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We sat transfixed in the silence of that 1960 classroom. Had Elmer’s glue been pasted on our bottoms, we could not have been more stationary. The wooden floors did not squeak. The large, open windows offered no whistling breeze. No tractors roared in the adjacent field.

Outside the sunshine heated the asphalt that separated the playground from the corn, and for a while that morning the incoming light focused on Mrs. Ruby Jones. She taught numbers and letters and reading to the combined first and second grade class. She deserved to be in the spotlight.

Our day had suddenly been interrupted by a trespasser. Despite having no pass, a hummingbird zoomed in and ultimately paralyzed its Azalia audience. It did not knock or ask permission. It just appeared, and the light glistened on miniature feathers that repetitively hovered and then mischievously darted just beyond our reach. Our guest did not intrude upon our education. It enhanced it.

Mrs. Jones stopped, and no one else moved. Her lesson might just as well have been tossed out the window. It was replaced by the hypnotic motion of nearly invisible, fluorescent wings that mesmerized both teacher and students alike.

It was then that Mrs. Jones displayed a wisdom that teaching certificates cannot promise. She did what was best for us by doing absolutely nothing. She did not interrupt the magical flight or snap us out of the trance. She did not call on Dick and Jane to oust our colorful friend. She simply accepted the moment and allowed us to do the same.

We live in a world of doing. Schedules rule. Clocks and calendars chain us to the task at hand so tightly that we don’t always grasp what’s happening right in front of us. Mrs. Jones had plans. Plans for the day. Plans for the school year. But, she also understood a tremendous truth. Instinctively she recognized the value of being present in the moment.

That day we were allowed to absorb the here and now and were deeply immersed and invested in the present. I do not recall what preceded that wonderful disruption or what happened afterwards, but I can still close my eyes and sense the classroom experience time and again.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate those individuals who can manage time and tasks without losing touch with the moment at hand. Hummingbirds and butterflies are noticed. Children catch their attention. Immediate needs are recognized. The beauty of a rainbow and the fragrances of spring are embraced. In short, people who stop and smell the roses remind me to engage in what’s going on around me.

Mrs. Jones could have tried to shoo away the distraction. She could have let auto pilot direct the ABC’s and the something-plus-somethings until the tiny bird left. Instead, she did for that small speedster just what she tried to do for each of her students. She seized the moment.

Ultimately, we were all spectators, but in bonding to the experience we grew closer. We learned a little about hummingbirds and a little more about the joy of awareness. By being present in the moment, Mrs. Jones captured our attention and hearts. Afterwards she continued to build relationships and became a lifetime presence for us.

Maybe the literature of my youthfulness simplifies all this:

“What day is it?” asked Pooh.

“It's today,” squeaked Piglet.

“My favorite day,” said Pooh.

Mrs. Jones might have added, “And, it’s a good day to stop and to be just with you.”