Not Practicing Presence: What Krishnamurti Might Say to Educators

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Presence shaped by outcome isn’t presence. Krishnamurti invites attention without identity, method, or purpose—challenging us to meet the child without bringing ourselves.

Reflection by Rebecca Fox

See also my notes on presence here: Threads of Interest: Following Presence: Notes and Wonderings

Opening Frame

Presence is a word we use often—spoken of as a gift, a practice, even a way of being.

It’s often woven into how we observe, listen, and respond—not just to the child’s words, but to their rhythms, gestures, and inner life. Some call it attunement. Others describe it as wholeness, or integrity. Many believe that real relationship begins there.

And they’re not wrong. Presence can shift the texture of a moment. When a child feels truly seen—without being evaluated, rushed, or shaped—they begin to trust the world differently. Presence creates safety, dignity, and space—for voice, for risk, for rest. When we are quietly available, something softens between us.

While rereading essays in the Contesting Early Childhood series and returning to Reggio texts, I felt a pull toward Krishnamurti. His radical clarity deepened what I thought I understood about presence. He opened a new path into familiar ground—shifting presence from something to cultivate into something to undo. He asked not how to be more present, but what interferes with presence in the first place. He revealed how even our most sincere roles can distort relationship. What he offered wasn’t a rejection of presence, but a purification—an invitation to meet without agenda, without control, without self.

Presence Without Practice

What if presence isn’t something we do at all?

What if the very effort to be present introduces a subtle separation—one that divides us from the child, and from the moment itself? Often, the act of trying to be attentive places “me” at the center. I’m the one holding the space, the one staying calm, the one being good at presence.

But the more I try, the more distant I become.

Presence, in this light, is not something to improve or extend. It arises only when the one who tries falls away. It’s not cultivated through effort, but revealed through stillness.

Without Role

The ways we care are shaped by the roles we carry—helper, protector, guide, observer. We move in with a purpose. We prepare responses. We listen with a plan.

But what happens when that role is quietly set down?

Can we be with a child without bringing any title into the room—not even internally? Can we notice without labeling? Support without leading? Stay near without trying to regulate or repair?

There is a kind of attention that arrives only when identity loosens. It is not about withholding care—but about loosening the subtle layer of “being someone” in relation to the child. The moment becomes shared. Light. Open.

Without Outcome

Presence often slips into utility. We might try to be present so that the child feels seen, so that things calm down, so that learning happens. But the moment presence serves an aim, it begins to narrow. Even tenderness becomes a tool.

In that tightening, we miss something.

The child may sense it—the moment that was open now has a direction. They are no longer simply met; they are being handled. Shaped. Nudged.

There’s a difference between presence that waits, and presence that wants something.

What This Changes

Presence can transform the space between us. It can soften eyes, breath, tone. It can offer warmth without pressure. It can feel like quiet companionship rather than intervention.

But even presence can become performance—another thing to do well, another way to be good.

The shift comes when presence is no longer a strategy. When nothing is being guided, improved, or managed. When the moment is no longer in service of growth, safety, or connection—but is simply allowed to be what it is.

What remains when presence isn’t practiced, but emerges naturally?

When nothing is added—no technique, no reflection, no self?

A shared stillness.

A moment that needs nothing.

A relationship without structure.

A closeness that comes not through trying—but through the absence of trying.