About counting to 10. And unlicensed teachers.

I won’t write about first-grade math.
In one case, I’ve already lived it.
In another—it’s not fully “digested” yet.
This pre-evening portion of thoughts will be about my studies.
After finishing school and university, I decided to continue learning.
LIFE.

I used to be hot-tempered.
As a child, I would flare up like striking a match against a sulfur wall, eyes wide, laying everything out exactly “as it should be.”
After many years of living like fire, I met a man.
Pure water.
It’s hard to get him out of patience.
I’ve never heard him yelling.
Drama—he doesn’t have it.
He cannot naturally create a tragedy out of nothing.
And he simply doesn’t know how to endure “everything is lost” situations.
If something went wrong, if he was upset—I learned to see it only in twitching temples.
And only if you look closely.

Over the years, my fiery character was watered by simmering water beside it.
Perhaps it so happened that at the same time, a business took its first timid steps.
Then “motherhood.”
Then the boutique.
Then “second motherhood.”
Then business expansion.
Production.
Employees.
Relationships with partners.

And by nature, I still flared up whenever things didn’t go as agreed.
At home, I calmed down.
I blazed, shedding tears, claiming there was no justice.
And again, I wiped them, reassured, that there really wasn’t.
But it’s not necessary to tear apart and survive sleepless nights over it.
I also learned that the world doesn’t need leveling.
And judging people by one “measure”—is not my duty.

I remember one time, during a flare-up, when I was whistling like a just-boiled childhood kettle, my husband asked me:
—Do you really want to kick the door you’ll have to open with your own hand tomorrow?

I inhaled.
Exhaled.
Counted to ten.

Counting to ten was taught to me by my primary school teacher.
Once again—my husband’s mother.
Every time I saw how calmly she reacted to each “unloving” situation—I admired her.
Calmly. Reservedly. Quietly. Composed.
Only later did I dare ask.
Then she told me about counting to ten.

Today.
I’m standing in a “buns” bakery.
Not many people in front of me.
So while they shop, I calmly feast my eyes on the delicious display cases.
Suddenly, I realize I’ve been staring too long and overhear a conversation between the seller and a customer.
The first in line, eyes wide, explains to the young seller that the bun placed under “today’s” category is not today’s.
In her opinion, it’s too firm to be today’s.
The young seller, blushing, downcast, stands.
And silent.
Probably counting to ten.

A few days ago—
A flower “kiosk.”
I always pick flowers and wait in line until the seller is free.
The waiting takes time because…
One customer presses the rose buds, and dissatisfied with some “firmness or stiffness,” tells the seller to dive back into the giant fridge…to fetch firmer ones!!!
Her voice commanding. Tone raised.
The seller silent.
Focused, wordlessly dives into the fridge to find new buds.
And probably counting to ten.

For some time, I’ve been noticing an elderly man cleaning around our office.
Meticulous to the moon and back.
One day, my eyes catch him very carefully collecting trash near containers that didn’t quite make it in.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a young man appears.
From “position,” meaning—the old man’s supervisor.
And “shouts” with all his young lungs that he should not meddle in his work…doing what is not his “zone.”
The old man is confused.
Bewildered.
Hurries, as fast as his age allows, to his broom in the assigned zone.
And silent.
But in my mind, I think—he’s counting to ten.

Now I’m reading a book, which perhaps says it a little inelegantly, but very aptly:
“How easy it is to ‘vomit’ on others.
Bun sellers.
Flower kiosk employees.
Yard sweepers.
Children. Husband. Parents. Neighbors. Friends. Colleagues.
You pour out everything you brought from work / from situations that humiliated or disappointed you / demanded more than you could give.
You pour it all.
On everyone.”

Doesn’t that happen to us too?
I thank the generous fate for my husband. Who taught me not to be fire.
Not to flare up. Not to shoot off fireworks. Not to bring bad moods home. Sad emotions.
I learned not to call Mom and Dad and my Sister whenever something ruined my mood.
I learned, and still learn, to react very calmly to any emotion directed at me.
I count to ten.
Sometimes to twenty.

I thank generous fate that I managed to gather around me such a cool circle of clients.
Who, every time they enter the boutique, do you know what they do?
They smile very widely.
They don’t create tragedies out of nothing.
They don’t stage drama scenarios.
They see no point in demonstrating superiority, power, authority.
Are they deeply loved?

Are there others?
Rarely.
But every time I meet a person with a loaded gun at their side… I think: how good it is to learn not to be fire, and how good it is to know how to count to ten.
It’s incredible that remembering and applying first-grade math in life can be so hard.

Thank your life’s unlicensed teachers and their non-academic lessons.
Which, as I now understand, are the most important in life.

V.

P.S. This is me. And my colleague.
An unlicensed teacher.
At work and in life.