I love writing. Without any rules, boxes or needs, other than my own need to pour it out. It feels freeing to be able to see your own words on paper. Or maybe they are not even your own. Maybe they are just coming through you waiting to be expressed through someone who believes in them. I want to be that believer. I believe in words and in people who write words. They give words a chance to be seen. And a chance for themselves to be seen. And it’s not about the receiver anymore. It’s just about the action itself, being able to accompany words into this world.
Word. World. Maybe all words are small worlds and our world is just made of those millions of words…
I’m leaving for work soon. Another day as a second grade teacher. Yesterday my colleague told the class that he had lost his mother last week and that’s why he had been away for a while. I was touched by the responses from the 7-8-year-olds. As my colleague was telling more about his mother, how she had been suffering from dementia for years and how she was old and now in a better place after all and despite the sadness he was doing okay, one of the pupils raised their hand and said; “It sounds like she lived a happy life.” That comment made my heart stop for a while.
How was she so wise. Just a comment like that connected the whole class in a new way. Another pupil asked how old she was and another wanted to share his story of what he had learned about death and close people passing away. And one of the children said; “My great great great great great grand dad used to live in a boat and he died and now he is still in the bottom of that boat.” He very well might still be. How would we know.
Work as a teacher is these moments at best. To be blown away by the wisdom children so genuenly portrait that makes you remember conversations maybe forever.
Conversations that can later on become word worlds.
Thank you for visiting this word world.