Pause

 

Pause

My little neighbor and I have many interesting conversations. He is six and I am, let’s just say, older. His first language is not English but he is completely fluent with a cute little accent. My only language is English (with a cute local accent) and with my aging ears, our conversations go something like this: 

Me:  Good morning, how are you?

Him: What?

Me: How are you?

Him: I am fine. Where are you going?

Me: What?

Him: Where are you going?

Me: I’m taking a walk in the fields.

Him: What?

And so on. We “what?” back and forth cheerfully and somehow manage to have lovely conversations. Connecting the dots between “whats,” we understand one another better. 

Conversations like these are not unfamiliar to me. I taught little ones for twenty-five years. Ninety-percent of my announcements were met with “What?” No matter how clearly I laid out directions, speaking them, demonstrating them, repeating them, writing them on the board, and having students repeat them back to me, as soon as I said, “Ready?” hands would shoot up. “What are we supposed to do again?"

For every one sentence I uttered, at least five “whats” were returned. Repeating myself became second nature (a habit that comes in handy with friends who also have aging ears).

Over the years, my students remained seven or eight but I aged ever upward. In my later teaching years, I was the one asking for repeats. The little ones repeated without complaint (teaching me a lesson about patience and listening). One student in particular stands out, a little sweetie who had a unique way of asking to hear it once again.

During the first week of school, we were sharing a story at the reading carpet. I galloped along at my usual reading speed when she raised her hand. I called on her and she politely said, “Pause.” 

At first I was confused. I asked her to repeat. She said, “Pause, please.” I thought, This little one has an intimate relationship with her remote control. Then, I paused. In fact, we all did. Every kid’s attention focused. After a second, I repeated slowly what I had been reading. She nodded and we read on. This became a habit. Pause. Slow repeat. Continue.

After a while, the whole class fell into the habit of asking for a pause. Too much noise? Pause. Too much information? Pause. Too many clamoring for attention? Pause. I loved “pause” and so did my students. With every pause, we connected with one another.

We live in a chaotic world. Battered day and night by news, opinions, events, activities, requests, information, and emotions, we long for a pause, a moment of quiet, a moment of peace, a moment to repeat, recall, regroup, and re-energize. A remote control with a pause button powerful enough to slow the world down just for a few moments would be most welcome. A pause just long enough to listen to one another, understand one another, to stop, rewind, and continue at a slower more manageable pace. 

My little neighbor and I will continue to “what?” one another when we meet. Slowing down our conversation for repeats, we understand each other better. Pause, repeat, understand, connect.