in our community.

Taking a break, Baku, Azerbaijan

As if often the case, traveling gives me time to read and write. On this trip to Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan I read “Pachinko”, by Min Jin Lee.  It is story about a Korean family set during the Japanese occupation of Korea.  In this passage, a scene between the boy Solomon and his step-mother Etsuko, there is a moment when she realizes that he can see the good in people.  She has been distant to him only getting close as the difficulties with her real estranged daughter come to light.  It’s his birthday and they have come from his party.  Etsuko says… 

“No, no.  It’s not that.  I’m just so sorry that you might have thought I didn’t want to be your mother”.  She clutched her stomach and tried to regulate her breath.  “I’ve hurt so many people.  And you’re such a good boy, Solomon, I wish I could take credit for you…”

Solomon replies.

“But I was born today, and isn’t it funny how no one gets to remember that moment and who was there?  It’s all what is told to you. You’re here now. You are a mother to me.”

Etsuko covered her mouth with her open palm and let his words go through her.  Somewhere after being sorry, there had to be another day…  The curved brass spout let go its last few drops, and the kitchen grew silent.  Etsuko reached over to hold the child on his birthday.

“…and let his words go through her”.  This phrase is a such a wonderful description of the moment when we allow someone’s words to affect us. So often when we are in conversation and someone says something nice, something unexpected, we try to speed through the feelings behind the words, perhaps deflecting it with some pleasantry.  No doubt Etsuko has done this her whole life, maybe as a protection mechanism, maybe out of shame of the past, but in this moment she “lets his words go through her”. She allows herself to be impacted by his words, she allows them to affect her and to move her toward an embrace of her step-son.

We all have this power. The power to overcome our tendency to make a moment trivial or less awkward. We have the power to allow ourselves to feel that which is there in the words to be felt. I hope that you think of this passage when the moments come this break, as you know they will. They will come from proud parents, or doting aunts, siblings, cousins or from friends who have truly missed you.  You will have that chance to let someone’s thoughts and words move you. My wish for you during this holiday break is that you cherish those moments and let the words pass through you too.

Walking dogs, Almaty, Kazakhstan

On the power of words

During A block yesterday I got to observe a class, a class with a teacher new to our school but not new to teaching.  This part of my job responsibilities is one that I have grown to love more and more each year.  I came into the room with the echoes of Mr. Lovett’s talk, sharing his appreciation of poetry ringing in my ear.  As I sat and watched the lesson unfold about the character development in the classic To Kill a Mockingbird, I couldn’t help but think of my appreciation of words - of sentences, of the gift of writers to move us to emotion, to action toward a world they most want us to see and understand, and ultimately inhabit.  As the students in the class paged through their books, looking for quotes and talking about changes they saw in Jem or Boo, I was reminded of how I came to love reading.

As I think I have shared with some of you before, I did not read well when I was young; in fact, I don’t know that I read much at all.  My mother and grandmother were librarians, and you would have thought I would have been surrounded by books.  In fact, I was, but most of them were decorations in the background of my room or the hallways of my house.  And as I was sitting there in that classroom, I did remember when I was first caught by the power of reading. It was Smaug, the dragon. My first reading of The Hobbit took place before Netflix or Amazon Prime; it was before cable, just as the VHS and Betamax battle was beginning.  It was a time when one’s imagination was not bombarded by moving images. I remember vividly when Bilbo crawls into the darkness and Smaug is revealed for the first time.

“There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; a thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but the fires were low in slumber.  Beneath him, under all his limbs and his huge coiled tail, and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors, lay countless piles of precious things, gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver red stained in the ruddy light.”

Bringing forth that vision of the great Smaug for me as an 8th grader was the very beginning of my path toward reading.  For years, it and the ring trilogy were the only books I could really say I read cover to cover.  I do remember a bit from A Separate Peace, and I know I also read To Kill and Mockingbird as our sophomores do. But those were exercises for me, and probably mostly because I just couldn’t read well enough to connect with the characters.  But in that cave filled with jewels and guarded by a sleeping dragon, my wonder was captivated, and I was exposed to the power of writing and the pleasure of reading.

Recently, I was reading The Heart of the Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers, at the urging of Mr. Lovett, and there was a passage that hit me.  Mick, a central character in the novel, spends her days babysitting, and then retreats in the evenings to an affluent side of town where she sits in a bush outside a particular house, listening to the radio program playing inside. At this point in the story, it is clear that there is something about music for her that the reader is just coming to understand.

“This part of the music was beautiful and clear.  She could sing it now whenever she wanted to.  Maybe later on, when she had just waked up some morning, more of the music would come back to her.  If she ever heard the symphony again there would be other parts to add to what was already in her mind.  And maybe if she could hear it four more times, just four more times she would know it all.”

I, too, can remember being bowled over by music. I think some faculty may remember when I shared my favorite aria from La Boheme.  For those who do not love Opera yet, come find me and I will share it with you.  I can feel the emotion well up in me just thinking about the building interplay between Mimi and Rodolpho.  Like Mick, I, too, know it all…

Music and art, writing and poetry just need willing participants. They just need us to be open to the possibilities that lie within us. They need us to be open to the experience, to keep trying and trusting, and most of all, not to let disappointment or difficulty dissuade us from our paths.

Sailboats in the afternoon, South Hero Vermont.

These days, I am moved by images and words.  I find myself looking to be inspired, to be transported and transfixed by artists and writers.  I look to books to escape and to learn, to laugh and to cry, and I look to images and art to help me uncover what is already there, hiding and waiting.  As we enter October, fall colors and cool temps bring us deeper into our classes and closer to those people around us. This time of year begs of us to build connections, through ideas and images, words and work. 

What will you discover this fall?  I, for one, hope that the discoveries you unearth will stay with you for a lifetime.