(197) The Littlest Gestures

The littlest gestures grab me hardest.

I am teaching a new class at a school, and one of the kids was leery of me. Not rude or struggling (she’s easily one of the quickest kids in the class), but just not sure about me. Which is normal; trust is an important factor in teacher-student relationships and it takes time and effort to make it a healthy facet of the exchange.

Yesterday, her face lit up when she saw me walk into the classroom. Her eyes sparked that lit smile every time I addressed her, regardless of whether or not I was correcting or complimenting. I don’t know what changed, but she’s in that class with all of herself, now.

I see the little stuff like a plot twist in an amazing book: the nuance grabs my heart and twists it until all I can feel is that gesture. I think this latch is probably why practicing was a good outlet for me; I could obsess over and bask in the details, and not have to worry about missing the big picture (until an hour later, when trying to play the entire piece AHAHAHA kill me). I could craft a big picture out of millions of little pictures and treat sewing invisible seams like yet another gesture that would melt my world.

I think when times get sad, the gestures come back to haunt me. They like to remind me of all the exquisite expansions they gave me when I was off guard and happy. The memory of those perception shattering quakes paints all the new gestures with a shade of longing and loss that visits me in addition to the sad landscape already decorating my heart. They drape my clarity and eventually my will, and I lose my ability to catch new gestures.

And on it goes like that, the carousel of sleeping sadness, until I stumble into class, and see that child.

And her eyes are lit.

And she is there. The shroud is gone.