I'm a teacher. I recently had a conversation with another teacher, who expressed appreciation for parent-teacher conference conversations in which the parents are emphatically concerned with the question, "Does my child respect you and other teachers?" I also appreciate parent-teacher conferences in which the parents ask about more than a student's academics, but something about this conversation has continued to gnaw at the back of my mind (not in a migraine kind of way, just a bit of unsettling of my soul).
I stand with my back against the countertop, hands wrapped around a mug of warm water - known in my family as silver tea - scanning the busyness of the room. On the carpet, a couple boys build towers with the knobless cylinders, a potentially potent, but for now peaceful, mix of personalities and material. I become enthralled watching Zoe work with coloring pencils and paper on the table by the fish tank. Minutes pass; she and I are "in the zone," Csikeszentmihalyi's flow, we are absorbed in our work. As she dutifully arranges her pencils above her paper and settles into her seat, I note her determined, focused, concentrated countenance. From somewhere deep within her, she felt the need to do this work - the outcome of which still remains a mystery to me.
Each day I watch as children engage in freely chosen work, unveiling more about their inherent personality, more fully owning skills that propel them into the future, as they will continue to become distinctly beautiful human beings. Watching Zoe at work, absorbed in her peaceful inner drive, peace settles on the shores of my soul; I understand my respect for the child far outweighs the child's need to respect me, for as she creates a meticulously multi-colored abstract drawing on that blank piece of paper, she acts to create herself.
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