Passing through the Primary School library this afternoon, I saw two children leaning over a table, staring intently at an open book between them. Curious, I went to go and see what was capturing their attention.
Child 1: Can you see it?
Child 2: No.
Child 1: Bring it closer to you. Can you see it now?
Child 2: Not yet.
Child 1: Relax your eyes. Look through it.
Child 2: I still can’t see it.
Child 1: It’s OK. Just keep looking, be patient.
Child 2: OK.
Child 1: Maybe look at it from another angle.
Child 2: I see it! I see it! It’s a dinosaur! That’s so awesome!
They were looking at a simple Magic Eye picture, and I immediately felt nostalgic. I had not seen a Magic Eye (or an autostereogram, as my nerdy friends called them) for over 30 years, and I remembered my own feelings of “awesome!” whenever the image I was looking at eventually popped out.
When I returned to my desk, I immediately recognised the powerful metaphor I had experienced in that brief moment.
I find it sad that the number of children who report feeling seen is decreasing. I find it even sadder when I read that one of the best ways we can improve a child’s life is to make sure they are seen, so they can feel a sense of belonging.
As adults, we need to see children.
I don’t mean that we need to observe them.
I mean that we need to see them.
They are two different things.
As with the autostereogram, we don’t see the child just by looking at them. We have to really look. We have to take the time to notice them. We have to be patient sometimes to see what might not be obvious. We might have to change our gaze, or our perspective, before our eyes can centre on what is revealed.
When we take that time to truly see a child, the picture changes.
Complexity appears. Courage appears. A story appears.
The beginnings of belonging appear.
If we take the time to see a child,
we might just see the magic.
Serendipities 