My most recent professional development focused on mindfulness. I walked away with some unexpected conclusions (more on that to come!), but one phrase was repeated during the workshop that keeps coming back to me:
Pause.
Notice.
When we teachers feel the impulse - to react, to intervene, to direct - open instead to the possibility of pausing and noticing. Allow that small practice to inform our actions that follow. In that tiny space, that space that can take one second or one minute, we open ourselves to the potential for meaningful and connected interactions with our students.
Pause.
Notice.
When we teachers feel the impulse - to react, to intervene, to direct - open instead to the possibility of pausing and noticing. Allow that small practice to inform our actions that follow. In that tiny space, that space that can take one second or one minute, we open ourselves to the potential for meaningful and connected interactions with our students.
I've been thinking a lot lately about my role as a teacher. In fact, it's one of the lenses through which I asked to be observed for my evaluation this year. When someone visits my room, what do they see me doing? Literally, in that very moment. Because sometimes, I'm not sure what I think I should be doing. I love, love, love preparing the classroom environment, choosing and offering materials that I think will be engaging and stimulating. And, even more than the physical space, I love fostering the spirit of the classroom community: Where questions are encouraged and mistakes are allowed; where kindness is the standard and generosity abounds; where each child is known and valued. I love this work, and I think I'm pretty darn good at it.
So what happens during those moments when the classroom is humming along contentedly and I am totally unnecessary?
That's really what we're going for, right? Making ourselves unneeded. It should feel like a triumph, a success, when the room is functioning so beautifully as I stand aside. So why does it feel so awkward?
Sometimes, I work on the physical environment. I'll take photos or notes about what I observe. Maybe I'll quietly join in the play alongside the children, careful not to impose my agenda or guide their plans. Or perhaps I'll chat with my teaching partner, exchanging our thoughts or brainstorming plans. But whatever I'm doing in these blissfully child-directed moments, it doesn't feel hard. And I'm having a surprisingly hard time allowing myself to be ok with that.
So what happens during those moments when the classroom is humming along contentedly and I am totally unnecessary?
That's really what we're going for, right? Making ourselves unneeded. It should feel like a triumph, a success, when the room is functioning so beautifully as I stand aside. So why does it feel so awkward?
Sometimes, I work on the physical environment. I'll take photos or notes about what I observe. Maybe I'll quietly join in the play alongside the children, careful not to impose my agenda or guide their plans. Or perhaps I'll chat with my teaching partner, exchanging our thoughts or brainstorming plans. But whatever I'm doing in these blissfully child-directed moments, it doesn't feel hard. And I'm having a surprisingly hard time allowing myself to be ok with that.
Pause.
Notice.
Notice.
