Gratitude

Charlotte’s Web might be my favorite book.  I want to always remember that Wilbur was not innately special.  Not more special or more gifted, at any rate, than any piglet in the barnyard.  In fact he was the runt of the litter, destined for elimination.  It is Fern’s devotion to him that transforms how he’s perceived and treated, and how he perceives himself.  And it’s not so much that he goes from being ordinary to extraordinary.  He doesn’t, and that’s an important theme in the story.  The miracle resides in love’s transformative power, the potential for love to generate, in its recipient, a higher sense of purpose beyond survival of the next day. 

 

Charlotte’s Web was among the first chapter books I read independently, when I was the age my son is now, and the first book to make me cry in that way where joy and grief are inextricably entwined.  I can still visualize where I was sitting when I had read the final lines and closed the cover: the knotty oak table, the kitchen counter with its scattered teacups and dishes, the particles of dust suspended in the afternoon light angling through the window, the smudgy grime in that linoleum floor, and the feeling that everything around me was being held up so that I could touch it. 

 

A teacher gave me that book to read.  She knew what it would open in me and what I needed at that moment. I remember how much she seemed to respect us kids for no reason, how much she seemed to understand about our interior lives, how many questions she asked us to answer by examining rather than consulting.  She acted as if we were without question good, curious people, full of intelligence, interesting, worthy of her time and energy, no matter how we behaved or what mistakes we made, and we came to believe these things about ourselves.  She created in her teaching a sacred quality very close to love:  revelation of the soul, kindness of the heart, wonder and gratitude, something that resonates beyond the moment and generates more of itself.

There have been other such thresholds in my experience of life, times when a generous, perceptive and capable person took the time to really see me and really nurture my understanding, and not because I am special or more deserving or more talented than another individual.  I’m not.  The teacher is sharing enthusiasm, cautioning, guiding, responding to old questions by asking new questions, providing tools and experiences at the right time.  That may not be extraordinary.  The extraordinary thing is what an attentive teacher can unlock in a receptive student.  Something happens in the teaching itself, the seeing and being seen, that is intimately experienced and liberating.