Our daughter had a very fine teacher in her primary school. Dedicated to her small charges, she applied herself diligently every day to the task of instructing, listening and encouraging and, for herself, simply surviving. Day after day she would care for her class, make herself acquainted with each child’s strengths and weaknesses, idiosyncrasies and giftings and strive to urge them on, to take steps forward in life, in learning, in the achievement of personal goals and towards greater maturity.
But sometimes, as happens to us all, it all got too much. She was nearing retirement and sometimes, after a particularly tiresome morning’s teaching, was more in need of an afternoon nap than an afternoon of arithmetic with a class who preferred to look out of the window and really wanted to go out to play. Mrs. Luscombe’s classroom was on the ground floor of a modern, purpose-built school and opened out through a glass door onto the playground – a tempting prospect for her less motivated children and for their weary teacher. On particularly difficult days she would set tasks for her children, check to make sure that everyone was gainfully employed and then slip quietly out of the door into the play area outside. “I just go and look at a tree” she confided to us once, in an unguarded moment at a parents’ evening. “There are just times when it all gets too much and the only thing to do is go and look at a tree.” As far as I know she was not a tree-hugger, but the tree in the playground was certainly a friend and a source of valuable therapy and there existed a long-lasting bond between them.
As for me, years later, I understand how she felt. It’s been a hard week: a week of adjusting to a new job, new people, new tasks, new stresses and strains and another week in the city. Now I’ve escaped from the busy ‘Randstad’ – that urban expanse of stress-filled living that is comprised of a conglomeration of busy Dutch cities, all running into one another. In the north of Holland the pace of life is less frenetic, the values and lifestyle more relaxed and a sense of calm and well-being hovers in the air.
So here I am, surrounded by trees – grey-green willows, glowing golden-leaved chestnuts and graceful lindens. But the trees are not my choice today. No, I have other sights in view. Sitting here, beside the water, I am looking at a cow! Graceful she is not, nor glowing, but somehow comforting. Square, massive, brown and white and immovable, she stands gently, placidly staring into space, her soft brown eyes full of wisdom. She is also chewing the cud, which is exactly what I’m doing – figuratively speaking – going over the week’s events until they slip into place, questions resolved, worries quashed and I can file them away in my mind in a box marked ‘sorted’. My role model, my therapist, is ruminating, masticating, deliberating (or so it seems), chewing in a knowing, superior manner in front of me. Nothing interrupts her reverie or her purpose. I follow suit: half an hour, sitting on a bench, watching the cow and chewing over the events of the week.
After a while, her placidity and apparent wisdom rub off on me and I find I can proceed, like Mrs. Luscombe, with my world back in order and my spirits renewed. The cow is too big to hug but I silently flash her a smile of grateful thanks as I continue on my way. Maybe they’re not so dumb as they look.
But sometimes, as happens to us all, it all got too much. She was nearing retirement and sometimes, after a particularly tiresome morning’s teaching, was more in need of an afternoon nap than an afternoon of arithmetic with a class who preferred to look out of the window and really wanted to go out to play. Mrs. Luscombe’s classroom was on the ground floor of a modern, purpose-built school and opened out through a glass door onto the playground – a tempting prospect for her less motivated children and for their weary teacher. On particularly difficult days she would set tasks for her children, check to make sure that everyone was gainfully employed and then slip quietly out of the door into the play area outside. “I just go and look at a tree” she confided to us once, in an unguarded moment at a parents’ evening. “There are just times when it all gets too much and the only thing to do is go and look at a tree.” As far as I know she was not a tree-hugger, but the tree in the playground was certainly a friend and a source of valuable therapy and there existed a long-lasting bond between them.
As for me, years later, I understand how she felt. It’s been a hard week: a week of adjusting to a new job, new people, new tasks, new stresses and strains and another week in the city. Now I’ve escaped from the busy ‘Randstad’ – that urban expanse of stress-filled living that is comprised of a conglomeration of busy Dutch cities, all running into one another. In the north of Holland the pace of life is less frenetic, the values and lifestyle more relaxed and a sense of calm and well-being hovers in the air.
So here I am, surrounded by trees – grey-green willows, glowing golden-leaved chestnuts and graceful lindens. But the trees are not my choice today. No, I have other sights in view. Sitting here, beside the water, I am looking at a cow! Graceful she is not, nor glowing, but somehow comforting. Square, massive, brown and white and immovable, she stands gently, placidly staring into space, her soft brown eyes full of wisdom. She is also chewing the cud, which is exactly what I’m doing – figuratively speaking – going over the week’s events until they slip into place, questions resolved, worries quashed and I can file them away in my mind in a box marked ‘sorted’. My role model, my therapist, is ruminating, masticating, deliberating (or so it seems), chewing in a knowing, superior manner in front of me. Nothing interrupts her reverie or her purpose. I follow suit: half an hour, sitting on a bench, watching the cow and chewing over the events of the week.
After a while, her placidity and apparent wisdom rub off on me and I find I can proceed, like Mrs. Luscombe, with my world back in order and my spirits renewed. The cow is too big to hug but I silently flash her a smile of grateful thanks as I continue on my way. Maybe they’re not so dumb as they look.
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