tamarjacobson

Time to write again. About early morning plane rides. About enjoying talking to early childhood people. About presenting and feeling worthwhile when people get something out of what I talk about. They tell me that when I share my stories it helps them identify with much of what I’m saying. They tell me I am real and that other sessions are sterile and bland where they feel talked at instead of with. They tell me I confirm for them the work they are already doing and it makes them feel so much better about themselves. They cry. They laugh. They share their pain and tribulations. I look at their faces when I talk to them and they are keenly listening, sometimes with tears running down their cheeks. And when they laugh, they laugh out loud with gusto. I love all of it. It’s the human condition in a nutshell. And for a brief time, a few hours or a day, I feel a part of their lives and they a part of mine. We are not alone as we strive to work toward caring for and educating our youngest children as well as their teachers and caregivers. I realize that the work I am doing is important. It makes a difference. Here and there, a child will receive a better emotional deal because someone had the courage to reflect on why they do what they do. They will remember how they felt listening to me talk, and they will try and apply what they learned. Perhaps they will have a better day for it. They will feel confident and connected, and their relationship with a child will be enhanced. The child will be given a different option in how she sees herself, and might feel validated and worthwhile even for a moment, or maybe longer.

Recently, at one of my presentations, I asked: “If you were a child in your program, how would you like to be treated?” A young woman called out: “Softly!” I asked what she meant by “softly,” and she replied, “With soft voices and gentle touch.” As she spoke, I observed a pregnant woman in the audience begin to rub her protruding belly with round, soft, gentle strokes. Her eyes glazed over, and I thought to myself, “She is communing with her child.”

At one of our breaks during the day-long professional development, the young woman, who had called out, “Softly!” ran over and sat down next to me.

“I love you,” she stated clearly with an earnest look on her face.

“Oh, my dear,” I replied, “Thank you.”

“No. Seriously,” she said. “What you are saying is so important. No one ever talks about these things in this way. You must not stop doing this. Please don’t stop yet.”

I asked her to tell me about herself and she shared her early childhood story. One of pain and confusion, and how nevertheless, she had persisted courageously to break away and search for a different path. She told me how she felt I had reinforced her search. She talked about resilience and love. She spoke about how she wanted to work with children in a gentle way, softly, and then she asked permission to hug me. We hugged for a long while. A strong, warm hug, which filled my heart to overflowing.

I was feeling old and tired. It happens with aging, and perhaps I am winding down. That’s okay. It’s as it should be. This time around, though, I received a message: “Not yet. Please. Not yet.”

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: My ankle