Tonight I write about someone I will not name.
I met her at Constructing Modern Knowledge. Her name and role are not important (for this story, but are essential to her own).
She’d not written poetry in a while. And when I met her in the lobby of the hotel, she was working on whether or not to stick with a group of people with whom she wasn’t sure she was clicking.
“I don’t know if the people in the group are compatible,” is the gist of what she said to me when we crossed paths in the lobby.
“Gary would tell you to break up if it isn’t working out,” I said to her in response. “Let me know if it isn’t going well by the end of today.” She agreed and we went our separate ways.
We next crossed paths two evenings later, when I was looking for people to write poems with. I confirmed that things had improved with her group, and then I asked her to join us to write.
“I can’t write poems,” she told me when I asked.
“Sure you can,” I replied. And I believed it.
We went into the bar at the hotel with a couple of other folks, rolled the Metaphor Dice, and she wrote two beautiful poems, at least one of which she sent to a special person in her life. The next day, or perhaps the day after, she approached me in the makerspace.
“I want you to know that I appreciated that you believed in me,” she said, roughly1. “Because you believed in me, I could write the things you said I could,” was the gist of what she said to me.
“Thank you,” she also said.
“Of course,” I replied, as my heart sang from the kindness of a sincere compliment2.
Because that’s what teachers do. We believe in people and help them accomplish things they do not know that they might and can do.
It’s a big deal. But we do it in little ways. Like most magic happens.
All the time.