He swung mightily and missed the ball, despite the fact it was set before him on a black, plastic tee. Still, this swing was better than most; this time, the tee remained standing.

That was not the worst - or best - of the swing, though. On his follow through he gracefully pirouetted on his front foot, and then tumbled to the ground in a heap. I laughed, other parents laughed, and then my son stood. The batting helmet was nearly sideways, and pulled down over his eyes. Cael righted the huge, blue plastic protective gear and smiled that wonderful smile that melts my heart. I could not have been more proud.

You see, Cael is not particularly talented at t-ball. He can't catch, can't hit, can't even stay focused on the game long enough to see a ball come snaking along the grass towards him. Several times a pile of teammates chasing after a ball has formed at his feet, Cael oblivious to the furor.



But he smiles.

When he finally does make contact, as all t-ball players do, be it on the first swing or the fifteenth, he smiles. And stands.

Finally, I'll holler to him to run to first. As one of two coaches on the team, I'm usually helping batters or standing at first. With Cael, I prefer to stand at first. Because once he starts running, no one can see anything but that wonderful smile. He'll spring as only a four-year-old can, uneven and awkward like some newly sprung bird that stays aloft in as ungraceful as possible without crashing to the ground.

Most times he'll sprint to me, hug me, kiss me, ask for a high five, and then and only then stand on first. I pat his helmet, tell him nice hit, but what I should tell him instead is to keep smiling, forever and ever, whether he's just smashed a ball 30 feet, or risen from a pile on the ground after flailing and failing.

Keep smiling, son, and running and jumping and swinging and picking yourself up when you miss and smiling just a bit wider when he connect, and continue being genuine and kind and happy. That is what I'll be proudest of, because you'll become a reminder to me of all that is good in this world.

I've got a colleague who chooses to look at others more than themself. They see all the room in the world for improvement in others, and yet are all too satisfied with themself.

 I'm the opposite. I trust my colleagues' professional judgement, and don't worry about what happens in the classroom. I trust that I'll make the world, and my school, and my classroom and my students and myself better, if I worry about improving myself. I'll never finish, but I might as well start.

 What is saddest of all is that those who focus so much on changing others without an honest evaluation of self tend to break apart rather than create, to form chaos rather than harmony, uneasiness rather than happiness.

Yet, in their eyes, the problem is all mine because I'm unwilling to adjust the big problem. But how can I fix others when I need so much fixing and improvement myself? How can I enlighten others when I remain incomplete in my own quest? Yes, I'm more than willing to discuss, to enter intelligent discourse on how to change us all, but I can't enter such a dialogue with those willing to change me only, and not themselves.

Funny how the beauty of change - call it enlightenment, growth, or any other buzzword new and old - must start from within, and such a focus on improving self is what scares away so many others. Those who aren't afraid of being themselves, who forge ahead to become the best person they can be, tend to scare those who need strength in numbers.

 Where do you even begin to help them?