Bird Droppings November 15, 2026
A Letter to My Former Students: What You Taught Me
Dear Students,
I went looking for a sunrise this morning. It was twenty-seven degrees, and a bank of fog rising off the lake hid much of the horizon. I knew the sun was coming up. I simply could not see it from where I was sitting. So I moved. I looked from another direction. Along the way, I counted thirteen deer, watched frost catch the morning light, and remembered stories attached to an old bridge.
Somewhere in my wandering, I started thinking about you. I wonder how often I sat in a classroom believing I understood what was in front of me when I needed to change where I was looking. You gave me plenty of opportunities to learn that lesson.
I came into teaching with ideas about what you needed to know. There were lessons to prepare, expectations to meet, and things I thought I could explain. Sometimes I got so caught up in teaching that I needed you to remind me to pay attention.
You taught me to listen to a question before deciding what it meant. You taught me that silence could hold understanding, uncertainty, fear, or simply a need for more time. I could not know which without getting to know the person sitting there.
One student helped me understand that an answer did not have to be spoken to demonstrate learning. Pointing opened a way for that student to show what was understood. I had been waiting for words when another doorway was already there. I still think about that.
How many doorways do we walk past because we are looking for the one we expected? Some of you needed to move. Some needed a quiet place. Some needed to talk before you could begin working. Others needed me to stop talking long enough for you to think. And sometimes you needed something I had not considered.
You taught me to ask what happened before the behavior I was seeing. What had the morning been like? What happened in the hallway? What had I asked, and how had I asked it? I did not always find an answer, but asking changed how I approached you.
There were still responsibilities and boundaries. We had work to do together. But knowing more about you helped me make better decisions about how we could do it. Some of my favorite lessons began with something that was not in the lesson plan. An animal in the room. A feather. An old object sitting on a shelf. Something you had walked past for weeks before finally asking, “What is that?”
That question might lead us somewhere I had never intended to go. You brought your experiences to it. Someone else added a story. I learned something, and we had a reason to keep looking. You helped me understand the value of a classroom where curiosity had room to grow.
When some of you called our room a sanctuary, that word stayed with me. I wanted you to have a place where you could settle enough to take a chance on learning. You helped me see how much the feeling of a room mattered. I also know I missed things.
There were questions I could have asked more gently and moments when I could have waited longer. There were days when I was tired or too certain of my own explanation. Looking back means remembering those moments too. I hope I became more willing to learn as the years went by.
Recently, a former student who is now a teacher wrote about being exhausted and wondering whether she was doing enough. Her words stayed with me. I remembered the student I knew, and I thought about the teacher she has become. I wanted to offer something useful. But before I could do that, I needed to listen. There you were, teaching me again.
Over the years, I have used the word “osmotic” to describe the teacher I hoped to become—a facilitator and fellow learner, someone who could help learning happen while remaining open to being changed by it. You gave that idea meaning. You challenged my assumptions, shared your interests, questioned my explanations, and occasionally made me laugh when I was taking myself far too seriously.
I was your teacher, and I learned from you. This morning, the sun eventually came into view. By then, I had already taken photographs of things I would have missed if I had stayed in one place waiting for the picture I expected. I think about that as I write to you.
I hope something from our time together has remained useful in your life. A question, perhaps. A story. The memory of a place where you felt welcome. Please know that something of you remains in mine. Thank you for what you taught me. 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)
Dr. Frank Bird
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