Учительница нашла вдохновение в закате и вспомнила своих наставниц

Hello, neighbors. I never had Ms. Greene as a teacher. Her classroom was right across the hall from Ms. Robertson, my first-grade teacher. Ms. Robertson was fantastic, plenty of positive energy as I recall. Math made sense in her class, she strongly encouraged my ever-blossoming love of reading, and she gave the merry-go-round a few good pushes each day on the playground. She even made a book out of a “book” I made for her. Zip into the future by 25 years, and I am back at Ila Elementary, still not in Ms. Greene’s class but definitely a student of hers. We are co-workers at the school, and I am seeing in her elements of what I want my role to be: a future leader for the students, a teacher of influence, able to help children learn as pupils and grow as people. I was never a kid in her class, but I kind of was, eventually. Several more years on, she is retired, and I hear her tell me the words, “What I really miss is nit-picking with the children, ‘Billy, stay in line and show me how a nice young man walks in the hallway,’ or ‘Susie, is your mother going to be able to read that letter ‘R’ you just wrote? Neaten it up, please, ma’am.’” Fussing over the kids rather than fussing at them is how she put it, I believe. The sentiment stays with me, even now. I do some of the same: look at you with your bright new shoes, clean and fast-looking…and untied; let me see if I can find a good line leader—who looks ready to lead us? It makes me smile to play the part of teacher in those little ways, and I am thankful I had ladies like Ms. Robertson and Ms. Greene (and so many others) showing me how along the way. I thought of the above while walking to and from the mailbox one evening last week. I say “walking.” It was more like walking-then-stopping-then-looking-then-breathing-then-enjoying. The school day was quite a busy one, and I was spent. A day where my mind raced from one task to the next to the next, leaving scant space or time for actual awareness, moments to gather myself, to think in a relaxed way. Surely you know such a mode of living. Living—well, operating, I suppose. Times are, we quickly drag ourselves underwater, deeper and deeper even though we know we desperately need air. It happened to me that particular day. Then, there were pink clouds. It seemed all of a sudden. They were there the whole time, though. Perhaps not as pink before, but white-and-gray should be just as fair. There was a cream-blue sky, softened with the cloudy sunset, light diffused to the point that even the air around me seemed a hazed yellow. Glowing. The nearly-full Moon nailed just behind the darkened post oak’s branches, a bright light before the coming night. Crickets tuned up their strings for the symphony. All amid summer evening’s drifting, wafting warmth. Why I thought of Ms. Greene and Ms. Robertson in that moment I could not say. In any case, the gentle scene brought memories of them, reminders of a happy past amid so many reminders of a happy present—a much-needed breath of air. My hope is that you pause for air. Thank you for making my life better, Susan and Sheree.