Femke van der Giesen

My mindfulness lessons start at ten past three, when the young people come in after a full school day. So I begin every lesson the same way: three minutes of silence, with a soft bell marking each minute. It works remarkably well; the whole rush of the day falls away from them. The young people tell me they love it, and so do I: those three minutes have since found a permanent place in my own French lessons too.

Young people keep surprising you. During a listening meditation, someone in the music room below us started singing, quite out of tune. Instead of pretending it wasn’t happening, I made it part of the exercise. Afterwards a girl described exactly where in her body she had felt her irritation rising. ‘Funny,’ she said, ‘that I get annoyed by what someone else does, when I actually do the same myself.’ That is mindfulness unfolding right before your eyes.

The moment that has stayed with me most came near the end of a training. As we talked about the things in life we have no control over, a girl told us about her grandfather and her aunt, who were both seriously ill. She admitted she had been pushing her feelings away for months. From that moment she gave her sadness the room it needed. Seeing a fifteen-year-old discover that feelings are allowed to be felt: that is why I do this work.

After our last meeting, most of the group stayed behind in the room. They told me how much the training had given them and that they still listen to the meditations at home. Saying goodbye was hard, for them and for me.