The golden question mark

Just a few months ago, I introduced this life-changing magic into my classroom.
Judge for yourself.

One of the sweet guys, with a spiky haircut from this morning, turns to his friend: "Are you doing your homework?"
Friend: "No, it was Lag BaOmer, I didn't have time."
Sweet: "I did the two pages and one more. Mom didn't remind me of anything, I swear."

Just so you know, this sweetie isn't into homework, and by the way, neither am I.

I just heard, not eavesdropped, and decided to intervene: "Can I thank you for something I just heard?" (My thank-you cards hang with pride on the wooden rack at the entrance to the classroom).
Him: "Shall I bring the cards to the round table?"
They have this thing where you bring a hanger and put it where everyone can see it.
Three people behind immediately complain that they can't see.
A little girl with a heart tattoo on the back of her hand, sitting in the front row: "You can put it on my table, I have no problem. Let everyone see."

I thank her for her generosity as I pull out the card (teacher or not teacher?). She earns my light blue chair and the round table and I turn to our studious hedgehog: "I heard that you prepared all… all… all… the lessons yesterday, even beyond what I asked for, and even though it was for Lag BaOmer."
He half-smiled: "Oh, were you listening?" 
Me: "I heard."
Him: "Did you hear everything?"
Me: "I think so."
Sweet Barbie, who arrived today with six braids, makes a distinction: "Did you hear this by chance? And did you listen? Isn't it by chance?" 
Me: "I think, something like that."  I made a point of teaching them the word "eavesdropping" when I had the opportunity, which means secretly listening to others without their knowledge.
I turn to our Kippodon as I begin to remove cards from the device: "So thank you for your... diligence, independence, taking responsibility..."
Small, quiet most of the time, opens up: "Diligence is also appropriate, we learned that before Lag BaOmer."
Me: "Right, thank you for your diligence too."
The sweetie who complained yesterday during a parent-teacher conference that it was "a nightmare, a nightmare, the cards," spontaneously directs me: "Thank him for the investment, too."
He, who is always such a business person, one of those who sees me deeply (sometimes embarrassingly) continues: "Do you remember you said that when you work with the cards I will always be by your side? And maybe little by little it will become interesting to me? So I'm coming." He takes down the "Investment" card, or rather tears it up.

The delicate paperclip fell from the tree, breaking. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to."

Now I have in my hands – diligence, taking responsibility, independence, diligence, and investment.
I hold them like a fan, present them to our industrious one, and place them in front of him as a thank-you offering: "Thank you for all of this."
He looks at me, smiles, spreads them, feels honored, looks everywhere to make sure everyone has seen: "Is this left with me?"
Me: "When you feel like you've had enough, hang up. It's already yours from the inside."
Little embarrassed, I feel. So as he walks to the card machine, he already starts saying: "Thank you for..." and I: "Gently, sweetie, our paperclips are gentle."
And with his wrinkled fingers, he hands me the card: "Thanks for the encouragement."

The one with the six braids of Friday asks: "May I also thank my father?"
Comes, stands up: "I want to thank Dad for the coordination. Yesterday he consulted with me. We could have gone either to Shefayim or to a birthday party. He didn't decide alone and in the end we chose Shefayim together."

A little boy with hair in his eyes: "And about the collaboration?" She looks at me for approval. "Does it suit you?" I ask, and she: "Yes, it's almost the same."
"Then thank me for the advice," the mischievous one said, moving his hair out of his eyes.

She approached it with sad eyes even when she was happy: "Can I play with the cards too?" "Yes, come on."
She comes and quietly says: "I may not be precise or I may have the wrong word..." (We have 101 thank you cards and we are learning to be precise).
I tell her that gratitude is wonderful in any case, even if you can't find the most precise words, the main thing is that it comes from the heart.

My undercover inspector who remembers everything: "But it's worth being precise, so that whoever receives the word will feel that their heart is being literally seen."

 She: "Good. I thank my dad for the lightheartedness, because yesterday friends came to surprise me and he was lighthearted and even made us dinner."

The one next to me, who "hates cards," pulls out the card with the golden question mark and says: "I have something that isn't here. Thank him for the flow, he flowed with you..."

Laughter.

The little studious guy, who received a fan from me with a concentrated dose of homework thank-you cards, points: "Can I say something related to Makkodum?"
Me: "Why first?" He: "You gave me the cards and told me, it's yours, but I don't feel like it's mine." 
Me: "From where?"
He: "I don't think so."

Wow, there's material here to work on. I was planning to get there in the next lesson, but come on, let's go: "If you had to thank yourself, would you choose these cards?"
He: "Me? Me? No, I don't. I have no cards on me, and if you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have thought those words."

The curly guy from football: "Because it's Schweitzer, it's ego, for someone to say thank you to themselves, there's no such thing."

Now listen. Once a week, a girl from the 10th grade volunteers with us, gentle and beautiful. She doesn't hold back and reveals herself to the little ones in an adulthood that surprises me: "You know, kids, this has been my problem all my life, that I never knew how to say anything good about myself. This is important, kids. Even now, with all the cards... I don't have much to say."

Little one, the queen of coloring mandalas: "Thank yourself for the investment. You come to us every Friday. Do you want the card?" Not waiting for an answer and running to the device (I'll stop, the paperclip went off again), she tears off a card and gives it to the big one.

Listen, isn't it crazy?

Okay, turn off the lights. I light a candle, a burner with forest oil (please don't reveal it to the supervisor), place the card racks in the center of the classroom, and write on the board (after all, a teacher needs to have something didactic in this -undefined- lesson): "Everyone is invited to go around the racks and choose a card, with the intention of thanking myself."

In silence and respect, the firecrackers walk, just observing, not rushing to take off. Slowly. One after the other.

A little girl who has stuck with me asks: "Can you put "Smiles" on the CD? (How could you not, it's my song, Hava Alberstein in all its glory, everyone already knows it) I say, and a few chatters join in: "If the sun rises and every morning is new, if the flowers just smile at the world..."

They begin to pick cards gently, like flowers. They don't pluck them, they keep the tiny wooden clips.
I see that not everyone took it and I invite only those who want to, to stand before us and confess themselves.
A little one with a shirt without a symbol comes up: "Thank you for your sense of humor." The one next to him responds: "That's right, you're funny."
Katana with Coco Gongol: "Thank you for being honest, I told you Pazit this morning that I didn't prepare my homework."

Soft energy of good, warm, gentle rain. Gratitudes begin to sprout like mushrooms. The children come, stand up straight, thank themselves, and return to their seats. From a natural succession, without me asking. I do nothing. It just happens. "Thank you for taking on the responsibility of preparing food for me for school," "Thank you for being creative, because I have creative ideas."
Sorry, I will never be able to put into words the frequency of respect that went on there. What was that going on, he chanted.

I realize there's a break in a second, so I ask them if I can admit it too. The little "language hater" next to me, true to his role, looks straight at me: "What card should I give you?"
I look and hesitate: "There's no such thing, that card."
He hands me the card with the golden question mark on it: "Then make it up."
I mumble: "Thank myself for... (can't find the words) that... that you came into my life."

ring.