Il suffit d’une institutrice incroyable

Today I witnessed such grace that it made me weep.  Most days I would pass this moment by – there are errands to do, work to be started.  But something caught hold of my soul this morning and won’t seem to let go.  So off to pen and paper I go.

We have been blessed this year with wonderful teachers for our sons at a Montessori school near our home.  Each morning one of our 10-year-old son’s teachers stands by the gate to welcome each child with a handshake or a hug and a “Bonjour mademoiselle. Bonjour monsieur.” 

This morning it was our younger son’s local French teacher.  Chestnut-haired and a natural beauty, she is one of those magical people you only read about.  Part fairy princess, part zen master, this woman is full of quiet compassion and moves through the world with sheer delight.  Her voice is soft and gentle, and her words dance like ballerinas as she speaks.  Dressed in a long skirt and apron each day, she creates the feeling of entering an enchanted kingdom. 

Last evening a few parents met after school to discuss an upcoming hike for the class – a special Last-day-of-school adventure.  Truthfully, it is a humble nature walk, but you would never know it from the way she and her co-teacher are approaching it.  As they do with everything, they were practically giddy with wide-eyed wonder and excitement. 

“This is going to be the most beautiful experience,” they explained.  “We will have a little picnic but there are no planned activities – just stops along the way so the children can bask in nature and bathe in the trees.” 

I mean, seriously?  I searched my brain for reasons why we all don’t take tree baths!

The meeting could have taken five minutes, but no one wanted to leave so it went on for about a half hour.  Sitting around a little table under the trees of the play yard, we all wanted to be enveloped more and more by this warm inner joy. 

This morning, I greeted the French teacher and stood outside the fence waving to my sons as they walked up the path to their classrooms.  It was a beautiful Wednesday morning.  The air was warm and sweet, and high clouds smoothed the edges of a brilliant sun. 

As I turned to go, I saw something drop out of the sky and land with a small thud in the play area.  From the crumped feathers and tiny feet, I could see it was a little bird that lay motionless on the ground. 

The teacher noticed the bird as well and something incredible came over her.  Not fear or concern, just a poignant calm to meet the moment.  She bent down to ask a student to go and observe the bird until another teacher could take over her post at the gate. 

“Il est mort,” the little girl called back to her sadly and searched her teacher for what to do next.  Coming nearer, she slowly crouched down to look at the bird and held her hands up over it, creating an invisible dome around the tiny body.  Speaking quietly to the girl, she motioned a bubble above the bird with her hands and then raised her palms to the sky.  To me it looked as if she was honoring and releasing the life energy of the little creature. 

The little girl and I were both mesmerized. 

Then the teacher reached into her apron pocket and took out a white handkerchief.  She laid it over the bird and gently folded the small creature into her hands.  I could see by her face that she was moved by the bird’s passing and the sacred tenderness of her movements caught my breath. 

By this time, other children had gathered in the play area.  Using her naturally soft, lovely voice, she explained to the others what had happened.  They all entered the school together with the lifeless bird still wrapped in the napkin but open at the top for the children to see as she walked. 

Moments later, I saw the children exit the building toward the wooded area behind the school – a boy now holding the bird tenderly in the white cloth, and a parade of children following him and gathering around.  No one was yelling, laughing or poking at the creature.  The children weren’t solemn, but purposeful…and calm.  Naturally curious.  This incredible teacher had not only modeled for them how to respect the bird’s life, but also empowered them to take part in the ritual of its death. 

I heard the children talk over where they might lay the bird to rest – some wandering off to find offerings of sticks and flowers, others deciding where to go and still others finding the right tools to do the digging.  I learned later that they gathered around the little grave and sang the Marseillaise.  And then went back to the business of the classroom.

There are many ways that we as humans can enter a space like this.  Others (myself included) might have called a janitor to dispose of the animal or found a shovel to pitch it in the garbage.  We would quickly move the children away – maybe be grossed out by it or worry about what diseases it carried, turning our heads as we shoved the body away.  In so doing, we would telegraph to the children that death is distasteful and something to be feared.  Likely the younger kids would have squealed and run from it – older kids would have made a joke or just avoided it all together. 

Yet, this wonderful woman chose the alternate path.  She simply entered the space with the animal and the children with ease and grace.  She modeled for the children (and me) that death isn’t outside of us.  It is part of all of us.  And how we treat our fellow beings in death is as important as how we treat the living. 

Children’s education is often confused with what happens when they write in their notebooks, read the lines of a book, or work through a calculation.  How much can they recount for a teacher when they take an exam and how well they cut a straight line with the scissors.  I’m not saying there isn’t a place for these things.    

However, if we are stuck in this mode, we can miss that even deeper education comes from the moments that take place organically.  Incredible lessons present themselves in the ebb and flow of life – when things don’t go as expected, when you have failure and loss, when something precious dies. 

If we can slow ourselves, if we are willing to toss the agenda out the window and enter still presence, that is when learning really takes hold.  That is when we grow.

And that is magic.  Merci, Madame.