You would have been in my class. We both knew it.

I left before you arrived. I missed out. I know.

I remember you in Kindergarten, those big brown eyes of yours. The way they took in everything and missed nothing.

I remember when you came to my class as a little buddy. Your partner sat back and smiled when you took over. You read like a reader does. Part words. Part expression. Part interaction. All proud.

You would look up from the page with those big brown eyes and we would all be right there with you.

I admired your tenacity. Your striped socks. Your big presence in such a little body.

We were waiting for each other. I know.

You made me cards.

I posted them up.

You visited me.

Every morning.

I put aside special books.

You smiled big before sitting down to read them.

I stopped and listened to all of your stories.

You had a lot.

“I am going to be in your class,” you told me all last year. You would have been. I know.

I was waiting for you.

Before I had to go.

Before I missed out on teaching you.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

It is now Spring Break for my district. Two weeks. Which means two weeks without daily sources of material for me. My work day is where my writing begins to whisper. Somehow, by day’s end, something is rising to the surface as a possibility.

Now, I am worried. What happens when I shift into the introspective, reflective time away from students? My writing may have more meaning or it may be completely disconnected from reality. Time will tell. All I know is for two weeks, I have kind of lost my place.

In these first ten days of Slice of Life posting, I have had daily inspiration sources.

I spend all day kid watching. I listen in. I hear things that stick. They turn over and over in my mind. Writing lets me define them. It enables me to make sense. It reveals things I am trying to learn.

I have lots of stories of this past week I haven’t told. But they will become farther and farther away.

I place some of them here to hold them.

The words from one little guy two days before our break began: “I will be missing you soon.”

The girl who read her story aloud to all of us at the carpet. As I listened to her words, I watched the dramatic reactions of her peers and realized, we have a writer here.

The quiet in the art room as students worked to find their dreams in their work.

The expression on the face of one child who sensed the theme of a story as I read it aloud. I saw everything in her face: disgust, horror and anger. Her indignation was just like mine the first time I read this book and it was pretty powerful recognizing myself in her.

A quiet Friday afternoon making Spring Break reading plans with my students, one reader at a time.

Gratitude Circle 20 minutes later where reading was mentioned time and time again. “I am grateful I finished my book club book. I really loved it.” “I am grateful for the books I am taking home to read.” “I am grateful we can borrow books to read while we are away from our classroom.”

I sent my students off wishing them happy breaks full of words and stories.

Yet I know in one way they will stay with me as I continue to write about the world we share.

Inspiration sources. These aren’t direct lines to follow. Happening and recounting. It is not just this. It is layering. Weaving. Circling. Wondering.

The examination of one thing as it becomes quite another. Word by word, new truths are made.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

My students began asking me about little buddies within the first few weeks of school. What they didn’t understand is that I was also asking. I was new and it seemed that there were no primary classes not yet matched. The one teacher without a buddy class was reluctant. He asked for some time. One thing became another, on and on, as it goes in schools. Finally, I got a little creative and a titch manipulative. Okay, quite manipulative – with one good idea. I had my class write persuasive letters to the Grade 1 teacher about why we should be buddy classes. How could he resist a stack of heartfelt pleas from my Grade 4 and 5 students? Please? Please? Please!

We had our second session today and everyone is more than happy. My students are delighted and energized. The younger students are excited and intrigued. The staff attached to the Grade 1 class got 30 minutes to breathe today as they watched everyone engaged and well cared for. I confirmed what I have known for years. Buddy reading across grade levels is a magical thing.

Here are some of the things I observe:

• Reluctant readers are often not reluctant connectors. It’s as much about the interactions as it is about the reading.
• All kinds of books appeal to all kinds of kids. If your room is full of great books, not much can go wrong.
• Sharing favourite characters is much superior to making small talk on route to a reading relationship. Who doesn’t love Piggie and Gerald?
• A book in the middle removes the awkward of meeting someone new. As the story pulls you in, you are naturally pulled together.
• Laughter is contagious. Distinct partners can become one massive mob when a book and a reader draw everyone in.
• Children figure out the “release of responsibility” thing organically. My readers model and read and suddenly the little reader has taken over. The older child knows just when to shift back.
• Patience is a gift. Time is a gift. Attention is a gift. Children are immensely generous.
• Behaviours don’t arise between buddies, behaviours surface when a buddy is absent. Everyone wants to connect and to matter. *
• Picture books prompt discussion. Buddy reading makes room for this talk to happen.
• Being the teacher for those few moments is pretty spectacular. Allowing yourself to also be the learner makes it even more so.
• Sharing a positive experience with someone else is a high. There is a lot of floating as everyone drifts back to the rest of their days.
• The natural kid appeal between children is incredible to watch.

Did I mention that part of the magic is about all that buddy reading teaches us if we are ready to watch and observe?

* My job? Knowing which buddies can share and which buddy can be shared so that nobody feels left out if there is an absence.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

This is my year of finding community. September was the most alone I have been in 20 years walking into a new school year. I had been a teacher for 22 years, but here, I knew nobody. Where I had come from? My heart was woven into the walls.

I spent the summer unpacking. Weeks and weeks and weeks. I knew the stairs well. I went up and down them countless times. I spent time at the staff room sink contemplating the world while waiting for water to boil. I drank my second morning coffee by myself. I memorized certain views from specific windows looking for something to ground me. My imagination was turned up high. Everything was about what would come.

There were children in the school each day as part of a summer program. They didn’t know me. I didn’t know them. I marked time by the meals I could smell from the kitchen. Pancakes. Macaroni and cheese. Fried something. I listened to their shouts and whoops and happy conversations that wafted up the stairs and through my open windows. When I walked by them we exchanged “we are stranger” smiles. Recognition began to happen but no connections. That was for later.

I remember one morning in early November when the building engineer asked me if I was beginning to feel at home. I had been navigating my way through various stages of big change – excitement, confusion, grief, sorrow, calm. Yes, my comfort was increasing. I measured it by the number of children not in my class who said hi to me. This was my marker. Being recognized. Being greeted. Being known.

Now, it’s completely different. It doesn’t matter that I know only one of five rooms on the basement floor. I don’t know what Sports Day looks like. I still haven’t figured out where to find small envelopes, extra band-aids or the gym schedule. Numerous children are nameless to me but we smile at each other each time we pass in the halls. The names will come. The connections will grow. We will make some shared stories.

The kids I do know are everywhere I turn. My class. Of course, these children. We belong to each other. But there are many others. Looking up, I often find other children in our room.

“Why is C always in here?” one child wonders when C arrives in our room for the third time today.

“Because this is the book classroom and she is the book teacher. Lots of people come here,” another child explains, like this clarifies everything.

“And she dances,” he adds. Further clarification of I’m not sure what but it makes me smile.

This morning I noticed two boys in Grade 6 on the other side of the street. “Where are they going?” I wondered until I realized they were walking towards me. Ready to walk me to school with big grins and cheerful greetings. This was boy four and five this week that have accompanied me to school. One of them pointed out the art gallery where he saw a limo pull up and boasted that he got the autograph of the people who got out. Turns out he had no idea who they were but it was all pretty exciting.  We stopped to admire the ice on a frozen puddle. They tried to lift it up and it crackled and sunk. They showed me which painted fish bound to the fence were the ones they painted back in kindergarten. They told me they came to Strong Start here before they even started school. Lending me some history as I have none. I will remember each piece.

I visit the kindergarten class on my prep. Two boys hug me spontaneously. One child offers me a piece of his snack. Little L tells me that her orange dress shrunk but she can still wear it. We both have orange dresses and have planned to be twins one day. We decide we will make it orange tunic day instead.

I walk through the art room and admire the work in progress. Cardboard birds. Wrinkled branches. Burlap landscapes. Nobody looks startled to see me. I offer the art teacher a coffee and she nods like I offered to bring her the moon. As I wait for the water to boil, I empty the dishwasher that someone forgot. I choose my two favourite cups. Months before, I was contemplative. Now I am busy.

Not lost in my head.

Not lost at all.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

I don’t plan ahead very well. There are things I miss. Student passions and questions easily take me off track. Decades into this, I am still figuring stuff out.

But I’ve got this:

A room full of books.

Time to read them.

Notes left on the board, “I took The Red Pencil home. Will bring it back tomorrow.”

Frequent complaints: “What? Why do we have to go to lunch? Can’t we just read?”

Books with waitlists. Trading and negotiating over titles that are new.

It is loud in my room much of the afternoon. We usually take a while to settle. I give the same reminders every day at the same time. Quite possibly I am the only one listening.

But I’ve got this:

“I told my Mom: You need your own book. So we are heading to the public library tonight. But we’ll still read this one together.”

“Ms. Gelson are a lot of books your favourite books? Like a lot?”

“I’m going to read this one at home because it’s fatter. And I like to read at night for a long time.”

“I don’t really want this book to ever end. It’s so good.”

I could be more organized. There are things I should teach more often. I should have the “Do they actually eat the pencils?” mystery solved by now. I’m still confused.

But I’ve got this:

“Hey J! I finished the book too now. I thought it was boring at first. But then I cried.”

“There isn’t a Book 4? You are sure there isn’t a Book 4? Can you tweet the author?”

“Can we read the novel twice today? Please.”

“That book . . . That book . . . Wow.”

I want my room to be a lot of things. Most of all I want it to be where life long readers are made.

I got this.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

Room 202. That’s my classroom.

A room that somehow feels more like home than the rooms I occupied for years at a time at the school where I used to work. How can that be? I worked at my previous school for twenty-one years – in four different rooms over time. So much happened in those spaces. Celebrations, learning, growth, trauma and drama. I was in each room for at least four years. I taught in the last one for seven, I think. I adored the students I taught and think about them still every day. Yet this room I have been teaching in since September somehow speaks to me the most.

Every morning when I walk into the space, it acknowledges. “You’re here.”

It isn’t the memories. I don’t even have a year’s worth.

It’s not the number of stories. We are still in the middle of making them and not yet at the recounting stage. Some years need to go by first for that.

It isn’t familiar things that bring comfort. My books came along but the rest of the room is pretty much new to me.

What is it about this space that calms me every morning – before students, before school noise, before we’ve even begun?

Things don’t matter most but there are things that have significance. I spent much of the summer getting ready. It wasn’t about decorating so much as readying. Thinking about flow. Putting up shelves. Filling them with books. Finding places for plants. Organizing cabinets full of materials. Considering. Wondering. Being.

I love watching my tall white stool get lugged around the room every day. I smile watching students poke at new growth on plants, rock collections and strange pieces of wood on display. I never tire of watching a child stand and stare at a row of books on a shelf, contemplating. As things get tossed into our big wooden boat, I am grateful there is a perfect sized counter to hold it.

It isn’t about being in a brand new space that is fresh and perfect. This room is old. It doesn’t have a sink. My floor is marked and gouged in places. I covered up an entire wall of old blackboard full of tape marks and scratches. It wasn’t magnetic. You could barely write on it. It is most suited to hide behind newly attached book shelves and to be covered in book jackets. I have cabinets missing handles. Patched up holes where mice once ran a regular course. The traffic noise from a busy street is distracting during rush hour. Yet this isn’t what I notice. Not now. Not often.

Maybe this room calls to me because it is where I spend so much time thinking about potential. About new. About change. About finding place. It hasn’t disappointed me. Filled with students, it does its thing well. There is flow. There is learning. There are readers perched in all the spaces I thought readers would perch and read.

This room feels peaceful. This room feels safe. This room feels celebrated. Children want to be in it. It is filled with their art. It has room for their questions. It has space for their growth.

This room also has space for me. It welcomed me when I was a stranger to this school community. It stood and waited while I pushed tables around, located shelves and found a rejected carpet that is happy to be re-appreciated. It let itself be changed. It let itself become what I needed it to be. It waits patiently while I figure things out. It doesn’t judge as I make my way with new students, in a new grade in a new place.

So many students and teachers came before me and my class in this space. I don’t feel them. This room is just ours. We have found our place.

Room 202. My classroom.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.