I reach to name that which bubbles in ready laughter and stands still in tears that don’t fall, but I can’t. There is a story being lived out everyday in our third grade that can’t be pinned down in words. It is a song with unwritten chords that leaves a trail of notes in the air, sung and unsung, all at once. It is a poem with the last word missing that keeps us waiting. Hoping. Longing. Reaching. The bass notes are found in couplets of call and response.
I’m sorry. I forgive you.
I’m taking responsibility. That’s who you are.
Let me help. I know you will.
I’ll include you. No one is left out of the circle.
I’ll do it. I’ll help.
A hidden curriculum exists that can’t be laid out with blueprints or spiraling objectives or benchmark tests… and mastery takes a lifetime. Teachers create the space that is broadened and deepened through inquiry, interaction, and the interruption of real life.
There is no record, except for whatever it is that bubbles up in easy laughter and stands still in tears that don’t fall. I stop in awe. And then I give myself a shake. I have objectives to teach. And miles to go before I sleep.