Lessons from a First Year Residential Educator: The Art of Slowing Down

It was a Friday evening in late September. Summer was starting to peel away from Vermont, replaced by longer nights and the promise of apple picking. We had planned to take the kayaks out on Lake Champlain in this last stretch of warm weather, but the day had gotten away from me as I ran from one task to the next, and soon the sun had sunk dangerously close to the horizon. Nevertheless, with a flurry of life jackets and paddles, I managed to push students off into Eagle’s Bay into the last gasps of sunset.

I paddled along with them, as my mind raced ahead to the rest of the night. I would need to pull the students away in the next ten minutes if we were going to have enough light to stow the kayaks and make our way back to campus. Besides, maybe they were getting too close to that boat. I should tell them to switch directions. Or maybe we should turn back now. What if I’m needed back at the school? My brain was full of sticky note reminders and a giant red countdown clock. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I turned to the student closest to me and asked if he was ready to head back to shore. “Actually,” he said. “I’d like to look at the sunset a little longer if that’s okay.”

This simple, sweet request washed over me. It was like someone took off a blindfold I didn’t realize I was wearing. I looked around, really looked, for the first time that night. Here we were, drifting on Lake Champlain in easeful quiet. The orange and gold of the sunset painted the surface of the water, glowing almost like stained glass. It was a delicate kind of beauty. The kind that only lasts for a moment or two. The kind that makes you want to hold your breath so as to not disturb it. And I had almost missed it, too caught up in my own head to actually realize there was something so exquisite and precious unfolding right in front of me.

I think back on that moment often now. It is easy to get ensnared by the fast pace of this job, especially as I navigate my first months as a Residential Educator. But if working at a place like Rock Point has taught me anything, it is the value of slowing down. Finding space when the world feels like it is caving in. Getting present with yourself. Being patient with the process. And it isn’t just the grand moments that we need to be still enough for. Often, it is the uncomfortable, heavy moments. The ones of homesickness, grief, guilt, or frustration. These are emotions of growth; they call us back to ourselves. They invite us to lean in, slow down, and look around. Especially when it is hard. Especially when it feels like there is no time.

I’ve just begun my RPS journey. I still have many spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, late-night card games, and long conversations ahead of me. I’m excited to continue developing relationships with students and learning more about my role as a mentor. As we head into the full swing of Fall and beyond, I’ll also do my best to remember to always, always look at the sunset a little longer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Grace Galligan is a Residential Educator at Rock Point School. Learn more about Grace by visiting our Faculty & Staff page.