今日は月曜日で、やるべきことが多い一日でした。
仲のいい先生が体調を崩してしまい、心配する一日でもありました。
まだまだ、休職してからの復帰１か月で、職員室に入ることもできず、配慮の中で生活しています。
そんな自分が情けなく苦しくて、でも、手を差し伸べてくださる先生方もいらっしゃって、感謝の中で生きています。
私は、「書く」ことで頭の中が整理されるのですが、注意すべき点も発見しました。
書くことで、整理されると、そのときの出来事の臨場感みたいなものがなくなるというか…温度が失われてしまうときがある、ということです。
それが「冷静」ということなのかもしれないけれど、人に何か伝えるときは、「温度」も必要なのかな、とも思ったり。
今日は、子ども達の行事の練習があったのだけれど、全然、準備をしていなくて、お話する必要がありました。
私は、子ども達の言葉を一つひとつ黒板に書いて、心の動きを整理していきました・・「やる気がない」「何事も他人事」→「練習しない」→「音程がとれず、リズムがバラバラ」→「練習に集中できない」という具合に。
構造的で子ども達の中には入っていったようですが、同時に、もっと熱を持って語れる先生でもありたいな、と思いました。
ーAmelie.
The Temperature That Writing Cannot Hold
Today was Monday, and there was a lot to do.
A teacher I’m close to fell ill, and I spent much of the day worrying about her. It’s been just one month since I returned from my leave of absence, and I still can’t bring myself to step into the staff room. I’m living and working under the gentle care of those around me, with quiet accommodations made for me.
There are moments when I feel small — frustrated with the version of myself who still can’t walk into that room. But there are also teachers who reach out a hand to me, and so I am living, every day, inside a kind of gratitude.
I’ve come to rely on writing. Putting things on paper organizes my mind. But today I noticed something I want to remember.
When I write, things become organized — and in becoming organized, something is lost. The sense of being there, the temperature of the moment, fades. Maybe that’s what people call “becoming calm.” But when we speak to others, when we try to reach them, I think temperature is also necessary. Calm is not the only thing that carries meaning.
We had a rehearsal for one of the children’s school events today, and I realized I hadn’t prepared anything. I needed to talk to them.
So I did what I know how to do. I wrote each of their own words on the blackboard, one by one, tracing the shape of what was happening in their hearts.
“No motivation.” → “Treating it like someone else’s problem.” → “Not practicing.” → “Pitches off, rhythms scattered.” → “Can’t focus during rehearsal.”
It was structural. It seemed to reach them. The arrows on the blackboard let them see, in their own words, how one thing led to the next.
And yet, standing there, I thought to myself: I wish I could also be the kind of teacher who speaks with more heat. Who carries a flame in her voice.
Maybe writing and speaking are two different skills.
Writing arranges. The cost is that things cool down. Speaking gives. For that, warmth is needed.
I’m still learning how to do both. For now, I write to find the shape of things. And on days like today, I stand at the blackboard and trust that the careful tracing of words — quiet as it is — carries its own kind of heat.
— Amelie.
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