found poem from the comments

I finish the SOL challenge where I started. In my living room. Only now, outside, the snow has melted, crocuses bloom and the birds sing as loud as they can.  Inside, I have seven yellow tulips and several willow branches in a vase. And I have to say "fifty-four" if anyone asks my age.

I wrote every day. One word at a time. One slice at a time. I did what I intended: started writing before fully knowing what, ignored the critic and accepted what arrived. 

There's only one thing left to do - to write a found poem from comments. This year these are the comments that lined up. 

So pleased to find you here

like a migrating bird returning to a familiar perch

connected to both the endless snow piles and the promise of spring.

We are so many selves,

we are kindred spirits

taking time for a few kind words,

there are many ways to say "I love you!"

What a wonderful way to enjoy each other'a company.

How lovely to have this little window of time.

A word of encouragement is all we need to keep us going.

Each day is what we make it.

Have a marvellous day splashing colour!

The poetry finds a way out and sings. 

Wishing you all lightness and joy for April. And may all the ones who write poetry have a great collaboration with their muse. 

I can't promise that I'll show up on Tuesdays. If you are looking for me you can find me on LinkedIn and on Substack. Instagram and FB are also options. And if anyone wishes to send an email terjeakke (at) gmail.com is the best way to contact me. 

If you are wondering how the meeting went yesterday, then I can say the discussion was interesting, no resolution about the future though. It is what it is. Today is a lovely Tuesday!

another Monday

A new day. A new week. A new month starting on Wednesday.

Today I didn't start with the slice writing as usually. I have already written a letter to workshop participants, updated a workshop schedule, exchanged messages with my co-leader. This three-module workshop is for school principals and head teachers who are developing systems to support teacher professional development, especially using instructional coaching. We'll have the last two days at the start of the April. This course is part of Tallinn University free professional development offerings.

I needed to get these tasks done before heading to the city for two meetings. The first one is with my boss who lives in the Netherlands and whom I haven't seen in person for more than half a year. We meet weekly through google meet. After this we'll get together with the representatives of the Good Deed Foundation that has been our greatest financial support. Would they continue their support is an existential question for the tiny organisation I work for. 

Since working outside the school system my schedule has become flexible. The days, weeks and months differ. I have to admit that it is a strange experience. After more than twenty five years of school calendars and routines, the flexibility carries both freedom and responsibility, and can be confusing at times. 

I love the peace of home office and feel how privileged I am to read books and plan workshops as part of my work. I appreciate that I wake up without an alarm and without a need to commute. I am still amazed that I can go for a walk during a workday. At the same time on some days, when I haven't spoken to anyone for three days, I question my existence. I have to intentionally find other ways to experience the sense of belonging.  

At times I enjoy that my responsibility is for the workshops only and the rest is for the teachers and school leaders to take responsibility for implementing the new practices. At the same time I don't necessarily see the impact of my work. As a teacher the progress of the students was visible and rewarding. 

People sometimes ask me whether I miss school. There are moments, like when I see a great exhibition or a new book, that I have a small moment of nostalgia, a memory of sharing these with the learners. The moments pass. I don't miss the intensity and stress of school and the feeling that no matter how much you get things done, the to-do list keeps growing. 

Soon it will be three years of this work.  At school there was always the next year and I pretty much knew what to wait. In this role I don't know what the future will bring. Wish me luck that today's meeting will bring positive news. 

a small reflection

Sitting on my living room sofa, drinking a cup of 'red happiness' tea (apple, hibiscus, red and black currents, elderberry), I get to choose the words I want to share today. 

The sunshine streaming into the living room promises a warm day, though outside on the ground the traces of frost are visible in the shade. The snowdrops and crocuses don't mind the cold. The rosebush, lilacs, rowan and birch are cautious. The sun has tried to trick them to open buds and reveal their leaves. The trees and bushes know that the warmth may be deceptive and wait until they are sure the nights get warmer too. The bare outgrown lilac hedge looks a lot like my dad's thick wild grey hair. 

I am surprised that for a whole month I have managed to start my slices without mentioning the sofa, tea and weather. I could have started almost every slice from here. 

I have kept my slices simple, no complicated constructs of literary structures, meticulously measured sentence lengths or intentionally included poetic devices. The words have come as they want and if some of them bring imagery or word play, the better for me. Like now, the alliteration arrived without effort.

The month has gone super fast. I have worked from home and in the city, had zoom meetings, given five all day workshops, mentored four beginning teachers, had four school visits, participated in two bookclubs, been to two theatre performances, joined three improv lessons, had four dance lessons (one more tomorrow), walked daily, had a self-care Saturday in a women's group, celebrated dad's ninety-second birthday and turned fifty-four myself. 

Almost every morning, still in PJs, before doing anything else or after some stretching, I have given myself a small window of time to write and have written directly on the blog. No previous drafts. Sometimes I sent myself an email with a possible title or topic idea. Rather funny to see emails titled marshmallow, moonlight, jive, pancakes and toot my own horn. Some slices I wrote later during a day. 

After dinner or in between different activities, on a train or when waiting for the lunch to warm, I have read and commented on as many other slices as possible. The comments I have received myself have filled me with deep gratitude. Sending you all virtual hugs as appreciation. 

Two more days of writing ahead. We can do it!

sadness in the midst of the merry

My birthday yesterday was a sunny day. The sun in the sky and the sunny birthday wishes shone in through phone calls and messages. I had the pleasure of working at home, preparing for next week's workshop, mentoring two beginner teachers thought zoom, walking in the neighbourhood, snapping pictures of crocuses. The day ended with a dinner and theatre/concert performance together with my husband.  Late in the evening, after the performance, when I was walking on the city streets towards the car, my youngest, the theatre student, made a video call where all her fellow students sang happy birthday to me.

Somewhere on a road back home, my husband driving the car in the darkness between forests and villages, I sat in the passenger seat, and suddenly an unexplainable sadness welled up in me. My first instinct was to fight it. I had no reason to be sad. It would be ridiculous to cry on one's birthday when all is good. 

The tears wanted to come, so I stopped resisting and let them silently slide down my cheeks. What was the messages the tears wanted to share with me?

I had received many beautiful wishes, heartfelt, creative, and full of care from many lovely people.  I realised that in the midst of all the attention, I felt lonely. I hadn't seen anyone in person during the day. No smiles, no hugs, no how-are-yous. Many of the people writing had probably been reminded of my existence by a FB algorithm. Deep inside was a wish that someone would think of me on a random Tuesday and send a little note. Or someone would call me on a random Thursday and ask me how I was doing. Or better yet, ask me for a cup of tea. 

I let the sadness be. Everyone is allowed to feel sadness in the midst of merry. 

/I questioned whether to write this slice or not. Overall I am a joyfully spirited person, seeing the positive in life and collecting gratitude. And I am living a good life. Also there will be a family birthday party next weekend and a get together with three friends on Tuesday. It's not that I'm forgotten and deserted. Somehow the slice still asked to be written. So here it is./

It's my birthday

I just finished a phone call with my sister, laughing that I was certainly getting older, I went to bed early yesterday and aching all over my body today. The inference based on the description is wrong though. I went to bed early because the workshops I give, as positive as they are and as much as they feed my soul, consume a lot of energy and I am exhausted by the evening. The muscles are sore from the weight lifting. Two positive things, loosely connected with age, one from having so much experience that I am ready to share it with others and the second in preparation to stay fit for a long time. 

Yesterday's workshop for school leaders was about self-awareness and self-care. As writing has become such a big part of my identity, I built the workshop around it, to be me, to use what I know and to offer the gifts I have - mindfulness, gratitude and writing. I could see, hear and feel how the different poems and writing exercises touched the participants. Perhaps this has been my biggest growth last year - to trust to show more of me and do things my way. 

I told the participants that my goal was to conduct the workshop with curiosity, ease and playfulness. In some ways it is funny that now that I turn fifty-four these are the keywords I try to let guide my life. Still learning. 

When my mom called me this morning, she said that her inspirational quote calendar said, "The day is a canvas and you can splash the colours you like onto it." This too goes well with the ease and playfulness. I already went for a walk and found some colours that are perfect for today, together with the sweet phone calls and messages. 

kind words give strength

 Rain. Cold. Lots of work to do in the morning. Going to the gym was an effort.

I said so to the receptionist after morning greetings, "It was hard to come to the gym this morning." 

"It was hard to come to work even with this weather," the receptionist replies with an understanding nod.

"The whole start of the year has been a challenge. My work schedule has been irregular, and if I don't come in the morning, I know I won't make it in the afternoon. Last week I didn't show up at all," I continue as I walk towards the dressing room.

"You are good. You have been so good at showing up regularly. I know. I see," the receptionist shows thumbs up to me with both hands. 

The kind words instantly give me extra strength to go and lift weights. 

the most beautiful flower in spring

I was on a mission. The mission to find out whether my favourite spring flowers were out already. 

The first snowdrops peeked out on the tenth of February. The first crocuses opened last week. With the sun and the warmth growing daily, the hope for finding the most beautiful spring flower increased daily.

Reaching the edge of the forest, I could see from afar that some patches of snow spread out under the trees. A little tinge of disappointment could not stop me from my mission. Walking on a narrow path in the corner of the woods, I looked right and left to see the ground waiting with a mixture of last fall's brown leaves, remains of this winter's snow, and this spring's tiny green shoots. No blossoms yet.

Finally I reached the side of the wood parallel to the road where the sun shines the most.   

At first glance it seemed also mostly brown.

Almost ready to accept a failed mission, I still kept my eyes on the ground. 

I saw it. The tiniest of the tiny. The prettiest of the pretty. My favourite spring flower. A delight. A blue anemone. 

To make the joy even bigger, a first yellow butterfly flew by. Fly, butterfly, fly! Dance to the spring. 

a poem from the past

Watching an interview between a theatre director, former actor who sometimes still likes to be on the stage, and a stylish male TV host, I admire their confidence and humour during the Thursday evening cultural program on TV. They sit in one of the most famous second-hand bookstore in Tallinn and the interview touches upon the topic of memory and poetry. The seventy year old theatre director says that he remembers one Shakespeare sonnet that he learned in high school, and to prove it, he recites the sonnet as if it is the most natural thing to remember. The eyes and the eyebrows of the host speak of admiration.

To follow this hte host says, "And don't we all remember..." and names an Estonian poet and a name of a poem and the two men recite the short poem together. 

My inner child jumps up with recognition. I thought this poem had been part of my history only. When I was in first grade, I recited this poem in front of a large crowd on a stage of an old concert hall that my school had rented for a spring concert. I remember feeling confident, reciting it exactly as I had practiced and receiving a warm applause. 

The rough translation of Paul-Eerik Rummo's poem "First Calf" goes like this:

I stand on spraddled legs

I have big eyes and a funny tail

and I don't want to go behind the fence

The"going behind a fence" is a famous idiom in Estonian. The saying "first calf always goes behind a fence" means that the first attempts often get messed up or fail altogether.  I identified myself with the first calf since I was the oldest child in the family. I think my parents can say their "first calf" turned out pretty ok. 

self-created worry

On Friday evening, reading Margaret Atwood's memoir in bed, long past my bedtime, tired but determined, listening out for the last train, for my peace of mind, to see my daughter arrive home, safe and sound, I finally heard the last train's whistle. 

Five minutes pass. When walking fast, this wold be about the time for my daughter to reach home. I keep my ear out for the door. Nothing. I keep waiting. Sometimes, when she sees a friend, they may take time chatting.  Patience, my heart, patience. 

Ten minutes pass. I get out of bed and go tot the living room to check whether my daughter, knowing that I usually sleep at this time, had sent a message to my husband. No. 

I call. 

My daughter's friend picks up the phone, "Hi. M. went to the bathroom. We are at K's house warming party."

I relax. All is good. 

"This is great. Have fun! Let M. know I called. I was waiting for her," I say.

"Sure. Have a good evening," she replies.

A bit annoyed that she didn't call but glad knowing where she is, I return to bed.

My phone lights up with a message, "Saturday. I said I'll come tomorrow. Before noon."

And sure enough, scrolling back the messages I see that indeed she had mentioned Saturday.

"Yep. And nevertheless I stayed up. Mother's rights," I text her back.

"You can go to sleep now," she writes.

And I do.

Book spine poems

Workshop preparation creates mess and chaos in my home. The books hop off the shelves and gather in patches in the corner of the living room floor and on the windowsill. Twenty four of them have built towers on the floor and twenty-nine camp on the windowsill. We'd get an award for diversity. Leadership books mix with well-being, mindfulness and writing books. Some poetry and fiction books have been invited to join as well. Estonian and English books converse easily with each other. The workshop I am preparing for is about the inner resources and self-care of educational leaders. 

Seeing all the books that have escaped the shelves in my living room, I thought it would be easy to create a book spine poetry. Ha. I was wrong. To my surprise and puzzlement the books seemed to be in serious work mode today and refused to join me for the play. I nudged and invited them, then begged and pleaded, finally some old favourites agreed to help me out and they pulled one new one with them. 

Here's the result:

 

Strong ground

Science of happiness

Ways of reading

Your brain on ink

The fourth way

Map

Falling awake

Making the pile I remembered the last time I created book spine poetry. It was during one February Saturday when I had gathered with a group of women for a self-care day. Already when I arrived, I noticed that the hostess had left piles and piles of books on the tables, counters and shelves. My thought instantly made a connection with books spine poetry and to my delight this was one of the invitations during the day. Here's a result of that day:

Translation:

Tomorrow somewhere else

Everything breathes together

Butterfly's footsteps in snow

Time's imprint in stone

Instead of the world

The silence of sound

During this long time

In the heart the woods sing

Until love arrives

Joining Leigh Anne's analogue party

Party! Party!

When I saw that Leigh Anne joined the SOLSC, I hoped that she would host her annual slicer's party. At the same time I felt like Elephant and Piggy, exciting for the fact that it would happen and a curious to as what kind of party it would be, starting to prepare for anything possible, looking for a mask, tiara, and swimming goggles at the same time. 

When Leigh Anne announced that it would be an analogue party, I felt relieved because it's doable and my brain quickly started to think what to bring. The preparation in my head included making a list of items and thinking of how they would contribute to the common good. The list grew at first. Then it shrank. Elimination is part of a process too. 

For the past week I have seen others joining the party and each time I read what they bring along, I have got more and more excited about the gathering. Fully aware that it's not a face-to-to face party, I still picture us all together having a good time. 

Today feels like a good day for me to assemble my analogue bag. 

First the bag itself. It has digital art by Made Balbat You can recognise a scene from Alice in Wonderland. Usually I use this as my gym bag and carry my water bottle, sneakers and weight lifting gloves. Since he gym is nearby I shower and change at home. 

No surprise that I'll bring books. I think almost everyone does. Choice wasn't easy. I eventually settled for a poetry book in Estonian. Berit Kaschan, my writing teacher, won an award for "April" last week. And of course I'll bring the book I contributed to and that was nominated as one of 25 most beautiful books of 2025 in Estonia and got a first prize in university publishing competition. 

Everyone is bringing a journal, right? How else. We are writers after all and we'll write. This journal "Garden of Thoughts" I got from a self-care group - women getting together on Saturdays once in two months to read, write, and dance.

I thought of bringing my dance shoes but then thought that we don't need heeled shoes to dance in Leigh Anne's living room (That's where we're meeting, right?). So I chose to bring a pair of woollen socks instead. My sister knitted these and gave them to me on a random day not related to any holidays, birthdays or anniversaries.  

I also am fairly sure we'll drink some tea, so I chose a cup to bring with me. For years it was my cup at school and the one I took with me to summer writing camps. I got it at a literary conference where a handicraft centre for SEN learners was selling them for fundraising. (I just realised I forgot to put the tea on the photo, but I'll promise I'll bring some green tea, white tea and oolong, and some berry fusions, peppermint and black currant being one of my favourites.)

I thought that some games would be fun too. We have played Gourmet Alias during our family gatherings for years. Still not getting tired of it. My middle daughter introduced Code Names to me and I have loved the challenge it poses for connecting a set of pictures with one word only. 

In the last moment I decide to bring my Animal Power deck. At the start of the slicing challenge I pulled a card. Fox- welcome nighttime magic. So I have been welcoming to my muse when she wakes me in the middle of the night to share some ideas for possible slices and sometimes for the educational workshops I am preparing.

Ahhh, how exciting to join a party today!

lunch in town

Looking at the people around me, all strangers, in a bookstore cafe during lunch time, I wonder whether they gobble their food with hunger, savour every bite or consume the food with their mind at work, what was and what's yet to come. 

I get an answer about one man.

"You ordered soup, didn't you?' a waitress asks at a table next to me with a bowl in her hand.

"Yes," a middle-aged man in a suit answers in a deep and confident voice.

" I was confused for a moment. You have a fork on your table," the waitress comments.

"Ahh. Yes," the man looks at the fork, picks it up, stands up and walks to a counter to switch it for a spoon. 

His mind was somewhere else.

I have finished my chicken salad and now savour mint tea and continue people watching. 

Two books, one about gratitude brought from home for a train ride, and another one about work happiness, bought from another bookstore an hour ago, both useful for next week's workshop preparation, together with my journal rest on the table waiting for me to decide what to do next. I still have thirty minutes before a meeting in a nearby office. 

I have no problem eating out alone. Lunch at a bookstore cafe carries labels 'independence', 'luxury', 'privilege' and could also be called 'self-care', 'date with myself' and 'writerly opportunity'. 

Today it could also be called "consequence of unexpected circumstances'. In the morning there was. a malfunction of railroad infrastructure and some trains were cancelled or ran late or didn't reach the final station. I chose to take an earlier train to be sure to be in the city on time. Since my train had no problems I had a surprise gift of extra time. 

I choose to journal. For a slice. 

the lost and found thought

I remember how my mom taught me as a child that if you lose your thought, trace back your steps until you find it. As a child I didn't fully understand it because losing thoughts was a foreign concept. Now, that I am older, I like to use this advice. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn't. 

Changed to PJs, I walk towards the bedside table and stare at it.  I know a thought to do something visited me while changing clothes and during the distance around my bed I had lost it. 

It had something to do with reading glasses. I pick up the case, open it and take out the glasses. Now it is time to use mom's advice. I trace back my steps. I stand in front of the wardrobe holding glasses but the thought seems to have moved on. I faintly recall that the thought of action had something to do with the living room.

I walk to the living room and stand at the door with my reading glasses at hand. What did I need from here? I scan the room and have no idea. Almost ready to give up and accept that this time the thought is lost forever, I notice a paper on a windowsill. 

Ahh, yeah! I wrote something that I can't recall in the middle of the night and remembered it only now before going to bed. I walk to the window, pick up the paper and put on my reading glasses. I kind of hope that the paper holds a slice idea, witty words and deep thought. 

First win is that the handwriting is legible. The words don't contain an idea for a slice but ideas for my upcoming workshop. This is a win too. Not that knowing this is of any use before going to sleep. Still, it feels good I found the lost thought and didn't go to sleep with worrying about short term memory loss. 

pancake breakfast as a birthday gift for my dad

What can you give as a birthday gift to a ninety-two year old?

Frozen blueberries and raspberries. 

This and eleven tulips is what I gave my dad for his birthday this Sunday. The berries and whipped cream made a perfect topping for pancakes. Raspberry jam and cherry jam were also options.

"I didn't sleep well last night. I woke up and thought whether it's a good idea to celebrate the birthday a day ahead of the right day," my dad said while scooping whipped cream on top of a pancake.

I got startled. Had the pancake breakfast idea been not as good as I had thought? Looking at the others, my sis, nephew and my daughters, sitting around the kitchen table and mom making a new patch of pancakes, the togetherness seemed as the best gift possible.

Before I could react, my dad continued, "And then I thought that since I have three birthday dates, it is not a problem. So I went back to sleep and slept soundly."

It's true. First of all, when my dad was born in 1934, my grandfather was late registering him and therefore there's a ten day difference in his real and official birthday. And once during the soviet time he had a passport that had two different dates on the pages. We usually celebrate the official date. Sometimes my dad and I combine our birthdays. Since this year we're combining my birthday with Easter, I thought that this might be too far after his birthday and therefore suggested a Sunday pancake breakfast. 

right now

I am a firm believer that you can write anywhere and at any time when you notice the opportunities. Today I wrote in a small window of time during a school visit between a lesson observation and a feedback session. I used the back page of the journal where I record observation notes to quickly jot down one of my favourite formats. 

Right Now I am:

:: sitting behind a small round table in a principal's office

:: waiting for the principal to return

:: drinking wild berry fusion

:: admiring the inviting learning environment of the new school

:: listening to three teachers laughing and chatting in the common room nearby

:: appreciating that I get to support the principal in coaching training

:: waiting for an observation of a feedback session

:: feeling confident that the principal is well-prepared for the meeting

:: hoping that the small steps make a big difference

:: planning to ask to borrow a book I noticed on a cupboard

:: debating with myself whether to eat a chocolate candy

A slice can be short and simple. If you are curious whether the feedback went well, yes it did. The principal conducted the meeting process excellently and the teacher left with one clear step to practice. If you are wondering whether I borrowed the book, yes I did. "School Leaders Matter. Preventing burnout, managing stress, and improving well-being." by Helen Kelly is perfect to read in preparation for my next week's workshop with school leaders. If you are wondering whether I typed the words as they were written, yes the sentences are pretty much as I wrote them, only with three lines changing order. This is the beauty of this format. You observe what's going on and record it as it is and therefore don't need big revision. If you are wondering whether I ate the candy, yes I did. Carl Fazer's blue wrapped milk chocolate is irresistible. 

the right now posts from the past

changing writing plans that had already changed

I am sitting in my daughter's tiny rented apartment in the city. I sometimes use it as a "home office" when she's at uni and I have other meetings in the city. Today I have a school visit in the afternoon, so I had to plan the office in the city to manage a zoom call into the schedule. 

My plan was to write early in the morning like I have done for the first half of the writing challenge. My writing usually happens before eight o'clock. 

Somehow today I needed a bit more sleep, it took me a bit longer to exercise, and overall I seemed to be slower in moving around and gathering what I needed for the day. By eight o'clock I hadn't written a word. Hadn't even opened the blog. 

So I changed my plan to take the next train to get the writing done before leaving home. 

I made the mistake to check work emails first, and then it was necessary to answer some of them. This took longer, so eating breakfast was left to the last minute before train. No time to sit down. The sandwich found its way to my mouth in between ironing a shirt and packing a bag. 

The new change of plans was to seat myself in first class and write on the train. More comfortable seats, a table with sockets and usually less people make the first class carriage worth the higher ticket price. 

"Hi, Terje! Come here!" I heard as I entered the train. A woman whom I know from Monday dance lessons smiled broadly and gestured towards a seat next to her. She is retired. Instead of being a doctor she bakes and does handicraft. Her cookies with condense milk filling are delicious. 

Changing plans. No writing on the train. Having a nice chat instead. 

So today's writing happened some before the zoom call, some after. The slice topic changed too. 

Change is the only constant isa known saying. I understand it. It's likely that tomorrow and on Wednesday too my writing time is later in the day. The important thing is to remember to write. 

tooting my own horn

Dressed, standing in a narrow hallway and ready to step out of the door, while saying the last goodbyes to the lovely women I had spent a self-care, read poetry-write-and-dance day with, I felt the need to share something that has made me happy and proud.

"May I toot my own horn?" I ask the others.

"Go ahead!" they encourage.

"A book that I contributed a chapter too is among the 25 most beautiful books in Estonia and last week also got the first place from Tallinn University educational books category," I share. 

"Oooh!" "Congratulation!" "What's the book about?" 

"We wrote about teaching handwriting, especially cursive to children through art and considering their needs. It also includes some science and history and lots of pictures. The main author is an art teacher with PhD and she set the standard for the quality, not budging a bit when the  publishing company wanted to save money by doing less or differently.  My contribution is my story as a fourth grade teacher and being a cheerleader to others," I explain. 

"Next time you come, bring the book," the hostess invites. 

This kind of sharing is unnatural for me as Estonian. We have been trained to be modest. Maybe because my contribution is small and my friend was the main author it is easier to celebrate. The book is really awesome. Seeing it on the book shelf in the bookstores was incredibly exciting.  I hope it will be translated into English. 

In the order of appearance from the left: Sirje (first grade teacher), Edna (art teacher and the main author), me, Margit (first grade teacher).  

a cup of tea

With more than an hour before my next meeting I had time in hand and a choice of what to do with it. I knew that some of it would be for walking to the destination. I mentally drew different routes in my head to help choosing the path. With the stomach still full of lunch and a dinner with friends on the agenda, a cup of tea popped as an invitation to my head. Now a cafe became a criteria for deciding the direction. 

When I arrived in a cafe, I was surprised to see so many people there in the middle of the day and breathed in relief to find a table under a window. I ordered green tea and one mini-eclair. 

To read, to write or to check the phone while waiting for my order?

I took out Bel Kaufman's Up the Down Staircase. The story written in 1966 from the point of view of a novice teacher. It is a combination of school announcements,  bureaucratic directives, quick notes, longer letters by the teacher, and snippets of student writing. It scraped my heart to admit how much of what is described is still true in the life of a teacher nowadays. The idea of sincerely doing your best, so much being out of your control, the work never ending and the impact less than you want and not always visible still crushes novice teachers, and many of them quit.  

A small ceramic teapot, a white cup and a tiny plate with the eclair arrived. When I had slowly savoured the eclair, I thought of taking a photo of the tea cup. 

I am not a teacher anymore. Drinking tea in a cafe in a middle of a day is a sign of a different context and pace. It happens seldom but when it does, I am fully aware of it and appreciate the peace and slow of the moment. 

Right person in the right place

The introductory round of the "Supporting teacher professional development" workshop had put me at ease. Leading a workshop for group of school leaders who already had met four times previously as part of a longer course had at first made me a bit nervous. Who am I to teach them when the other lecturers were PhD candidates and associate professors? I had questioned myself. When the participants had introduced themselves and shared their greatest learning so far, I could sense that my fear had been unnecessary. 

Just as I had finished giving an overview of what to expect from the day, the door opened and a man, younger than me, walked in. He walked towards the end of the room and took off his backpack and placed it on a table.

I looked with puzzlement because as I recalled the participant list did not have any male names. Then again I could have been mistaken, some names fit both genders. 

"What workshop are you supposed to be attending?" I asked.

He looked at me and answered, "I am not attending. I am a workshop leader."

"I am the workshop leader here and I am not willing to give this group or workshop to anyone else. I just got started," I answered with a smile.

"Hmmm. I must have mistaken the room," he calmly answered, picked up his backpack and walked out of the door. 

We all chuckled. 

The moment of someone else potentially wanting the group for himself made me possessive and confirmed that I was exactly were I was supposed to be. 

I can report that the day went fast and actively, with plenty of discussions, reflections and laughs. 

Jive causing me to reach the end of my cognitive capacity

When the teacher announced jive as our next dance and showed the routine we had supposedly learned and practiced in the last months, my mind went blank. Nothing seemed familiar. 

After somewhat successfully remembering and dancing cha-cha, samba and rhumba routines, sometimes going out of rhythm or misunderstanding each other's intentions, and me ignoring my husband's attempts to lead me, my cognitive capacity had reached its limit. 

I raised my hand and honestly announced it to the teacher. 

"Don't worry. Do what you remember," she smiled.

"We'll dance the old routines," I whispered to my husband. He breathed with relief. He too had forgotten. 

We danced. Over the years we have danced so much that some steps are firmly in the muscle memory. 

The Monday dance lessons are safe to learn and try and fail and practice and try again. My hubby and I don't compete, perform or go to parties to demonstrate our skills. The dance is for us only.  

We get the prize for showing up. And another for being the couple who has been there the longest - more than twenty years.