Bird Droppings November 12, 2026
A Few Seconds to Notice
It is amazing what a few seconds can change. This morning, while driving my familiar back roads, I encountered fourteen deer, three crows, four squirrels, and a red-shouldered hawk. The sky was painted in shades of orange as the sun slowly appeared. Nothing unusual, really, for a morning in rural Georgia. Yet somehow, everything seemed extraordinary. I could have driven past most of it without noticing. I could have been thinking about the day’s responsibilities, the work waiting on my computers, assignments needing attention, or anything else occupying my mind.
Instead, I looked. I stopped for a few seconds, watched, and occasionally took a photograph.
Someone commented on my morning photographs, and it struck me that anyone could have seen what I saw. Nothing particularly special about where I was standing or the road I was traveling. The deer were there. The hawk was there. The sunrise was there. All someone had to do was look.
I began thinking about how often this same idea applies to teaching. For more than fifty years, I have worked with children and young people, many of whom carried labels that seemed to define them before anyone really got to know them. Learning disabilities, emotional and behavioral disorders, autism, and a host of other classifications sometimes became more important than the children themselves. We were so busy looking at what was wrong that we occasionally forgot to notice what was right.
I remember a student who was selectively mute. Traditional reading assessments required spoken responses. But what happens when a child understands something and simply cannot communicate that understanding in the way the assessment demands? The solution was remarkably simple. Instead of requiring a spoken answer, I let the student point. Suddenly, a way to demonstrate understanding was there all along. The doorway was there all along. We simply needed to notice it.
I have often wondered how many children spend their days waiting for someone to recognize a doorway that has been overlooked. John Dewey wrote extensively about experience and education. Learning was not simply transferring information from teacher to student. It was an active process involving observation, experience, reflection, and participation. For me, this is part of what I call the Osmotic Teacher.
An Osmotic Teacher is not merely someone standing in front of a classroom delivering knowledge. The teacher is a facilitator, an observer, a participant, and perhaps most importantly, a learner. Sometimes the child teaches the teacher. Sometimes the greatest lesson of the day never appears in the lesson plan. I think back to the classrooms I tried to create over the years. Comfortable places with sofas, aquariums, animals, and opportunities for conversation. Places where students could feel safe enough to be themselves. I called them sanctuary classrooms, but perhaps the sanctuary began long before the furniture was arranged, or the first aquarium was filled. Perhaps it began the moment a child realized someone had noticed them. Noticed they were struggling. Noticed they were frightened. Noticed they had something important to say, even when they couldn’t find the words.
And sometimes, noticed they were capable of far more than anyone expected. We talk a great deal about the importance of relationships in education. We discuss trust, respect, empathy, and understanding. Yet I wonder whether all those things begin with something much simpler. A few seconds to notice. A few seconds to recognize that the child sitting quietly in the corner may have an extraordinary story. A few seconds to see that challenging behavior might be communicating something we have not yet understood. A few seconds to realize that a student who appears disengaged might simply be waiting for someone to find a different doorway.
This morning, fifteen deer and a red-shouldered hawk reminded me of something I have believed throughout my teaching career. Noticing is only the beginning. What we do with what we notice is what makes the difference. I can photograph a hawk and appreciate its beauty. But when I notice a child, I have an opportunity to change something far more important.
Perhaps a lesson. Perhaps a relationship. Perhaps the direction of a life. And perhaps that is why, even after all these years, I still find myself thinking about teaching while driving down a country road, watching the sunrise. There is always something worth noticing. We simply have to take a few seconds to look. I will go looking for another sunrise tomorrow. I wonder what I will notice. Please keep all in harm’s way on your mind and in your hearts, and please always give thanks, namaste.
My family and friends, I do not say this lightly,
Mitakuye Oyasin
(We are all related)
docbird
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