What if there were 'flower-marks' blooming in the field? [Is 'school refusal' some kind of poem?]

When I continue posting on note, there are times when my thoughts instantly turn into words and become an article just like that, and times when, no matter how much I write, they don't come together, and I have to string words into a draft for tens of thousands of characters before they finally take shape.
It's not that one is better than the other, nor do I have more attachment to one than the other.
The article simply, in its own appropriate way, is born properly one day.

There was a time when, if I couldn't get things to come together as I wanted no matter how much I wrote, only feelings of impatience would mount... that kind of period.
I would end up thinking, 'I can't write, I can't write.'
But, in reality, I am writing just fine.
Just because it hasn't been posted doesn't mean my thoughts haven't already been spun into tens of thousands of characters right there.

I've written about this in another article before, but I usually use a way of writing that could be called 'input writing'.
Instead of the method of 'organizing what I want to write in my head and then outputting it,' I start writing an article with only a vague thought of 'maybe I'll write about this.'
When I do that, as I write, words gather there. My own thoughts, which I didn't even know I had, turn into text and line up.
'Input writing,' where input happens as I write.

Therefore, the time spent writing an article is also a time for self-discovery.
Sometimes the answer to a question I've posed to myself is shown in an instant, as if it were waiting for me, but there are also times when it takes endless time to explore the answer.
The drafts that accumulate without being posted are also the traces of that self-discovery.

From that perspective, there has never been an article where I spent as much time on self-discovery as this one.

The theme is school refusal.
For a long time now, I have repeatedly written down my thoughts and saved them in drafts.

Those drafts reach 80,000 characters, and they spell out the sense of discomfort I have felt toward school.
Organize that well and make it an article.
That was my intention at first, but as I looked at the drafts that wouldn't come together no matter how much time passed, I somehow began to understand that what I really wanted to write about was not that sense of discomfort...
It is truly a journey of self-discovery.

At such a time, the poem about the 'flower-mark' I placed at the beginning suddenly came to mind.
When the field of flower-marks depicted in the poem spread out before my eyes like a landscape that was truly there, I thought, 'Ah, I see...'
I see, I see...
I have been walking toward this...

I have two sons.
And both of them have experienced school refusal.
Of course, those were days that began with pain, but now, they are treasures that cannot be replaced by anything. I cannot imagine my life now without having gone through that.

The experience of school refusal that my children gave me, in a word, I believe gave me 'freedom'.
Common sense, assumptions, criticism, expectations, worry, dependence, frameworks, evaluation—freedom from every constraint I could think of.

While spending time with children who could no longer go to school, I learned to 'let go'.
Because I couldn't move forward if I clung to the values I had held until then.
So, I let go of the values I had been holding onto so dearly, one by one... but when I finally let go, I learned that there was nothing there that I actually needed.
What I had been holding onto, believing it was important, was nothing more than the chains that bound me... and so, the more I let go, the lighter and freer I became. It was a supreme sense of liberation that I had tasted unexpectedly.

Recently, my mind and body have become so light that I've even had the illusion that I could fly in the sky just like this, but even in such lightness, when my thoughts suddenly turned to school, my heart would suddenly become heavy—that was the only thing I couldn't do anything about.

School is 'strange,' I often thought.
That had been going on long before the children couldn't go to school—from the very day my eldest son entered elementary school.
For example, facing the children who had just entered school, the teacher would stand at the front of the classroom with their arms crossed and say, 'Be quiet.'
If it had been 'Please be quiet,' or 'Could you please be quiet,' I think the shock would have been somewhat smaller.
But the teacher forcing the children to be quiet with their arms crossed... I just couldn't accept what was happening in front of me favorably.

Children who are full of life energy, like lumps of curiosity. I wonder if the teachers are aware of the gravity of 'ordering' such children to 'be quiet'.
'Teacher, why do we have to be quiet?'
If I were a student, I wanted to ask the teacher in a loud voice.
Why do we have to be quiet?
There are so many, many things in this world that are more important than being quiet.
Even though children have soft hearts that absorb them without exception.
It even seemed to me that the 'order' to 'be quiet' was a word that deliberately chained down the pure curiosity of such children...

If you want children to listen to you, you should tell them interesting stories.
You should create a situation where children naturally want to be quiet, without having to 'order' them to 'be quiet'.

Of course, I also understand that it is not as easy as it sounds.
But precisely because it is not easy, I think it would be better to pour your strength directly into it.
If you have the leeway to use your own strength to make children quiet, you should pour that much energy into what is truly important.

Since my school life as a parent started with that kind of feeling, I ended up spending time with many question marks, whether at class observations or school events.
School is 'strange'! It was hard to ignore my own heart that felt that way.

It's not that I had talked about such things with my young sons, but perhaps they were also spending their time feeling similar things (of course, there may be aspects where they were influenced by my thoughts).
Each of them, one day, could no longer go to school.

I was very surprised.
I never imagined that while I myself held such a strong feeling that school was 'strange,' my sons would become unable to attend that school.

When you think about it carefully, the word "strange" is a very strange word.
"Strange" means not being "normal."
However, when you look up "normal" in the dictionary, it says "a state of having no qualities that are particularly different from others," which can be interpreted as meaning "not strange."

What is not "strange" is "normal."
What is not "normal" is "strange."
They are words that rely on each other, with vague standards for both.

Relying on each other means this.
For example, if there are Person A and Person B, and they have completely different values and ways of thinking in various aspects.
From Person A's perspective, they are "normal" and Person B is "strange."
From Person B's perspective, they are "normal" and Person A is "strange."
That is the relationship of mutual reliance.
Since neither "normal" nor "strange" has a fixed standard, that relationship arises between all things.

Naturally, this also holds true between "school" and "my son."
For the school, the school environment is "normal," and my son, who cannot fit into it, is "strange."
And for my son, he is "normal," and the place called school is "strange."

However, in the actual situation of school non-attendance, for some reason, the perspective that "the school is 'strange'" is lost.
The school is always "normal."
That value, which is essentially just "one half" of a mutual relationship, is unnaturally fixed. No one questions that "normal."

Then, at the same time, the value that "children who do not attend school are 'strange'" is automatically fixed.
So that a "strange" child can attend a "normal" school without resistance—everyone's interest is focused on that one point.

Even I, who had continued to think of school as "strange" for so long, became easily bound by those invisible chains.
I must do something for my son who cannot go to school.
I must make him feel that school is fun.

The more I thought that way, the harder I tried, and I didn't have the leeway at the time to realize that it became a loud voice thrown at my son who couldn't go to school, saying, "You are 'strange'!"

Many children who do not attend school are convinced that they are "strange."
Because the adults around them are convinced of it—without doubt, without malice, and without even being aware of it.

For young children, changing that perspective to "I am 'normal'" on their own is a hurdle that is too high.
Because even I, an adult (even I, who had voiced so many objections to school!), could not realize it until a long, long time had passed—until my sons were full of holes and crushed.

It is because of the time I spent churning those thoughts in my heart and finally digesting them that I am here "now," so... it is meaningless to think "what if," but even so, if the "me of now" had the opportunity to face my sons' school non-attendance from back then again, I think I would start from the starting line of not questioning the children's "normal."
On the surface, it might not make a big difference.
But if I, their mother, the adult closest to them, could lightly let go of the assumption that "it is normal to go to school" and simply hold my child in front of me gently with both hands—I think I could have been a little bit of help to my son who was spending his days in anxiety.
I think I could have shortened and reduced the time my sons suffered from being exposed to unconscious criticism.
I'm sorry.
These words naturally spill out, don't they.
I don't regret it.
Now my sons are each walking forward in their own way.
Just as I gained much from their non-attendance, they have gained much learning for themselves.
Even so, I'm sorry.

These words might be... a spell to let go of the chains.
Along with this spell, and with this article that I finally seem able to post, there is something I want to let go of today.

The word "normal."
The word "strange."
The words that criticize them.

Perhaps I was protecting myself by thinking of school as "strange."
The 80,000 characters of criticism of school that I drafted might have been my chains, and at the same time, my armor.
I am "normal." My sons are "normal."
School is "strange."
But I don't need such armor or chains anymore.

After writing 80,000 characters of criticism in my drafts, I showed myself a field where flower marks were swaying, and I was stunned by the magnitude of that power.
80,000 flower marks were bound to be more powerful than 80,000 characters of criticism.
At the very least, even if someone lined up 80,000 characters of criticism against me, I wouldn't be able to change anything.
My heart might shrink and break, but it would not grow.

I have watched closely how full of holes my sons became from being exposed to endless, countless criticisms...
Hadn't I already learned enough that criticism produces nothing?

And yet, I will stop using my words for criticism.
Even if it's just one character, I will stop.
Even if the target is not a person but a school, that should be no exception.

It might be a difficult method.
Just as teachers end up telling children to "be quiet," using criticism and commands as "tools" is, after all, the quickest way.
But if I have time to spend energy on that, I would rather grow flower marks.

Looking back, I understand clearly.
My sons became energetic around the time when flowers of marks began to bloom in our home...
It was after a time when only worry and anxiety filled the house—it was the day the flowers bloomed.

Our home is not a perfect family at all.
But it is a home where flower marks bloom.
That's right. That alone was enough.

It's okay for school to be like that, too.
There is no need for me to criticize it for not being perfect.
It's just that, in the classroom, on the playground, in the teacher's words... sometimes, a flower mark should bloom.
I should just gradually come to like such a school.

We should just walk together like that.
We should just become kind together.
Everyone should just become a little kinder, little by little.

First, I intend to let go of the 80,000-character chain of criticism.
I know for certain that once I let it go, I will realize it was never necessary for me.
And, I will never again use my words for criticism.
Even if it is difficult, even if it is slow, I will use flower marks alongside my words.

Perhaps that is the goal for now.
One answer I learned from my children's non-attendance at school.

And that is the first step toward the next stage.
To a gentle world where flower marks sway—the beginning of my new journey of learning.

Thank you for reading this long article to the end.
Finally, I would like to introduce two people as a Special Thanks.

The first is Maru-san, who inspired me to write a poem about flower marks.
The image Maru-san provided became the seeds for my precious field.

Maru-san continues to share heartwarming and easy-to-understand posts every day under the concept of "3-minute therapy to brighten the future."
Coincidentally, a few days ago, they wrote a wonderful article about valuing one's own perspective, one's "own eyes."
Their personality is incredibly warm, and there are many Maru-san fans here on note!

The second is Kaora-san, who persistently continues to share information about school non-attendance.
Kaora-san has two sons, both of whom have experienced school non-attendance (just like my own family!).
Compared to my own inadequacy when my sons stopped attending school, she is such a wonderful and reliable mother to her children.

The messages Kaora-san sends to many parents are truly living cheers. Vibrant and alive.
If there is anyone worrying about their child, please visit her page. It is a wonderful place where you will surely find energy, hints, and information related to school non-attendance.