I met a remarkable group of teachers last week. They spoke about their secondary school, which serves one of the most disadvantaged suburbs of Dublin. They feel privileged to be part of the lives of their students and they give their bone marrow every day to their work.
One man described how stepping into this classroom in the morning was like stepping on to the fast lane of a Formula One race track, with the traffic coming towards him. The sheer speed of the day was exhilarating, but draining.
Besides covering the prescribed coursework, demands of every kind come at him constantly: the boy who was having difficulties and needed extra encouragement to stay on top of things; the withdrawn girl who had brought with her into school the hurt and the aggression she had witnessed at home that morning; the stolen mobile; the fear in someone’s eyes who was being bullied, and the angry parent of the bully waiting downstairs; the football team who faced devastation in a week’s time from their neighbours unless they pull their socks up.
Second shift
When their day is done, these teachers leave for home to start a second shift. Their children and families are waiting with their own needs and demands. Another round of homework, tending to life's bruises, equipping their children to face life, paying bills, caring for a sick relative and everything else.
In the scarce few minutes that they might try to grab for themselves on the drive home, they might turn on the radio to hear yet another round of teacher bashing. With their end-of-term energies at their lowest, these assaults reach fever pitch as teachers everywhere are attacked for having steady jobs and long summer holidays.
Standing there in the school library, with Colin Farrell looking right at me from the poster on the wall, I was moved by their passion and their commitment. I could have travelled for miles on their humour and warmth. But I also saw tired, exhausted faces. Teaching haemorrhages energy.
Their principal spoke about how crucial it was for each of them to look after their own mental and physical health. “We have trouble in this country,” she said, “with the whole idea of self-care.” With so many urgent demands made on us all of the time, going for a walk, working in the garden, watching TV or just taking time out to be quiet, can seem “selfish”.
She told us clearly that it was anything but. There was a beautiful permission in her words.
One man asked me to talk about how mindfulness could help.
Mindfulness is one of the ways we can mind ourselves. It is not the only way.
The trick for each of us is to find out what works for us, and to build this into our everyday routine.
With so much in our face that triggers fear, frustration and despair, our bodies contract with tension and pain. We may not realise that this is happening. Mindfulness is a way of being aware of how we are doing below the noise level. When we know how we are, we are in a much better position to know what to do.
When we are mindful, we don’t try to fix anything; we simply allow whatever is there, to be there. When we accept whatever we’re feeling, our feelings begin to untangle. We reconnect with our inner strength. We find our sea legs. We remember who we are and we trust that having survived this far, we have learned enough to see us through.
Navel-gazing
From the outside, mindfulness can look like a form of selfish navel-gazing. But mindfulness is just trying to get us beyond our noisy ego so that we can allow our real self to come alive.
In the latest Think Big research with young Irish people, one in three chose a teacher as the person outside of their family who inspired them the most. Next to parenting, teaching is the most important gift we give our children.
Tony Bates is founding director of Headstrong – The National Centre for Youth Mental Health