A few weeks ago, I sat on a cold, hard bench in our meetinghouse. I closed my eyes and settled in to the silence, allowing my thoughts to wind and flow freely. Gradually, I felt a familiar stillness within, an openness, a readiness. On this day, I was seeking. I sought guidance about my teaching, a part of my life that is so important to me. It had been an especially challenging start to my school year and, while I'd had my fair share of tough spots in my career, this was the first time that I felt lost. It worried me. It scared me a little. In time, a message arose within me, clear and strong.
"You are exactly the right teacher for these children."
I had been worried because I doubted that I could be enough. How could I possibly be what my students needed? How could I ever have enough time, enough patience, enough resources?
Enough...could it be...enough love?
"You are exactly the right teacher for these children."
I had been worried because I doubted that I could be enough. How could I possibly be what my students needed? How could I ever have enough time, enough patience, enough resources?
Enough...could it be...enough love?
Our work as early childhood educators is demanding in so many ways. It tasks us physically, mentally, emotionally. I find it deeply satisfying, and it is the work my soul longs to do, but I typically reach the end of my day feeling totally exhausted. It's tempting to sense that exhaustion setting in and tell myself that I am depleted. There is nothing left to give.
But what if that's not true? What if I am actually capable of giving much more than I let myself believe?
And I don't mean in an over-scheduled, spread-too-thin kind of way (my signing up for one more obligation would mean defying the laws of physics). I mean tiny, everyday moments of giving. When I'm about to lose my patience, I can make the conscious effort to take a breath, dig deep, and use a gentle voice. When a child lashes out at me, I can choose to view the behavior as an unmet need and respond with kindness. When there is yet another spill, another bathroom accident, another boo-boo, I can decide to smile and offer love.
In the weeks since that meetinghouse revelation, I find myself being stretched in ways that, without exaggeration, are revolutionizing my teaching. Perhaps this is how we discover what we are truly capable of - these minute-by-minute decisions to discipline ourselves, to give, to love.
Maybe you are a fellow teacher reading this, feeling lost. Wondering if you can be enough. I want to tell you that you can. You already are.
In fact, you are more than enough. You are exactly right.
But what if that's not true? What if I am actually capable of giving much more than I let myself believe?
And I don't mean in an over-scheduled, spread-too-thin kind of way (my signing up for one more obligation would mean defying the laws of physics). I mean tiny, everyday moments of giving. When I'm about to lose my patience, I can make the conscious effort to take a breath, dig deep, and use a gentle voice. When a child lashes out at me, I can choose to view the behavior as an unmet need and respond with kindness. When there is yet another spill, another bathroom accident, another boo-boo, I can decide to smile and offer love.
In the weeks since that meetinghouse revelation, I find myself being stretched in ways that, without exaggeration, are revolutionizing my teaching. Perhaps this is how we discover what we are truly capable of - these minute-by-minute decisions to discipline ourselves, to give, to love.
Maybe you are a fellow teacher reading this, feeling lost. Wondering if you can be enough. I want to tell you that you can. You already are.
In fact, you are more than enough. You are exactly right.
