Here’s the thing: Looking back to move forward

A few weeks back I found myself in a place I had not been in nearly 20 years: a kindergarten classroom. Things were much different this time.

My legs were longer and did not fit under the table; my hair combed, messenger bag and high heels were completely out of place among a room full of wild haired, backpack toting, sneaker wearing five-year-olds and the only explanation for why I felt like I could barely fit in the chair was because it had shrunk over the years.

As I sat in the class I glanced around at the students who sat in a big circle on the floor, all facing forward. The kids on the sides of the circle were at a slight disadvantage because they had someone sitting in front of them and blocking their view.

They were all looking at their teacher who was patiently reading each sentence from the book she held in her left hand then waving it slowly in front of her when she was finished to allow the students to see the pictures as they soaked in her words.

A blonde girl with pink glasses turned around after page three and asked the girl behind her, 'Can you see?”

She was only being polite, but it really struck me. I've sat in front of hundreds, if not thousands of people and I do not recall even once turning around to ask if they could see around me. Being short, I usually just roll my eyes when a tall person sits in front of me, secretly wanting them to ask me if I can see. But I never considered I should do the same for someone else.

I started thinking about seeing people, really seeing people and their needs. I thought about the day of my high school graduation. I had to stop at the gas station before making my way to the school and when I went in to pay there was a long line.

I was irritated because although I am notorious for being late, I did not want to be late to my own graduation. An older man, the first in line, glanced back and saw a man in army fatigues standing behind me. He waived him to the front of the line and let him pay first, telling him he had done too much for our country to be forced to wait in line.

It struck me as interesting, not just that he picked him out, but the pride the older man seemed to have when he saw the soldier standing in line. I had yet to look behind me until that point, simply concerned if I could see how long it would be until I got my chance at the window because I had a diploma to receive.

A few years after that I was sitting in the dressing room of a community theater when my friend and fellow castmate brought me a warm cider unexpectedly. She stopped at Starbucks before the show and the barista, my friend from high school, recognized her from photos I posted and sent me a free drink for good luck.

This time someone saw me when I didn't even realize there was anything to look at. I wasn't even there and yet my new favorite barista recognized my other friend and because of her, thought of me.

It never occurred to me to look back in line at the gas station or look back at who I was handing something to while at work. I was just looking forward toward what would need to be done or taken care of.

The whole point of the rear view mirror is to check on what's behind us. Check if the lane is open, if anyone is coming down or up the street. The entire point of looking back is to move forward.

My whole life I have had this metaphoric rear view mirror to use and I hadn't. My focus was always on growing and looking ahead because I was taught that was what I was supposed to do but in the meantime I forgot to teach myself to check on everyone behind me.

I think we all get like that sometimes, only concerned about what lies ahead of us instead of behind us. Dwelling on the past is not healthy, but looking back, making sure everyone else is OK, using our mirror to just check in and offer someone a spot in line or a warm cider, is.

Three weeks ago I sat in an orange plastic chair and it made me wonder how many times I would have to return to Kindergarten before I remembered to ask the person behind me if they could see the story.