Writing down the moment

In grade 8, my music teacher gave some very simple homework—listening, but not to music. We were to go and sit quietly in some corner of our home or garden and listen to the sounds around us. Then, with pen and paper in hand, our assignment was to describe those sounds. (Actually, the assignment was to choose three different locations and listen to the different sounds in each one.) I remember vividly how wonderful it was to become conscious of listening in this way.

Unbeknownst to my teacher, or even to me, I had discovered how to rest in the moment by opening to hearing. Since external sounds were beyond the locus of my control, I naturally and easily surrendered the active doing of anything. I entered a receptive state of awareness. My task was just to listen to sounds arising and passing away—a siren in the distance, a car passing by, a chickadee singing in the cedar trees, a dog barking, a door slamming, a voice calling—and then record in my own way what I heard. There was no “right” answer to this assignment, just an opportunity to get interested and investigate my own experience.

Last week, in the Grade Three classroom where I am currently teaching, I gave a similar assignment. First, we practiced it at school, writing about where we were sitting in the classroom and what we could see and hear. (“I hear Greg falling off his chair again…”) but the homework was to be done somewhere in the children’s own home. In the first person present tense, they were asked to describe in a short paragraph where they were sitting (or lying), what they saw, what they heard, and to finish with one sentence describing how they felt. The next morning, when the children brought their homework in, I asked them how it went. Did they enjoy it? One little girl, who struggles to even write the date, described how happy she felt, writing by the fireplace, listening to the sound of the fire crackling. Another told of lying on her bed with her cat beside her, feeling warm and cozy, looking out at the dark night outside. Several children discovered, in the most natural way, the art of contrast, and how satisfying it is to highlight one aspect of experience by contrasting it with another. Others found their own distinctive voice by writing down their experience like this. Simon described sitting at the dining-room table with a plate of scrambled eggs beside him. “They look tasty,” he writes. He goes on to describe what is happening in his sound environment—his younger brother counting to ten in French. This is a wonderful detail in itself, evoking a vivid image, but the writer enriches it by adding his own emotional response. “I am so proud of him,” writes Simon. “He’s only five years old.” He finishes his paragraph by returning to the eggs. “I’m feeling kind of hungry, so I better eat those eggs.”

Writing down the moment is a simple exercise, but it can become a beautiful way of encouraging children to value their own perception and their own experience. It also invites children to notice and investigate what’s happening now—a skill that has tremendous importance in living a happy life.