Limits

I took my dog for a walk this morning. She wakes up and waits at the front entryway, refusing to use her doggie door that leads to the fenced yard in back in favor of guilting me into putting on shoes and grabbing her leash to explore the neighborhood.

We have disparate goals, the dog and I. I would rather walk briskly, covering our normal route in as little time as possible, burning some calories and forcing myself into full wakefulness. She wants to look around, smell around each mailbox and shrub, wait for people to come out for their newspapers in hopes of making new friends. So we battle for dominance; I tug her along, she plants her 4 white paws to smell a little more. She sees something cool and surges forward; I maintain my pace and brace myself for the pull.

We use a flexi-lead. In the beginning, she would steal my breath with the strength of her tugs when there was no more leash with which to run. We’d both look at each other as she jerked to a stop – hurt, surprised and irritated. I’ve dropped the leash on several occasions – fingers numb from being bounced off walls or objects when she yanked unexpectedly. She’s stopped and had coughing fits from having pulled on her throat too hard.

As we’ve lived and walked together though, she seems to have figured out where the leash ends. So she’ll sprint for a few strides, the drop back into a trot so that when she’s about 25 feet from me, there’s a gentle tug rather than a violent jerk. She’ll look back at me, express her impatience, and continue to trot along until we reach her next stop.

What a smart girl, I marveled this morning as I have before. It’s cool that she understands how much room she has and stops within the appropriate range.

Then I realized I do it too. When she stops to look around, I continue to progress around corners or up small hills. But when I get too far ahead, I call to her. Then she gets one more sharp command before I stop and turn to say “What’s the problem here? Let’s go!" Then I tug gently or wait impatiently for her to join me for the remainder of our journey.

We understand our limitations, and while I don’t know how she thinks about it, on my part its subconscious. Unwilling to hurt her, even while engrossed in songs or audiobooks on my iPod, I somehow know how far away she’s located and hesitate before continuing without her. We’re reminded of our limitations, tethered together.

I remember dragging my blue plastic chair to the hallway when I was in third grade. We joined the other class, intermingling our brightly colored seats into jumbled rows so we could see the one of the televisions placed in the center of the wide halls.

“I should have made popcorn!” My teacher enthused. We were her first class out of student teaching, and I adored her. Pretty, excited, gentle – I was proud to be in her class and smiled at her when she ruffled my hair as I sat at the edge of my row.

The principal was talking in the center of the school, primary grades to his left, junior high students on his right. He was solemn with the importance of the day. Our weeks of space exploration lessons were detailed as he described how the different teachers had incorporated this special event into their daily schedules.

The walls, painted garishly in school colors – bright yellow with black borders – were littered with creations – artists of various ages had colored and drawn space shuttles, astronauts and planets. Had written stories or essays about the launch of the Challenger. It was noisy as those papers fluttered around and the hallway warmed from the presence of 200 small bodies.

Principal finished his talk with a grin. We were all excited, proud that a teacher was going into space, eager to share in the experience. Our teachers, mostly female, lined the hallways as we sat, squirming and adjusting to see the television more clearly. I remember squinting through my turquoise-rimmed glasses (they were worse than they sound, actually) to see the TV located about 10 rows in front of me.

The volume was as high as it would go – too loud for those located close to it. Since they were spaced at regular intervals, we could all hear – it was seeing that was a problem. We all quieted, rather from demands of our authority figures or from the excitement of the countdown. Watching quietly, I remember our awe. We had started to marvel to one another, glancing away from the screen to smile at the wonders of our society as the shuttle left the ground. Breaking boundaries, surpassing limitations, going far beyond what was considered possible.

I wasn’t looking at the TV when the shuttle exploded. I remember hearing the teachers gasp. Looking up at the television and not understanding what had gone wrong. Turning my questioning stare to my teacher, young and full of possibilities herself and seeing her face whiten and pupils constrict with shock. Tears rushed to my eyes as I watched the line of women desperately try to gain composure, naively sure there was some explanation and a way for everything to be OK again.

“Turn it off.” One of the second grade teachers finally said. Nearing retirement, I wasn’t nearly as fond of her. She sharply called 2 other teachers as she headed to the nearest television. “They don’t need to see this. Turn it off!”

I remember sitting there, dead silent, looking around at the pictures and paragraphs that we had written in anticipation of this event. Watching my much-respected leaders look around, unprepared for this outcome and lost as to how to cope.

“We need to go back to our classrooms.” We were quietly told, and picking up our chairs, we returned to our desks. I think we talked about what had happened. I’m grateful I wasn’t called upon to provide reasons, facing a group of young people, most of whom not able to understand why something bad would happen to a group of people we had learned about. Good people - smart, prepared, lucky to have this opportunity. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Perhaps that’s why we have an inherent ability to sense our limitations – define safety and react so we stay within its bounds. There’s some internal leash that warns me when I go too far, expect too much, reach beyond the bounds of what’s normal and easy. For those that break that tether, who embrace risk and pain in order to snap the cord that ties them to the everyday, I have a great deal of respect.

But I hesitate to join them, because even now, I recall my innocent confusion as to why bad things can happen to those who reach beyond what currently exists. I don’t really want to be the one teaching that to the next generation. And I still watch every shuttle launch, sick with dread rather than thrilled with excitement, until its safely out of our atmosphere. Praying for the safe return for those who are braver than I could be.