On my first day of work as elementary school librarian, I watched as small groups of young students trooped in and plonked themselves down on the carpet to absorb the library vibe and meet the new librarian. I introduced myself and explained about story time and the exciting prospect of being able to borrow books. “And if a class is really good about listening to the read-aloud, and if they are very quiet, you will get to meet some of my puppet friends who live in the library.” Their big eyes scanned the top shelf where the various puppet animals were perched, waiting to speak to them.
“Do they talk all by themselves?” asked one little girl. “No,” I replied. “They are a bit shy. They only talk when they’re right next to me.” Well, that made perfect sense to them. Still, they studied the puppets for any signs of movement while they sat very still.
As one class stood up to file out, a little boy raised his hand very high in the air. “Yes?”
“Quiet,” he declared, “is coming!” Quite a statement from a Kindergardener who are not typically known for bringing quiet to anything. He had determined that he would be so quiet, however, that the puppets would be brave enough to speak. We’ll see if he succeeds.
Little did I know how prophetic that statement would be. I had learned to associate school with noisy, engaging, relentless activity. As a teacher in a self-contained classroom of 5th graders, I was always listening and looking in several directions at once. I had learned to distinguish productive noise from distracting chatter. I could sense conflict almost before it happened. I could hear someone being excluded from group work. Working in the library is much different. The quiet was coming, indeed. I often wonder if the students are still in the building, it’s so quiet. The background clamor of the playground does not penetrate the glass walls and stacks of books. The quiet is here. It picks me up off the ground and I sometimes feel as if I am a spirit, floating among the shelves, silently sliding volumes back into their spaces.

It’s amazing how a little thing can mean so much. I was almost done with my grocery shopping, just an afterthought wander through the local store after having dropped off Joel’s only suit jacket at the dry cleaner’s. (Note to self… fix the small hole in the right sleeve that the sharp-eyed counter lady pointed out.) Turning in to the frozen confection aisle, I was thinking about lemon ice cups, when I felt an insistent bump at my left hip. An intent face turned up towards me. “Konnichiwa!” It was the little girl from down the street who often shows up at our door looking for 12-yr. old Elsa, who is usually kind enough to play energetically with her outside. I didn’t know how to tell her, in Japanese, that we were finally back from the lake and that Elsa would be home once again. I wondered how many times she had turned up on the door step during the three weeks that we were away. How many times had she stood and knocked with no one there to answer the door? But now we were back and school would be starting once again.

She put her hand up in the air and solemnly waited for my hand to meet it in a “high-five.” I met her hand and our fingers interlaced in a friendly, easy embrace. Her mother came around the corner as we exchanged greetings and she smiled warmly as if to say, “Kindness to my child is kindness to me.” With children, the language barrier does not seem so vast or insurmountable. The brief clasp reminded me of the gift I’ve been given. Even though the past year had tattered my confidence, the gift was still there, as solid as ever. There was that flash of understanding, a kinship with children that allows me to be young and old at the same time. Kids know that I get them. It’s easy to pay attention to them; to understand what they are saying. So much harder to understand the parents; always a struggle to stay on the adult wavelength when a child is there with so many important and honest and intriguing things to say.

Another school year starting. A year of listening and learning from the children; of finding out how to teach and reach each individual. A puzzle and a challenge worth solving. Once again I know that teaching is my bliss. It is why I am here.

Who would have thought teaching would be so dangerous? Stepping out on a rope stretching from August to June, spanning a multitude of subjects and disciplines, holding a pole festooned with such a motley mobile of educational accouterments that it would cause Calder to turn in his grave. The audience is below; a smattering of smiles and smirks; some applauding every step and some waiting for the spectacle of a fall. There is no net. This is the real world, after all.
Once you step out onto the rope, there is no backward, only forward. Each step is a sigh of amazement that the rope is still beneath your feet. Each wobble is a gasp of doubt that the balance will remain. One, two, three… eyes on me, as you step gingerly across the void. As you teach, you are taught. There is the ever-present tension in the rope you tread; the threads of necessary knowledge are intertwined with the windings of wisdom. A strong rope needs both… and the teaching must be taut.
Your eyes look straight ahead; the goal of this careful crossing must be your ever-present focus. A second of distraction can be disastrous. Don’t look down; look forward to the goal. Be centered. Be balanced. What is the point of all this? What learning do you want to facilitate? Are those spit balls being shot on either side of you? A taught-rope walker must have exceptional peripheral vision. You identify the perp without a pause in your pace, without turning your face. “Take that paper pulp out of your mouth and drop it in the garbage can. That is not what we meant by recycling.”
Half-way across the chasm, you stop to ponder your progress. The quiver is gone, your step more certain. The pole is no longer a burden but a tool for balance. You pause your pace for a bit of interpretive dance, which captivates the audience but garners a glare from the ever-present ringmaster. Ignore the glare, shrug off the stare. For whom do you perform, after all? They follow you with their eyes. If only they would learn to focus, not on the walker, but on the path; the taut rope that catches every step.