BRATTLEBORO — Some silences can be very loud.
I worked on the Navajo (Diné) Nation in Arizona from 1999 until 2006, before I moved back to Vermont. During that time, I worked as a counselor at the Little Singer Community School, which served students in preschool to eighth grade.
The Diné people tend to be quiet and very understated. Observing the children, I experienced some deeply moving expressions of compassion, which led me to an understanding of how many such acts, brought to the world by our youngest ones, often go unnoticed.
I ran into one of these early one morning in the hour when the buses would arrive at the school and the children would head to the cafeteria for breakfast, where they probably do most of their good eating.
It was early spring, and the air was warm. I was walking back to my little office along the edge of the playground marked by grouped railroad ties standing on end to a height of 2 and 3 feet. I had just picked up my mail and was flipping through it when something caught my attention.
I stopped in my tracks and, without glancing behind me, backed up a few steps and looked to my side. The quality of the silence energizing the space had called to me.
There, sitting opposite each other, each perched upon a railroad tie, were two first graders, Kennedy and Sherrie, who seemed like two miniature Buddhas. Gazing down at them, I was immediately pulled into the bubble of silence.
Before I could take in the details of this picture, Kennedy turned to me and said with simple reverence: “Sherrie misses her mom.”
Sherrie's mother had very recently abandoned the family. The father went in one direction and she another taking the two youngest children with her and leaving little Sherrie and her brother, Chad, in second grade, with an aunt.
Sherrie had announced this event to me the day before by blurting out matter-of-factly: “I don't have a mom anymore.”
I had just begun piecing together the story from snippets of information, and now I had come upon this scene.
* * *
I turned to Sherrie. Her eyes were holding onto Kennedy like a babe clings to a mom. Her posture was one of courage, but her stoicism was betrayed by cheeks marked by trails of tears.
I suspect that what brought me down to their sitting height and into a kneeling posture was an unconscious impulse to bow to such sacredness, such breathtaking compassion, such silent holding on the part of two such tender beings.
And when I did, Sherrie fell into my arms, her body now convulsing with sobs.
On the ground, with my arms wrapped around Sherrie, I looked up at Kennedy, who, in truth, deserved the credit for the holding.
“Kennedy” I said, “you are such a good friend. You are both so brave.”
The bubble of silence surrounded us until Sherrie's sobs subsided.
* * *
Very soon, the squeals from the playground called the young ones back to the present day, little legs began to stretch, and the call to play took over.
Kennedy waited respectfully for her friend. I released Sherrie and brushed myself off. Buddhas turned back into children as the persistent force of life swept them onto jungle bars and into the mesmerizing embrace of the swings.
I stood at the edge of the playground watching the lively scene. I found myself thinking of how often we give our primary attention to what we consider the socially unacceptable behaviors of children, their sometimes loud and bullying actions.
How often do we fail to listen and then to be awed by our children's innate compassion sitting before us in the silence?