I see you’re wearing your hair differently today. I want to tell you it looks nice as I’m setting up my heart monitor before I jump on the treadmill. It’s growing out. I like it.
I see you’re calm and trying your hardest after that talk about self-control last week. I notice in your eyes you’re staring at me discerningly, reacting decisively to the temptations around the classroom. I’m proud of you. It’s appreciated.
I see you’ve been practicing your speech for declamation. I can imagine you reciting it in the mirror the past few days. The way you’ve rehearsed your hand gestures; the moments you accentuate for emphasis. It’s working. I feel your words.
I see the frustration in your eyes. I hope you sense my empathy and concern, as you walk away from a disappointing phone call with a parent and have to transition so quickly back to monitoring your students at lunch. I see your tear rimmed eyes. You are brave.
I see you’re eyeing me with disdain as we plank on the gym floor. This practice, we’re taking it up a notch. I notice the frustration as you struggle to hold your position. I hope you have the will to succeed. You are your greatest opposition.
I hear you, over the phone. Your allergies are acting up. I want to pick you up and enclose you in a bubble, like John Travolta, but I know your father just gave you medicine and you are resting. I know I have to trust that he has it under control.
Captured moments, passed. Left unsaid.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is; infinite.”