Yes, it's already Saturday morning.
That doesn't mean anything, really.
I'd still like to link-up at the Gypsy Mama, so I'm going to.
The word of the week: voice.
My voice rises, gets louder, then at the breaking point, gets really quiet.
"No te escucho," my students say. They look at me, quiet down, and I begin again, with my volume so low that they must strain to hear me over the hum of the air conditioner.
It's so loud that most of the time I can't hear myself think.
Between the excitement of doing science experiments and the fair and halloween and birthdays and the promise of so many fun things, it is not until I am very quiet that my students finally start to hear me.
My voice; when I use it the right way, is a tool for learning. It is a tool for encouraging, a tool for loving.
When it gets loud, no one can hear it.
When it is quiet, people lean in to listen.
Not only in the classroom, but in life, in general.
I don't want to hear those who are loud at me, trying so very hard to be heard. I want to hear the voice of those who wait to speak, who wait to have my attention, who are interested in making sure that I hear clearly the importance of what they say.
And I want to hear, clearly, that still, small voice, reassuring me, encouraging me, loving me, that comes from above.