The ugly book sat on the desk in front of us. We had work to do, heavy, exhausting work. My student and I sat at a small table near the library window. We often pause to look out the window at Seattle and the Olympic mountains behind it.
“What is that blinking?” she asked. I scanned the horizon and finally saw it, a blinking tower of red lights on a hill south of the cityscape. A pink trail of clouds signaled sundown.
“I don’t know, some kind of lights to tell a pilot not to fly there, I would guess, but I don’t know.” I didn’t know. I think that’s important for her to hear. I don’t know why our society is in such a state of expecting to know everything, even things we don’t know, rushing, pushing through everything, especially work for children.
I had brought mugs, hot water in a thermos, honey, a spoon, and a choice of teas. As she picked a flavor, peppermint, I poured hot water into our mugs, a mismatched set of my favorites. She added honey, stirred, added more, and sipped. For a moment, I explained, she should sit with her hands around the warm mug, breathe in the steam, and prepare for the job ahead. She was worried about work she was having trouble with. I wanted her to realize that work, even unwanted work, could begin with a ritual.
“We should do this every time,” she said as she sipped her tea then picked up her book.
Exactly, I thought, as I breathed steam from my cup, in and out, in and out …
… in and out …
… slowly.
Thank you for listening, jules