Dear Mrs Aikenhead,

Thank you for the letter you tucked into my hand on June 13, 1984, on the last day of Grade 4. I was three months away from being 10 years old.

Your letter thanked me for sharing my "novel", and you shared your own writing story. And then you encouraged me to "keep on trying and writing and learning even when it isn't the easiest thing to do."

Each time I've re-read it over the last 29 years, something new comes up from somewhere between my stomach and my left lung. More than anything else, the letter is proof to me of who I am and who I can be.
It shows me the mindset I need. It's the mindset I had on June 13, 1984.

I was like a sponge. I wrote all the time. I was a good student, even in math. I was an athlete. I was a scientist. A journalist. A dancer. I was a very, very happy child, and I loved school, and I loved learning. I went into the summers with a full heart and dreams of writing, and writing always.

I've kept your letter close at hand. For almost 30 years, the messages within it have flavoured so many experiences. I didn't share it with my classmates - just as you asked.

I share it now because I've grown to realize that the gift that you gave me is the single most important moment in my own education, and I want everyone to know that the power of the connection you made with me is the reason why teachers matter more than anything else. Your words showed me your heart. It made all the difference in my confidence (especially when I really needed it), my approach to learning, and my belief in teachers.

In your letter, you called me a writer. You said that I was talented. That I should persist no matter what anyone said.
And so I do. And I try to pass this along to my daughter, Scarlet, and hope that her teachers will fill her heart with belief in her imagination.

Your letter opens the world for me. It validates the dreaming, the moments of staring into space while an idea becomes what it needs to become.

I bring out the letter when I need it. I fold it in four so it will fit easily into my pocket. I carefully fold it the same way each time. The paper is as soft as skin, the creases deep.

Thank you.

Aerin (Bowers) Guy