Perhaps it’s the tree off the balcony. A dream. A chain of technological glitches. Three mosquito bites, three feathers, three human beings who help you to stop, to listen.

Teachers have appeared for me these last few years. Not just any old teachers. Teachers who ask the questions that shift how I see. Teachers who don’t rescue me, but who let themselves be available, and who are very very gentle. Each with the same essential message from their different paths.

At one time I would have said I’m lucky. Certainly they show up in mysterious ways and places as though just for me! But such guidance is available to us all. It’s here and we are drawn to it. We just have to permit ourselves—the hard part!—to seek, and then—the hard part!—to listen.

I’m thankful for teachers who don’t hide their gifts.

Then, there is that exchange, that as the teacher fans the flame in the student, the student energizes the teacher. The mystery in that no matter how small or naive, the student is necessary to the teacher. Without a student, there is no teacher.

God speaks in an infinity of languages. We are cared for in an infinity of ways.