Dear September Adrienne,
Aw, just look at you. You're freckled. Rested. Smiling. I've seen the classroom, and it looks great. You really reflected on your observations from last year and made adjustments to the space. All of the children's things are labeled. Provocations are ready. Materials are ready. You're ready! I can tell by the sparkle in your eye. You're so excited to meet your new students and begin another year of discovery. All of the past year's amazing experiences are still shimmering in your misty watercolor memories: The moments of connection and the breakthroughs. The relationships and the questions. And what about all the incredible studies that emerged?! That Matisse inquiry that seamlessly transitioned to Degas, then to the human form, and on to dance? Perfection! Not to mention a skillful integration of your own passions and interests, which are so essential. Oh wow, you can't wait to get started. It's going to be so great!
Wait just a minute there, lady.
You will have these moments, yes. They will feed your soul and sustain you. They will resonate to your deepest core and confirm your vocation as a teacher. But they won't come right away. In fact, they might not come for a long time.
I'm writing today to remind you that the beginning is hard. It's really, really hard. It may take six weeks until you feel like the group is settled and you're in a good groove. It may take six months. There will be a lot of crying and a lot of cuddles needed. You will have to keep the classroom door closed so that you don't lose anyone. You will clean furniture that gets used as a canvas, frantically search mouths for choking hazards of unknown origin, and physically place yourself as a barrier between two children who can only express their frustration with one another physically. You will seek common threads in the play you observe, testing out lots of provocations that get overlooked or destroyed. You will feel like you spend the better part of your day in the bathroom. You will model - over and over and over again - until you're sick of the sound of your own voice. You will be completely spent at the end of the day, and then wrestle with the guilt you feel when you have no inner resources left for your own daughters.
But it will happen. I promise.
A child will make an observation so wise and profound, it will take your breath away. The spark of an idea will take hold of you in the exactly the right moment. A parent will well up with gratitude or you will be inspired by the insights of a colleague. Joy and love will come crashing in during the most ordinary of moments, and your heart will be full when you reunite with your children at the end of the day. It really will happen.
It's so easy to forget. To forget the hard when the classroom is alive and humming; and to see the positive possibilities when you're in the thick of a challenge. So try not to forget. Be ready to take good care of yourself. Be ready to rely on the love and support of those near you. And reread this letter. Look forward to the magic.
With love,
February Adrienne
Aw, just look at you. You're freckled. Rested. Smiling. I've seen the classroom, and it looks great. You really reflected on your observations from last year and made adjustments to the space. All of the children's things are labeled. Provocations are ready. Materials are ready. You're ready! I can tell by the sparkle in your eye. You're so excited to meet your new students and begin another year of discovery. All of the past year's amazing experiences are still shimmering in your misty watercolor memories: The moments of connection and the breakthroughs. The relationships and the questions. And what about all the incredible studies that emerged?! That Matisse inquiry that seamlessly transitioned to Degas, then to the human form, and on to dance? Perfection! Not to mention a skillful integration of your own passions and interests, which are so essential. Oh wow, you can't wait to get started. It's going to be so great!
Wait just a minute there, lady.
You will have these moments, yes. They will feed your soul and sustain you. They will resonate to your deepest core and confirm your vocation as a teacher. But they won't come right away. In fact, they might not come for a long time.
I'm writing today to remind you that the beginning is hard. It's really, really hard. It may take six weeks until you feel like the group is settled and you're in a good groove. It may take six months. There will be a lot of crying and a lot of cuddles needed. You will have to keep the classroom door closed so that you don't lose anyone. You will clean furniture that gets used as a canvas, frantically search mouths for choking hazards of unknown origin, and physically place yourself as a barrier between two children who can only express their frustration with one another physically. You will seek common threads in the play you observe, testing out lots of provocations that get overlooked or destroyed. You will feel like you spend the better part of your day in the bathroom. You will model - over and over and over again - until you're sick of the sound of your own voice. You will be completely spent at the end of the day, and then wrestle with the guilt you feel when you have no inner resources left for your own daughters.
But it will happen. I promise.
A child will make an observation so wise and profound, it will take your breath away. The spark of an idea will take hold of you in the exactly the right moment. A parent will well up with gratitude or you will be inspired by the insights of a colleague. Joy and love will come crashing in during the most ordinary of moments, and your heart will be full when you reunite with your children at the end of the day. It really will happen.
It's so easy to forget. To forget the hard when the classroom is alive and humming; and to see the positive possibilities when you're in the thick of a challenge. So try not to forget. Be ready to take good care of yourself. Be ready to rely on the love and support of those near you. And reread this letter. Look forward to the magic.
With love,
February Adrienne
