Almost all of my teaching career has taken place within Quaker schools. If you're not familiar with Quaker tradition (and I sure wasn't when I had my first interview at a Quaker school), here is the super-simplified overview: Friends (aka Quakers) believe that there is "that of God" in every person. This belief informs all others, including worship. Friends gather for worship in silence, in a state of what's called expectant waiting, without any sort of leader. If all of us have direct access to God, then any of us, at any time, can have a ministry. In some Quaker writings, there is reference to the idea of a "wee small voice" within us, which can alert us to the possibility of having a message to share.
Most people I've talked to have felt some variation of that "wee small voice" at one time or another, whether or not they believe it has a divine source. I tend to think of it as instinct, sixth sense, "guts." Perhaps your wee small voice led to some sort of profound breakthrough; or maybe it was a matter of something just not feeling right. Whatever the outcome, when you listen to that wee small voice, you know that you are being true to yourself, and to what you know to be true in a universal sort of way that sometimes even transcends thought.
From the time my daughter was two, I have been hearing my own wee small voice alerting me to...something. I wasn't even sure what. For the next four years, I would feel perpetual tension between that wee small voice and the deafening roar from rest of the world. Sometimes, the messages from the world were well-meaning. "She's amazing" (she is!). "All children develop in their own time" (they do!). "You worry too much" (guilty as charged!). Other times, the world's messages felt a bit more sinister. They implied that I shouldn't really trust myself. That my own anxiety made me unable to see things clearly. That I was projecting my own issues onto my daughter, and that I was actually the one responsible for her challenges.
And yet, the wee small voice persisted.
So I did, too. I asked for screenings. For assessments, tours, extra conferences, financial assistance for therapies when we didn't qualify. Most recently, I asked for an evaluation from our school district. Two weeks later, I sat around a full table in a conference room, surrounded by a team who loves and cares for my girl. And there it was, on paper, in the middle of all of us: The proof that my wee small voice had been right all along.
The very next day, my other daughter was excited for me to see something she left in my school mailbox. On a small paper envelope, she'd placed a sticker of Horton (of Hears a Who fame) and written my name. The message, altogether, read "I hear you, Adrienne." It was as though the universe itself was sending me yet another message: You are heard.
I feel positive about the entire experience. I feel confident and informed moving forward. But the single biggest takeaway for me is to continue to honor my own wee small voice, however unpopular it may be. And I hope that I will teach the same to my children and my students.
Most people I've talked to have felt some variation of that "wee small voice" at one time or another, whether or not they believe it has a divine source. I tend to think of it as instinct, sixth sense, "guts." Perhaps your wee small voice led to some sort of profound breakthrough; or maybe it was a matter of something just not feeling right. Whatever the outcome, when you listen to that wee small voice, you know that you are being true to yourself, and to what you know to be true in a universal sort of way that sometimes even transcends thought.
From the time my daughter was two, I have been hearing my own wee small voice alerting me to...something. I wasn't even sure what. For the next four years, I would feel perpetual tension between that wee small voice and the deafening roar from rest of the world. Sometimes, the messages from the world were well-meaning. "She's amazing" (she is!). "All children develop in their own time" (they do!). "You worry too much" (guilty as charged!). Other times, the world's messages felt a bit more sinister. They implied that I shouldn't really trust myself. That my own anxiety made me unable to see things clearly. That I was projecting my own issues onto my daughter, and that I was actually the one responsible for her challenges.
And yet, the wee small voice persisted.
So I did, too. I asked for screenings. For assessments, tours, extra conferences, financial assistance for therapies when we didn't qualify. Most recently, I asked for an evaluation from our school district. Two weeks later, I sat around a full table in a conference room, surrounded by a team who loves and cares for my girl. And there it was, on paper, in the middle of all of us: The proof that my wee small voice had been right all along.
The very next day, my other daughter was excited for me to see something she left in my school mailbox. On a small paper envelope, she'd placed a sticker of Horton (of Hears a Who fame) and written my name. The message, altogether, read "I hear you, Adrienne." It was as though the universe itself was sending me yet another message: You are heard.
I feel positive about the entire experience. I feel confident and informed moving forward. But the single biggest takeaway for me is to continue to honor my own wee small voice, however unpopular it may be. And I hope that I will teach the same to my children and my students.
