Seeds of a Heart-Centered Classroom

“Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.” Thoreau, Faith in a Seed 

For most of my adult life I have kept a copy of Thoreau’s Walden near my bedside. I appreciate Thoreau for the stillness he captures in the mundane treasures of each moment. A younger self often skimmed to the pithy sections but, in the process of securing access to the popular quotes, I was confronted by the lists and details and reveries of daily life in the wood. For much of my life I lived for the perfect moments with a hope to transcend the daily grind, and it is only recently that I’ve become accustomed to the transcendence of the grind.

A few summers ago, traveling with my family through New England, we happened on Walden Pond State Reservation in Massachusetts while we were looking for the Concord Battlefield. We stopped at the park and visited Thoreau’s cabin. To my great surprise, Walden Pond was much larger than I had imagined. In California we would be much more likely to call it a lake. Walden Pond came complete with its own beach, changing rooms, and lifeguards. I put my suit on and swam the length of the pond and back to the beach. It was one of those experiences that you don’t even know is on your bucket list. I swam with kayakers and other swimmers making the trek across the lake, all unfazed by the rain. The other swimmers were much older than I, probably locals who swam the pond regularly. For me, this was likely to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

As I sit in my backyard this morning, I’m distracted by the sounds of cicadas in the trees and when I look up, I notice a swallowtail butterfly on the pink hibiscus flower. The lemon verbena and bee balm, who hosted bumblebees and butterflies last week, have bloomed and gone to seed. Yesterday morning my husband called me to the window to watch a pair of Goldfinches weighing down stalks as they ate the seeds. And Thoreau’s seed quote awakens a story from my classroom last semester.

When I was in my teacher education program, I became aware of the importance of giving every child the same opportunities to learn. I was terrified of the study that showed that teachers lingered over students who were dressed better than their classmates because I saw that unintended biases can contribute to differential disadvantages to some groups of students. When I began my teaching practice, it became clear that students who lacked impulse control often demanded and received most of my attention. I quickly realized that I would need to consciously and proactively invite participation from my more reserved students.

One of my girls came to me at lunch to arrange for an excused absence to go to the Bouldering Youth National Championships. Usually, I just sign the form and mention my trust that the student will make up work or assessments on their return, but my curiosity was piqued at the reason for the absence involving “bouldering” and “nationals.” So, I probed, “What is bouldering?” My student gave a very brief answer that made me think she’d be scrabbling over river rocks on a cross-country race. Then, I made a statement that was more of a question, “You must be pretty good if you are going to nationals.” She immediately looked down. I asked again, “If you’re going to nationals, you must be pretty good, right?” Again, my student looked away and refused to answer. It got uncomfortable. I don’t like to press my students, but I trusted my instinct that this was important, that this student needed to know that I thought of her as important.

I determined to press a bit more even though I’ve been taught to respect other cultures, and yes, having lived in Japan, I know that some girls have been raised with an intense expectation of invisibility, silence, and not bringing any attention to themselves. I asked again, and when my student realized that I wasn’t giving up, she looked me in the eyes and admitted the most that she could allow, “I guess you could say that.”

Before she could exit my classroom, I was googling her name with ”Bouldering National Championships.” Her deep display of humility convinced me that she was not just good, but also that she was amazing. Google did not disappoint. She had placed 8th in her age group last year, and 5th place this year at the national competition. Further, when I viewed video of the competition, I discovered that bouldering is what I’d call extreme rock climbing. The courses were not particularly high, but climbers navigated difficult obstacles, including large overhangs, without a safety rope, only a big pad to soften landings when climbers fall.

It’s not surprising that my nationally ranked, student athlete, returned to class without fanfare or report. In fact, her facial expression showed displeasure that I had discovered her secret. I’d like to say that her reaction was more complex, that I could tell underneath it all that it had pleased her that someone had cared enough to pry and ask and see her truly, but I can only hope that I planted a seed: that my student knows I care about her, and it’s okay to share her successes.

I worked with another student last semester who was painfully shy to the extent that I believed she may be selectively mute. When she entered my room for the first time, she averted her eyes when I greeted her, and chose a seat at the back. Every aspect of her body language indicated that she wanted to be invisible. She didn’t realize that in my classroom, that put a huge target on her back.

Progress with this student was very slow, and I gave her time to get to know me and understand that I represented a safe space for her and all her classmates. I waited, commented on her work privately, and acknowledged her every day in small ways. In the first days as I approached her desk she froze, like a deer in the woods, at complete attention and waiting for me to move on. I never left without finding a specific and genuine way to complement her work. I made the extra effort to ask if she had a question when no questions were forthcoming. After several weeks, she stopped freezing when I approached and would nod her head, pigtails bobbing, at the complement. She never asked a question. The seed was planted, being nourished, and growing.

At the same time, I was making sure to greet her every time we passed each other in the hallway. To be honest, I try to greet every student I know in the hallway, so this wasn’t special treatment, but because of her closed body language, getting her to acknowledge my greeting took a bit more emphasis. Her response was like a flower opening to sunlight. She began to look for me in the hallway and give me a smile or a nod before I greeted her. She introduced me to her friend, a girl who wore a neck-to-ankles, black, down coat every day, no matter the weather. Her friend began to greet me with a big smile, too. I often saw the girls in the distance down a corridor waving and smiling.

It was time to take my shy student to the next level. I called on her in a whole-class discussion. By her response, I guessed this didn’t happen often, if ever. She looked up. I knew she had the answer. She very quietly spoke the answer, which delighted me, and I asked her to repeat a little louder. She did. Full bloom.

During the last week of school, I announced that I needed student helpers to get my classroom ready for summer school. In my high school, students can earn service-learning hours by volunteering to help teachers. My faded bulletin boards needed an update, and I was hoping to get some help. Nobody volunteered until the last day of school. Standing in the lobby with her friend, my student beckoned me over to her and told me that the two of them wanted to help me with my classroom. Inside, my own garden was blooming like crazy. I never expected that my student would be able to come out of her silence in this way. Gratefully, I told her that I’d love to have their help. Would next Wednesday morning work?

We teachers rarely get to see the full bloom of the seeds we plant, but many of us have followed a call to plant gardens in our classrooms, to nurture our students with the hope that we are giving them more than standards-based instruction. Jack Kornfield (Podcast, The Garden of the Heart) admonishes us to direct our lives to noble endeavors that are “moving to our own hearts and beautiful.” I spent many years following the call even though I held a contradictory belief that I was deeply flawed and didn’t have anything meaningful or valuable to gift to the world. Kornfield goes on to tell us that we all “have good seeds to plant. That is born in you. You have, in you, the seeds of great compassion. You have in you the seeds of wisdom, the seeds of kinship with life, of care for others.”

Looking back on my career, with honesty, I see that I have had seeds of goodness to plant, and I see that I have been planting them. Sometimes students share their perspective on the ways we plant seeds in our classrooms. This is the content of a letter written by one of my graduating seniors:

“As the quiet kid who sat alone in the corner and always had his head down, I never thought that I’d ever actually get to know you. I always imagined that I would just kind of sleep through the year and get my grades without having to talk to anybody. I guess I got the sleeping part right, but not the talking part right since you always checked with me just to make sure that I was understanding the material. I didn’t understand exactly why you even bothered to talk to me since I was basically absent from the class, but as I spent more time in the class, I grew to appreciate your fatherly attitude that you always displayed. As much as I hate to say it, your class was the first time that I felt like my presences somewhat mattered. Considering that I’m the type of person that would rather be ignored in class, I’m deeply grateful that you decided to reach out to me. Now that graduation is so close, I’m beginning to feel a bit sad because I know that I’ll be leaving you behind at Churchill. I’m going to miss your scruffy beard, your kind heart, and your bubbly personality while I’m at [college]. I’ll also miss your first year of teaching MV [Multivariable Calculus] when you had to learn the math alongside us, and your support when you came out to watch my tennis match. I’ll be sure to stay in touch and visit and I hope you make sure to accept my Facebook friend request! No matter where I go, you’ll always hold a special place in my heart as the giant softie that you are (and if you’re not crying at this point, there’s a problem). Good luck with Churchill and Umttr. I hope that we can meet again soon.”

As I work mindfully to create a heart-centered classroom, my students teach me that it isn’t the grand gestures that they expect or appreciate. The little things we do to authentically see our students are what matter most.