By Kristin

This year I taught a reading intervention class and was given one task: teach my students what they needed to know to be at or above grade level standard in reading.

Our goal was no secret, and from the first moment I saw my students I was like Jillian Michaels, ignoring the whining, forcing them past the fear and being honest with where they were and what they had to do.  It was exhausting, and we didn't let even a minute slide by.  No singing Happy Birthday, no holiday parties, no movies.  After the big test, we took one day off to celebrate our hard work before hitting the mental gym again.  Why?  Because now our goal is to be above grade level.  We continue to use every second  and to work as hard as we can.  Except for last Tuesday, when in my heart I know my 6th period spent the most important ten minutes of the year.

Colony Collapse Disorder  is no joke.  We depend on bees for most of our agriculture and certainly for the ecosystem dependent on living plants.  When I see a honey bee I get really excited.  My students get excited too, but in a flailing, hysterical, terrified way.  We had a big huge wasp – it was like a yellow Apache Helicopter – in p-9 in early spring and I had to let kids work outside so that we didn't lose precious learning time to their distracted horror.

On Tuesday, greeting my 6th period at the door, I saw a tired and vulnerable honey bee on the stairs to my portable.  "STOP!" I shrieked.  "GET BACK!"  I took a book and gently lifted the bee, hurrying inside to get a spoon, a sugar cube and a bit of water before heading back out to set up my emergency room on the banister of our porch.

"What are you doing?" kids asked.  "Why is it brown?" "Why don't you just kill it?"  "You're going to get stung!" 

I ignored them, waiting for the sugar cube to dissolve and the bee to crawl off the book.  We quieted.  Minutes ticked by.  Our opening activity lay in a stack in front of our room, forgotten.

I nudged the bee, more gently than Jillian might nudge a puking contestant on the treadmill, and slowly, uncertainly, she took a hesitant sip, then another, then another.  A collective gasp came from my 15 kids, all pressed around me, as we watched her tongue come out of its little tube, "Like a hummingbird's!" a student whispered, and the bee guzzled, her little abdomen bouncing away with relief and pleasure.

Ten minutes later, we watched her go.  "That was cool," a boy said.  Then, we went into class and meandered our way to getting some work done.  But we were all kind of soft and glowy, having fed a wild creature, having thrown efficiency out the window, having seen a honey bee tongue up close.

I might have followed this up with some non-fiction texts on honey bees, maybe shared the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds FAQs for feeding exhausted bees.  Or, I could have had them do a journal write or reflection on our experience.

But I didn't.  We just had that moment, pressed together, still and quietly watching the bee drink her go-juice.  We thought about bugs and bees and hummingbirds.  We stopped for some time, experienced something, and then did nothing with it.

Spending slow time, pressed together close in wonder and peaceful community. Sometimes that's the best thing we can give our kids.