Full Definition of PRACTICE
1a : carry out, apply <practice what you preach>
b : to do or perform often, customarily, or habitually <practice politeness>
c : to be professionally engaged in <practice medicine>
2a : to perform or work at repeatedly so as to become proficient <practice the act>
(Thank you Merriam-Webster.com for the wonderfully full definition, from which I selected a piece of. Now on to my blog for today.)
So this word ‘practice’ has been floating around my world and I thought it was time to define what it means to me and how I choose to apply such a thorough term. Given that I’m working on my lovely boyfriend’s computer with his artsy fartsy Wacom tablet for a mouse, I’m going to go in the order that I think, not necessarily the order as shown above. Know that this triggers my anxiety and I’m already resisting the red pen to mark down for organization. Let’s see how it goes.
First and foremost I apply practice in an artistic sense. I just got back from an amazing art educator conference and one of the values held by the hosting association was the importance of the art teacher’s practice as an artist. Holding firm that being a teacher does not exclude being a creator and that studio time is crucial. Huh, you don’t say? I would file this epiphany under “1a: carry out, apply <practice what you preach>” (Thrill of all thrills, this is at least starting in order!)
When was the last time I created? A doodle during a meeting? Nope. How about all the time I hungrily take for myself during my art class? There’s the ticket. So why don’t I art outside of the 55 mins I’m specifically supposed to be an art teacher? By Jove that leads me into my second definition! Perhaps the answer is that I have not created a “custom or habit” for my artistic practice.
Heh, you can’t see me shaking my head right now, but I swear to you I thought, “Well I’ll just roll it into my regular New Year’s Eve Resolution for ‘Balance’. That’s a balance issue right? Not ever finding the time for myself and what not. Perfect solution.” Followed by, “Sure, Mandy. This year it will be different than the last 10.”
Here’s where I need to give myself a big fat break. This is only my 4th year of teaching. It will get easier. I will get more efficient. The point is that I have started a creating practice. When I acknowledged myself as an art teacher at that conference, I think it triggered a fire to follow through. I see goals instead of resolutions: this summer I plan on taking a printmaking class because holy cow that stuff is so cool! I mean HELLO TEXTURE!! Yummm. Plus, I’m actively writing a blog post exercising my creative nonfiction muscles. See, it’s all about the baby steps.
(Blissfully so) The third definition “to be professionally engaged” is my life. The golden ideal is real and is called “Best Practices”. I worship at this altar. If a genie in a bottle said, “Surrender to me your youth and in return you will awaken a seasoned, kick ass master teacher in the prime of your career.” I would be sorely tempted. No lie. Bring on the arthritis, wrinkles and hella teacher sweaters if that means I have arrived to teaching Nirvana. Hmm, that sounds like cheating, but I’m truly just eager to be established. You see, technically, Best Practices are those which are supported by data. In my case, data = years of teaching experience. So it’s not that I want to skip out on my 30s, I just want to already be a Best Practice - and three years of actual classroom teaching doesn’t count. (Which begs the question, “When will you be good enough in your own estimation, Mandy?” And it’s shit like that I take to my counselor.)
And yet, how can I be said Teaching Guru if I don’t have my own developed Reading/Writing/Arting practice? That habitual custom of daily life meant to inform my content areas through lived experiences is not something I get from a classroom. Now we've looped back to square one. “Practice what you preach.” Genie schmenie.
The last two definitions of my new mantra, practice, have everything to do with why I worry my ass is broken (e.g. I did pistol squats - google this if you aren’t familiar. I may never get up from the chair in which I’m sitting writing this post. Yes, you nasty skeptics, it really does hurt that bad. Muscles I didn’t even know about hurt. Pout.) Yeah, CrossFit is doing the trick. I’ve lost a teensy bit more weight, I’m still smiling like a fool when I leave (mostly), and I feel great (minus my glutes - they are horrible). It’s exciting “to become proficient” at moving my body. Normally, that’s a weakness of mine; the crushing defeat of my body failing has crippled me mentally. I think about walking when on a run and BOOM, I’m walking. Did I make that choice? No, an errant thought just busted my groove. Could I have kept going? I’ll never know, but I don’t think I believe I can. Where does this lack of confidence come from? It’s a stupid jog, why tangle my self worth in whether or not I walk the next block? (I should just share this blog with my counselor. It’d save me time.)
That I struggle is not the point. The juicy part is that I am enchanted by the performance of practice. Today, A (the male trainer at my gym - I haven’t gotten permission to use his name yet), told me that I nailed my power cleans. I squealed like a kid busting into a deeply wished for birthday present on the walk to my car. A little over a year ago, I ended up crying in the gym because I couldn’t complete a clean. Again that frustration and disappointment that my body didn’t perform bubbled up through my psyche and spilled over my cheeks. What’s changed? Now, I practice. I go every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday and I practice. I write once a week as part of my practice. I read teaching books and go to conferences because I practice.
I professionally perform often.
I repeatedly repeat exercises so as to become.
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