Is It Any Wonder?

Early morning at Woods Park has its usual suspects, some of whom have real names, while others go by more descriptive terms:  "Man with Slight Limp," "Lady Who Calls for Opus the Bird,"  "Woman With Dog Named Thor, Who Wonders Why He's So Aggressive". . . .  Richard (his actual name) is a steady presence, always in khakis, usually carrying a coffee mug, and sometimes plugged into a radio.  And he always comes prepared with a story.  Or two.  Or three.

This morning, as Finn and I crossed 33rd Street, I was stunned by all the leaves in the street.  Specifically, all the leaves in the middle lane.  I stood there at the intersection, scanning 33rd for any sign of a wayward leaf resting in another lane, and could find none.  The sight left me a little breathless.

I bumped into Richard shortly after crossing into the park and pointed out to him the crazy "leaf" gathering.  He immediately began to offer an explanation.  "When cars drive by--really, it's just like what happens with snow--but the. . . "  And I quit listening.  See, I wasn't pointing out the sight so that he might explain it.  Really, I just wanted someone with whom I could feel wonder.

After we parted ways, I started to think about what he'd done, and how often I--as a teacher--had done the very same thing.  How many times do our students just want to be heard?  Or just want someone else with whom they can feel wonder?

We teachers can't seem to help ourselves--we just like to answer things, even when there is no question that has been posed.  We are, by nature, elucidators, explainers, enlighteners.

Annoying.

When the kids come back this Wednesday, I hope I remember my early-morning encounter with all those leaves in the middle lane and how magical it seemed to me.  And I hope I remember how unnecessary Richard's explanation was.  How it missed the point--and the moment--entirely.

I hope I remember to just listen and let them wonder a little.