School. End of break, 7th grade (13 years). I enter the classroom. Young people are chasing each other, talking loudly, almost shouting. I notice the commotion and I struggle with the thought of how to learn in this chaos.
The pupils notice my arrival in the classroom. They go to their seats. They slowly take their notebooks out of their school bags in a loud discussion amongst themselves. I am waiting. They are still with their heads and minds in a break. I can see that, despite the brief greetings moment , they are not yet focused. When I ask them to repeat what a classmate has said, I notice that they can't hear themselves. I can ask seven or more of them to repeat, but they can't. Half of their notebooks have incorrectly copied data from the blackboard. They cannot correctly calculate the area of a figure in mathematics with the incorrect formula.
I can complain about what they are like, moan, blame, make excuses for the bad influence of phones, games and the raising of permissive parents. Am I any different when I forget my keys, stack papers, can't remember what my colleague ordered me during break? Are we adults any different? No, because we are all human and we all live in the same world that passes us by.
At the beginning of this lesson, I decided to repeat the exercise from the beginning of the school year. Practice presence. Being in the moment. Being here and now. I invite them to find a space on the floor, on a chair, a corner of their own where they do not encroach on the space of another. I explain to them what it looks like for me to be here and now. For me, being here and now looks like not being in the past, with my thoughts during the break and the events that have happened. I am not even in the future, thinking about how I am going to lead this lesson and what is waiting for me after the lesson. I simply am. Focusing on the sensations in my body, on the sounds I hear. I invite them to focus on the breath. They can count the time it takes to inhale and exhale. The students are with me. I invite them to try this in the minute of silence they will have.
They close their eyes. Some put their sweaters over their heads, others look at the point. Others are chuckling a little more, but they remain calm. We stand still and silent for a good minute. When I have opened my eyes, I see the feet that were restless a second ago relax. I notice the children's bodies are relaxed, soft. I notice the pupil looking at the clock, waiting respectfully for my word to signal the end. We look at each other and I am grateful that he has not reminded us with a voice that a minute has passed. I sense the calm that is present in the room. A peace that I find it difficult to break by announcing the end of the minute.
I ask the pupils to share what they have noticed. I tell them that there are no right and wrong answers in such sharing, as there are often in mathematics. Only they know what they have sensed. Each of them has detected something different, because we are different.
The first student is encouraging. She says that her breathing has slowed down. I ask the others who have noticed something like this in themselves to raise their hand. I give the student who has shared credit for her courage and show her how many of her classmates she was contributing to when sharing her perception. When we are a contribution to another, we experience the greatest sense of fulfilment. They go on sharing, "My head emptied. My neck pain disappeared. I heard sounds from other classrooms. There was such peace in the room. My thoughts used to go in all directions, but not anymore. I could not calm down. I heard birds. I could still be in that peace." I thank everyone for sharing authentically. Whatever they perceive is OK. Not right, not wrong, not good, not bad.
After such a five-minute exercise, we can begin, calmly, slowly and with focus. The students take more away from the lesson. The notes have fewer mistakes. They can hear themselves because they can repeat the words of a classmate or teacher. Not everyone does. There is an individual who cannot yet concentrate. But not half of the class as it was at the beginning of the lesson.,
Why am I doing this? Because I need it to create an environment in which I can work. It works for me and I can see that it works for my students. Some people call it mindfulness.
As a teacher, I hold my future in my hands. These students will be heads of state, heads of business, caregivers in a retirement home. What kind of world do I want to live in? This is the world I create in the community where I live and work.
Mateja Peršolja