There's Something About Her

-->

She flits into my classroom early in the morning.  Although she lives within walking distance of the school, she usually arrives before other students and a few teachers as well.  Large schools have policies about that sort of thing and they shoo the Early Birds into the cafegymatorium or cattle chute them into a hot breakfast line. 

Not us.   

Eventually an aide will take them outdoors to play in order to give we teachers those last precious moments of day’s preparation.  But there are no rules about colonizing them into regions unknown the moment their feet cross the threshold.

She is not one of my first graders, but rather a student from an upper elementary grade.  She habitually walks on her toes and it creates the stealth of a cat on lush grass.  I generally do not know she is there until she is nearly upon me.  I am endlessly surprised that she never startles me.  She waits for me to acknowledge her presence and then she greets me with a never changing, “Hi, Mrs. Dahl.”  She smiles her sad little smile, but behind her cat-shaped eyes I detect the sparkle of intelligent wit .  I am usually in the middle of laying out seat work, or entering grades, or trying to answer a parent’s email in those last eye-of-the-hurricane moments before the Darlings come spilling through the doorway, all jabbering simultaneously and in desperate need to tell me about what they dreamed about, or what they had for supper the night before, or their newest video game victory.  It is my favorite part of the day, when they are energetic and fresh for learning.  There is generally a note or two shyly laid on my desk like offerings for capricious gods declaring their endless love for me, along with stick figure drawings.  I can always pick out myself in primitive artwork.  I am the tall one with the chaotic hair. 

And so it is sometimes difficult to fully focus on my early morning apparition.  Her next words are also unvaried and never fail to soften my heart a little and pull my eyes to her face and my attention to her words.  “I brought you something.”  “What is it today, dear?”  Only then will she allow herself to enter my personal space.  It is akin to the king raising his scepter for a peasant to enter his presence. 

Her long, slender fingers then open gracefully to reveal whatever treasure grabbed her attention that day. It may be a feather, or a leaf, or a frog, or beetle.  She is famous for her ceaseless collecting of interesting rocks.  She has donated countless chunks of quartz to my science discovery shelf and even a few treasured fossils. 

Yesterday she placed three green bean seeds lightly in my hand.  Today a dozen dried kernels of corn and lettuce seeds. “I thought your students could plant these in their soil (we are in the middle of a huge thematic soil unit) and see if they’re good for growing stuff.”  She paused, waiting for my encouragement to continue.  I give it.  “That is a great idea,” I assure warmly. 

Now that the charitable deed is done, she wanders around my classroom thoughtfully, noticing things that most people miss.  Her senses are oblivious to the common nuances of everyday living.  She struggles with finding her niche in the society of her class.  She does not seem to notice or alter her behavior when her peers teasingly point out her differences to others her age.  She is offended at times, yes, but sees no need to change her foundational self in order to fit someone else’s mold.  She is unashamedly true to herself.  I cannot help but admire that a little.

The opposite pendulum swing is that she seems to be attuned to things most people are too busy or noisy to notice.  She walks outside with her head down, always. Not because she is disconsolate or lacks confidence.  No, rather, she is engrossed with what amazing discovery she might find at that moment.  She is the most aware nature lover I have ever met.  It is appreciated by few.  Maybe no one.  I’m not sure.  

Maybe that’s why she brings her bounty to me.  She knows I will exclaim over the half robin’s egg, or the ladybug in the cup.  I identify with her, this child who struggles to find her place in society, but who butterflies follow and the Sun kisses with appreciation.  I understand her peaceful coexistence with nature.  As a child, I too walked with my head down and stooped to pick up a pink quartz stone or a clover.  I would climb every tree in our sprawling yard and sit quietly for hours listening to the birds and watching squirrels chase up and down trunks.  I would rather be outside than anything and I couldn’t get enough of the wonders of nature.  If my neighbor and best friend was busy and couldn’t play, no worries.  I’ve got trees to climb.

I haven’t changed in this regard.  I am still daily amazed at how wonderful this big world is.  I still look up and wonder how the geese know where to go and when.  I smile that green grass is emerging from still cold ground.  I think about gravity and interesting clouds and spotted fawns and how my tomato seeds can lie dormant for decades and then rise from the dead, given the right set of circumstances.  I am flat out blown away by these irrevocable truths. 

My little friend is too, I think.  I don’t know how much she knows or cares about God, but I’m pretty sure she’s a fan, like me.  Like me, she finds her sanctuary at the top of an oak.

I turned back to my grading this morning as she gazed at my soil sample display and the praying mantis tank and the tray of rocks with magnifying glasses beside them and I heard her sigh in appreciation.  “Mrs. Dahl, your room is like a dreamland of science.”  I beamed.  For a moment we basked in the shared appreciation of nature and I laughed a happy laugh.  She is a quasi-hippie in training.

I have small hopes for this child and myself.

I hope I always find time to make this small, daily connection with her.  She stopped coming for a while and I found I missed her and her gathered treasures.  When I told her so in the hallway one day, she was incredulous.  “You do??”  The very next morning she was back as if no time had elapsed.  Her silent approach, standard greeting, and proffered gifts were all there.  When she left this morning, I carefully added the corn kernels to the small dish with the bean seeds.  I would share them with my first graders during reading rug time.  She took the time to bless our class with them.  They will be graciously discussed in turn. 

I hope my students catch her love of nature.  I hope they learn to see things others miss.  I hope they are never in too big a rush to spot a treasure and lean down to pick it up for examination.  I hope they climb a few trees and listen to the birds’ song for the sheer joy of it.  I hope they learn to recognize the beauty all around them.  I hope the setting sun takes their breath away everyday of their lives.  I hope they never stop wondering or asking questions about the things they see and feel and hear.  I hope they are amazed by something each and every day.  I hope they catch the spirit of my little friend.

I think the world could use a few more quasi-hippies…