Blooming Behind the Dumpsters

Last spring, as I was walking into school in the morning (back when we used to go to school every morning), I noticed a tree with the most spectacular blooms and surrounded by sunny daffodils. I stopped to admire this little scene for a few seconds, trying to soak in a moment of peace before the chaos of teaching at an elementary school.

What struck me then was the intentionality of someone at some point in the past planting that tree and those flowers next to a back door. A door maybe 12 teachers used in the morning and afternoon while the rest of the teachers and students came in the front door. A door tucked away behind the dumpsters and far away from the road that passes by the school. Almost no one would see the moment when the tree exploded into bloom at the exact same time the daffodils raised their sunny little faces. But someone at some point thought it would be worthwhile to plant that tree and those bulbs anyway and in that moment I was so thankful that they did.

At the time, it made me think of the work I did every day that only my students would see and that only a few of those students would appreciate. Now, with school buildings closed, I have that feeling of putting my heart and soul into something that maybe no one will appreciate, only now it’s times 1,000.

These days I spend a lot of time making videos and creating activities for students to do at home, and I honestly have no idea who, if anyone, notices or cares. For someone who is used to constant feedback from my students (even though the feedback was not always asked for or appreciated) this new kind of teaching feels like throwing my hard work into an endless and overcrowded void. Trusting that for someone, somewhere, it’s a moment of peace in the chaos.

I still think about that little tree behind the dumpsters often. It might be blooming now, even though I am not there to appreciate it this year. And I remember that I didn’t go into education because I wanted credit or recognition (although credit and recognition from time to time would be very welcome!) but because I love to be a part of the whole amazing learning process. On the best days, getting to witness students making connections and learn to love the process of learning is the only reward I need. For me, those days are the moment of bloom that make the struggle of planting feel worthwhile.

But these are not the best days. These days are hard and frustrating and the temptation to stop trying so hard is strong. I know I at least feel like that tree blooming my hardest behind a dumpster where no one will even notice.

But trees don’t bloom to be noticed. They bloom because that is how they grow. Everything I am doing right now, even if it is never seen by anyone, is forcing me to grow. As a teacher, as a librarian, as a person, as a Christian. And it doesn’t make it any easier. But it makes it part of a process that is much bigger than this moment.

And so I will keep planting new things in the dirt of this terrible moment we are living through. Keep using this unwanted time to reflect and learn more about myself and grow in my relationship with my Savior. Keep writing and making art and lessons and videos and bread. Because it’s all growth.

And you never know who will see what you are doing right now and for them it will be a moment of peace in the chaos.