Montserrat

One morning at breakfast, a girl in our kindergarten opened her lunchbox and burst into tears. Her three plums were sour, hard and unripe, and her mother hadn’t even noticed. Before I could react, another child said calmly: “Remember what Fred the Frog teaches us, breathe.” The girl settled, and the other children shared their own breakfast with her. The teacher on duty turned to me and said: “What you are teaching them is really making a difference.”

It’s in moments like these that I see what mindfulness does for young children. They carry it everywhere. One mother told me her daughter had said to her, in the middle of a stressful moment at home: “Mom, you can do it like we learn with Fred the Frog, breathe, sit down, and feel how your belly fills with air. Then your head will feel better.”

The most important thing I’ve learned is that children don’t pick up mindfulness from a technique, they pick it up from your presence. When I am calm and grounded, the group settles with me. And when a grey, noisy morning leaves everyone overstimulated, I don’t push through the plan: we take off our socks, open the doors, and step outside to feel the wet ground and laugh, and then the breathing exercise lands effortlessly.

The children keep amazing me. One boy discovered he feels anger in his ears, they get warm. Another girl could finally explain to her mother why mornings made her sad: everything was always such a rush. Her mother changed their morning routine.

This work has been a turning point in my life. It has made me clearer, more sensitive and more compassionate, with the children, and with myself.