Tend (v):
1. to attend to by work
or services, care, etc:
to tend a fire.
2. to look after; watch over and care for;
minister to or wait on with service:
to tend the sick.
3. to lead or be directed
in a particularly direction
4. to be disposed or inclined in action,
operation, or effect to do something:
The particles tend to unite.
Having worked with young people on
and off for the better part of my life, there is one verb I feel best
describes the work of a caregiver, parent, or teacher: to tend.
It is a gentle but profound word.
We tend fires, we tend the sick
and dying, we tend our gardens.
And we tend our children.
The fire. The dying. The garden.
The child.
All these are potent signs of a Reality
that requires tenderness, watchfulness, oxygen - a delicate blend of vigilance
and space.
I have seen children who are
carefully tended - who are trained and pruned with the greatest love and
kindness. These children have a gentleness of spirit fostered by a deep sense
of security and protection.
Of course, all parents lose their
tempers sometimes. And all children test boundaries. We are learning as we go -
and making plenty of mistakes along the way. Fortunately, children are
supremely forgiving of mistakes made in a spirit of service and nurturance. And
almost all wounds can be healed - as long as children know they walk on solid
ground.
This ground is the love,
respect and trust they have for their parents, caregivers, and teachers.
I feel the best way to establish
this sense of security and confidence is for a child to know he or she is being
tended. This includes, but is not limited to, being attentive to a child's
needs. Being firm and sometimes unyielding, but also caring and receptive.
Beyond this, tending is a posture
or stance we must adopt in every aspect of our lives - not only teaching and
child-rearing, but self-reflection and mindfulness. It is an attitude of leadership, directed toward unity and integration. And it begins with ourselves.
We must learn to nurture and
nourish both the fire of our spirit and the sick and dying elements of our
bodies and souls. These wounded or dead parts of ourselves are not to be feared
and shunned, but welcomed and healed. Or honoured and let go.
We must tend our interior garden with
constancy and affection. For this is the only garden we can enter without fear
of being cast out.
And once we are assured the
ground will not give way - that we too walk on the bedrock of our soul's own
love, respect, and trust - we will glimpse something hidden in the tall grasses
and shy, blooming things.
A child.
This is the child we have so
long neglected. The one who can bear too much. We must signal our friendship from a
distance. Then, approach.
