On Teaching: "Allowing, Like Water"

It occurred to me yesterday that I spend a great deal of time resisting, and very little time allowing. In fact, I probably resist, in some way or other, most of the present moments that occur in my life. There’s always something just a little wrong, a little unsatisfying, in each moment, and so I resist it. Because it doesn’t seem perfect, I struggle against it and try to move on to the next moment, which I hope will be more satisfying. Earlier in the day, for instance, a couple of girls in my class started giggling at an inappropriate time, and immediately I went into my best resistance mode. I bristled up, put on my stern face, and spoke somewhat harshly to the girls. It was as though their behavior was a physical enemy of mine and I was out to destroy it. The problem with this approach is that, in trying to resist their behavior, I only added strength to it – and this is precisely what resistance to any present moment always does. By struggling to eliminate their behavior, I only intensified the effect of it. By flashing my angry look, I actually made the problem seemed stronger rather than weaker. Perhaps this is what Jesus understood when he encouraged his friends to offer no resistance to evil. He wasn’t suggesting that his friends be weak and passive. On the contrary, he wanted them to demonstrate the greatest power there is – the power of allowing. He knew that by allowing any present moment to be exactly what it is, they could actually eliminate any ability of that moment to control them. The ancient sages of the East also understood this, which is probably why they were so drawn to water as a subject of meditation. Water never resists, and yet it is one of the most relentless and majestic forces on earth. If you try to “fight” with water, it always yields, gives in, and thus wins the victory. Drop a heavy rock on a lake, and the lake simply allows the rock to enter and sink harmlessly to the bottom, where it rests in peace. However, this doesn’t mean that water is weak. Anything that can support enormous ships weighing thousands of tons is definitely not weak. Perhaps I need to think of myself, as I’m working with my students, as an ocean that is both yielding and strong, both gentle and compelling, both resilient and steadfast. No matter what types of “ships” my students may be on a given day, I can allow them to be what they are, and quietly support them, as the ocean does. No matter how many rocks, or behaviors, they drop on me, I can gently yield and allow them to sink peacefully away into the quiet depths. It would be a sweet and powerful way to teach.

On Teaching: "Noticing My Students"

I discovered something interesting this morning: the word “notice” comes from the Latin word “noscere”, which means "to get to know". So noticing something doesn’t mean, as I used to think, simply glancing at it in passing, as in “I noticed the snow-covered oak tree in the park as I drove to school.” That’s the kind of noticing I’ve been doing for years – just glimpsing, or taking a quick look, at things as I rush by on my busy errands. It’s been especially true in my teaching, where I’ve often scurried through my lessons with blinders on, hardly paying a moment’s attention to the individual, unique students sitting around the table. Now this morning I discover that truly noticing means truly getting to know, as in studying, paying attention to, and learning about. If my goal in teaching is to get better at noticing things, this means I have to slow down and look. I can’t just glance at my students and then push on with the lesson. Really noticing someone is hard work. It requires observing, contemplating, and beholding that person. It can’t be done quickly, in passing, the way I have often noticed my students. In a way, the word “notice” implies being a student, for I have to study someone in order to truly notice them. Perhaps that means I have to be as much a student as my students are. They are students of English because they are trying to notice (get to know) all the important concepts of reading and writing. I, on the other hand, am a student of my students. I need to study them. I need to get better at genuinely noticing them -- beholding them -- moment by moment, day by day.

Journal: 1/29/06

I had a wonderful morning yesterday, when I joined Jan, Jaimie (my son), and little Noah, my 2-year-old grandson, for a frolicsome visit to the Mystic Aquarium. We’ve met there a number of times now, and each visit gets a little more lighthearted and lively. We all seem to skip among the exhibits rather than just walk. Of course, this happy mood is mostly generated by young Noah himself, who has an abiding love for the Aquarium. As soon as we entered the gates, he began running in his effortless, bouncy way – not toward any particular exhibit, but in circles, around and around in happiness. (Instead of "run", I have a new word for what he does: "rounce".) When we got him settled a bit, he went from exhibit to exhibit, flashing looks of astonishment, happiness, surprise, and even fear. (He didn’t want to get too close to the “diving man” who was cleaning a tank from the inside, underwater.) Surely the people who designed the Aquarium had perceptive, effusive boys like Noah in mind. Just before leaving, we attended the daily sea lion show upstairs. To be honest, I found it somewhat distasteful (I don’t enjoy watching beautiful animals in captivity performing silly tricks), but Noah was entranced by it. He sat on my lap sucking on his juice cup as he watched the sea lions diving and sliding and soaring. I imagine he had some slippery, sliding dreams of these lovely animals last night.

Meditation: "On Thinking for Myself"

I have heard, and used, the above phrase countless times in my life, and yet only this morning did I realize that it deals with an utter impossibility. I can no more “think for myself” than a wave in the ocean can go where it wants to go, or than a breeze in the park can blow the way it wishes to. The wave and the breeze are parts of immense forces, and so am I. The force I am part of is sometimes called God, sometimes Allah, sometimes the Buddha, or countless other names, but whatever name it’s called by, it is the infinite, serene, and harmonious power that governs and maintains the universe. In fact, I have lately been calling it simply “The Universe”, because I like the prefix “uni-“ in that word. This power, this Universe, is one. There are not two, or a hundred, or a trillion forces in this life. There is only one – the Universe, God, Allah, etc – and it controls absolutely everything. Which brings me back to “thinking for myself”. The phrase actually suggests something ridiculous – that each human being is a separate “self”, somehow removed from the Universe and able to do its own thing. That’s as preposterous as imagining a wave in the ocean going off on its own, turning and twisting and splashing just the way it wants to. The wave does what the ocean does, and I think what the Universe thinks. The vast, illimitable, all-harmonious Mind which is the Universe goes about its thinking moment by moment, and what I call “me” is simply a glorious part of this glorious process. And what’s truly wonderful about this is that “I” don’t have to do any work! Since the Universe does all the thinking, all I have to do is relax and enjoy the show.

On Teaching: "One Great Day"

Yesterday I had a marvelous day of teaching. It started with a splendid 9th grade class on A Tale of Two Cities, a book which, several years ago, I would never have believed 9th graders could even understand, must less cherish. Yesterday the students seemed on fire with their passion about this book. The conversation was so brisk and steady that it was all I could do to get my own voice heard. I grew more and more astonished as I realized that this great book – one that has been a beloved favorite of mine for many years – had become an important one for many of my students. (In fact, later in the day, a parent informed me that her daughter, one of my brightest students and a devoted reader, had told her that A Tale of Two Cities was her all-time favorite book. In all my years as a teacher, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard more satisfying news.) My 8th grade classes yesterday were also excellent. As usual, the students were polite and attentive, but there was an unusual intensity in their behavior, an extraordinary kind of eagerness in their faces and voices. As we discussed a chapter in To Kill a Mockingbird, hands were shooting up all around me and voices were speaking with great fervor. I felt like I was conducting an exceptional orchestra, or watching a sky full of shooting stars.

At the end of the teaching day, I was utterly exhausted, but it was the kind of exhaustion that comes from being present at a day-long breathtaking event.

Journal: 1/28/06

I discovered – or rediscovered – an important truth this week: uni-tasking is better than multi-tasking. I rediscovered this important truth while I was reading a book at home. For some reason, the thought came to me, as I opened the book one evening and began reading, that I should read slowly, carefully, and thoughtfully – that I should read each word, and even re-read some sentences and paragraphs, if I wished to. So I did. I took my time, didn’t listen to music while I read, and even wrote some notes in the margin as I went along. What I realized, after thirty minutes or so, was that I was thoroughly enjoying the reading, much more than usual, and that I was retaining far more of what I read than I usually do. I realized that I was having a total, all-encompassing, comprehensive experience. I was focusing on one task, aiming every bit of my concentration at one activity, and was getting immense pleasure from it. Later, I began to wonder if I could extend this to other areas of life. Could I make this kind of uni-tasking a habit? What would happen, I asked myself, if I actually gave all of my attention to whatever single task I was doing in any present moment?

What would happen would probably be an utter miracle, a total transformation of my life.

On Teaching: "A Place of Holy Mystery"

“They all realized they were in a place of holy mystery..." --Luke 7: 16-17

When I read this sentence in the gospel of Luke this morning, I immediately thought of my classroom. It might seem odd to think of a small classroom in a quiet, unassuming school in southeastern Connecticut as being “a place of holy mystery”. After all, it’s a rather commonplace classroom, no different, really, than the thousands of other classrooms in the country. Kids come and go, talking and yawning and trying their best to stay focused, not thinking much, I’m sure, about miracles and holy mysteries. For me, though, my little room at 89 Barnes Road is truly a sacred place, for I know that miraculous things happen there. In this room, forty-two students and one teacher have their lives transformed each and every day, not because of especially good teaching, but just because that’s the nature of this amazing process called “learning”. When people come together to share ideas, lives are changed. It’s the law. It always happens. I once calculated that approximately 500,000 thoughts occur to my students and me in my classroom on a typical school day. Think of it – all those thoughts swirling together in my room each day, mingling and sharing and transforming! It’s like a magic potion of ideas, and not one of us can avoid being changed by it. Even if we’re not especially tuned into what’s happening on a given day, we can’t help being transformed, at least somewhat, by the blending and stirring of ideas in my classroom. How does it happen? Why does it happen? I really have no idea. I plan my lessons and work as hard as I can to be a good teacher, but I must honestly say I have no clue as to how this miracle called learning happens. That’s what makes my classroom – and any classroom – “a place of holy mystery”.

Journal: 1/26/06

The winter has turned frigid, but fortunately there’s warmth to be found wherever I happen to be. In the early morning, as I do my pre-dawn reading and writing, I have the electric heat in my apartment, which starts floating up from the baseboards almost as soon as I turn the dial on the thermostat. I don’t usually crank the heat up too high -- just enough to feel the flow of warmth around me. How lucky I am to be living in such a comfortable place on these frozen days. I can also find instant heat in my little car as I drive around town. Within a few minutes of driving, the frosty feeling is gone and the car is filled with satisfying warmth. Occasionally I even go for ride just to warm myself up. At school, too, I’m blessed with constant, comforting heat. I even have a small space heater in my classroom to provide a bonus of coziness on the especially bitter days. My young students and I go about our educational adventures encircled by warmth and wellbeing.

Yesterday I had what people call “a bad day”, and I found myself growing discouraged about my teaching. I felt that I wasn’t doing a good job as a teacher – that I was getting disorganized, that I was falling behind in my syllabus, that perhaps the students were growing discontented and confused. I berated myself for most of the afternoon. I saw myself as a teacher who was maybe on the downhill run toward mediocrity and retirement. Luckily, though, on the drive home from school, an enlightening and comforting thought came to me. I don’t know why, but I started thinking of the ocean, with its swirling currents and tumbling waves and varying weathers and conditions, and it occurred to me that the ocean cannot have a bad day. No one would look out at the sea and say, “Gosh, the ocean is not doing well today. It’s not being a very good ocean.” No...the ocean is always just being the ocean, and whatever it happens to be doing is precisely what it should be doing. The ocean, in that sense, is always a perfect ocean. Whatever its condition -- whether there are storms, sunshine, calmness, choppiness, swells, or stillness -- the ocean is always a flawless ocean. This was a reassuring thought. It helped me see that, at every moment, what is happening in my life is just as perfect as the ocean. Whatever is being said or thought or done is exactly what should be said or thought or done. It isn’t good or bad, it's just the way things are. I also saw that my discouragement as a teacher yesterday stemmed from focusing on “me” instead of on the “ocean” of education of which I am merely a part. I saw that thinking that “I” was failing as a teacher was as silly as thinking that a particular wave in the ocean could “fail” as a wave. The wave has no choice but to be one special wave in the special and vast sea, and I have no choice, really, but to be a meaningful part of the infinite sea of teaching and learning. I don’t mean to suggest that I am some kind of super-teacher. Quite the opposite. Good teaching, in fact, has nothing to do with some “me” or “I”. It’s about an endless and unfathomable process, of which we individual teachers are just one small part. Taken as a whole, it’s a process that’s seamless and magnificent. Yesterday, I tried my best, and the universe tried its best. What more can I ask for? What was happening in the ocean and in my classroom yesterday was what should have been happening, and it will be again today. It’s the way it has to be. It’s the law.

On Teaching: "Learning to Flow Downstream"

I have often thought of teaching as being like traveling on a river, and yesterday a simple but illuminating thought occurred to me: I spend way too much time battling upstream against the current. I realized that, in much of my planning and teaching, I see myself as one separate person fighting his way upstream, dragging my students behind me as if they are a fleet of canoes with no paddles. Never mind where the current is flowing -- I have my own, private, separate lesson plans, and I am bound and determined to haul my students where I want them to go, regardless of where the river is going. No wonder I feel exhausted at the end of many school days! What I have to remember – what I realized yesterday – is that, as a teacher, I am not separate, not alone, not totally responsible, not really pulling anyone. I and my students are part of a vast, measureless river called “life” that ceaselessly flows precisely where it wants to flow. No matter how hard we may fight to assert our separateness, the river of which we are a part keeps flowing in its harmonious and beautiful way. Knowledge keeps flowing, understanding keeps flowing, wisdom keeps flowing, realization keeps flowing, and my students and I are always flowing with this irresistible current, even when we’re trying our best to assert our separateness and fight against it. What I must do, today and every day, is simply stay awake and alert to this consoling truth. I simply have to remember that the river of learning is always flowing through my classroom – always -- even if I can’t discern the exact speed of the current or precisely where it’s taking all of us. My job is to navigate the current and to show my students how to do so, as well. Like me, many of them have grown accustomed to fighting upstream (in school, and in life), and my task is to give them an encouraging pat on the back and point them downstream. Then, hopefully, they will see (as I am still learning to see) that the river of learning is vast, harmonious, restful, and utterly thrilling. It’s not something to be fought, but to be enjoyed.

Journal: 1/24/06

Yesterday was a fine day of teaching. My classes, both at Pine Point and at Three Rivers, went smoothly and productively. I had carefully planned my lessons and was able to carry them out so effortlessly that I sometimes felt like I wasn’t doing anything at all – like some stronger force was in control and was carrying my students and I along toward successful teaching and learning. That’s the greatest feeling I have as a teacher – the feeling that I am part of something vast and wonderful as I go about my work in the classroom. It’s just a small room in a small school, but when things are going well, I feel like I’m at the center of an infinite, beautiful, and graceful force called “learning”. I feel like nothing can go wrong, perhaps like Kobe Bryant felt the other day when he effortlessly poured in 81 points. He couldn’t miss, and sometimes I feel that way as a teacher. On those “81 point days”, whatever words I or my students speak, whatever activities we do, all seem utterly perfect. It’s like we’re riding on a peaceful river, and wherever the river takes us is the perfect place to be. On days like that, Kobe couldn’t make a mistake if he tried, and neither can my students and I.

On Teaching: "Ruling by Love"

Speak gently, it is better far
To rule by love than fear;
Speak gently, let no harsh word mar
The good we may do here.

Speak gently to the erring ones,
They must have toiled in vain;
Perchance unkindness made them so;
O win them back again.

Speak gently, ‘tis a little thing,
Dropped in the heart’s deep well;
The good, the joy that it may bring
Eternity shall tell.

Today (and everyday) I need to keep in my heart the words of this wonderful old hymn as I go about my work as a teacher of teenagers. In a sense, I am the “ruler” in my classroom, but I need to understand that “it is better...to rule by love than fear.” Ruling by fear is the easy, commonplace way to rule. Almost everyone does it, from presidents and dictators down to parents and teachers. All you need to do to be this kind of ruler is glare, frown, threaten, berate, frighten, and punish. I do not want to rule in this way in my classroom, primarily because it really doesn’t work. As the song suggests, all this kind of rule does is “mar the good [I] may do” as a teacher. It makes my students shrink away from my teaching and close themselves up even tighter than they were before. They may look like they’re responding, but actually they have probably tightened themselves inside an increasingly unresponsive and impassive shell. What I need to do today (especially with my 9th grade class, which was a bit rowdy for about five minutes yesterday) is drop some gentleness in the “deep well” of my students’ hearts. Like a magical elixer, this gentleness will have untold, infinite effects on the lives of the young ones whom I teach. After all, if my students occasionally misbehave (and fortunately they do it only in the most minor and harmless ways), perhaps it is because they “toiled in vain” and are discouraged about themselves. With gentleness, not meanness or anger, I can “win them back again” – help them see how good they really are.

Meditation: "The Truth Is Always the Truth"

I awoke this morning with this question (a persistent one with me): Why can’t I understand, and keep in mind, that spiritual reality is the truth at all times and in all circumstances? For me, the great fact that all the power in the universe resides in one infinite Mind, and that therefore all reality is totally harmonious, seems to be the truth only in the early morning when I’m doing my spiritual meditation. It seems to gradually (and sometimes quickly) disappear once my busy workday begins. For hour after hour, from roughly 6:00 a.m to 10:00 p.m, I basically live in a humdrum, unstable, and threatening material world. Why is that? Why is it so hard for me to remember the glorious fact that I am an heir of the magnificent kingdom of God, or Mind? Why do I so quickly lose sight of the fact that I am a wildly wealthy man – a man who has an infinite supply of resources (ideas) with which to effortlessly dissipate any seeming threat? I intend to make today different. Or rather, “I” will not make today different; the infinite Mind, or the Universe, or God, or Allah (whichever name we prefer), will do all the making that’s necessary. A fact is a fact. Each moment today will be utterly mental and therefore utterly harmonious, and “I” don’t need to do a single thing to make that come true. It already is true – at all times and forever. All I need to do is be blissfully aware of this truth – see it, understand it, and bask in it.

Journal: 1/23/06

My family has a good reason to celebrate these days. My youngest son, Matt (or Jonah, as he is known by some), has just received his M.S. in Education, and will soon be certified to teach K-6 in the state of Connecticut. Somehow, it seems like an especially remarkable achievement. I know there are thousands of young teachers getting their degrees and receiving certification each month, but nonetheless, Matt’s achievement seems extra special. It’s like a flash of lightning out of a clear sky, or a sudden silence in the midst of a raucous storm. I am thrilled about it. It seems like this very good life has grown even better since I heard the official news.

Poem: "What the Future Depends Upon"

WHAT THE FUTURE DEPENDS UPON

He understands now
what the future depends upon.
It depends upon
the power of a cup
with its steaming coffee
on the counter.
It depends upon
the way a breeze
dances past a woman’s face
as she walks to a friend’s house.
He knows the future
depends upon
the graceful flow of ideas
in a single boy’s life
as he sits in his second grade room.
It depends upon
the peace in a man’s hands
when he’s holding
a glass of good beer.
It depends upon
this day
driving up to your door
in its Mercedes.

On Teaching: "An Affluent Classroom"

af·flu·ence, n.
1. A plentiful supply of material goods; wealth.
2. A great quantity; an abundance.
3. A flowing to or toward a point; afflux.

In my younger days, I used to daydream about becoming “affluent”, by which I meant having “a plentiful supply” of resources – enough to take care of any possible need. It seemed like a wonderful goal to aim for. I pictured myself surrounded by “a great quantity” of wealth, so much so that every worry would disappear and every fear would fade away. I thought it would be a great way to live, even though I had a strong feeling that it would never happen. Well, as strange as it seems to me, it has actually happened – and right in my own classroom at Pine Point School. My 42 students and I are living a life of utter affluence, even though we often probably aren’t fully aware of it. We have “a plentiful supply” of the most powerful resource in the universe – ideas. At all times during English class, we are surrounded and filled up by “a great abundance” of high-quality, strong, and limitless ideas. In a sense, my classroom, when we’re sitting together and working our way through a book or an essay or a lesson, is like a river “flowing toward a point” – and the “point” is knowledge. Nothing is stationary or static in my classroom; all is the ceaseless flow of ideas toward understanding. A visitor, I hope, would feel that sense of flowing, that sense that life in this classroom is gracefully and harmoniously moving in an inevitably healthy way. That is true affluence, and, amazingly, it is with me every day in Room 2.

Journal: 1/22/06

Yesterday, for some reason, I had one of my best work days ever. It wasn't especially exciting work – just grading essays, writing comments, and putting my college syllabus in order – but it was, nonetheless, a happy and gratifying way to spend a Saturday. I listened to some marvelous classical music on my iPod, and that surely helped. The hours passed like a dream. I was typing, writing, organizing, singing, and smiling from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm.

* * * * *

I am thoroughly enjoying my new iPod. I feel like I’ve turned the clock back many years to those wonderful times when music was an inspiration in my life. Of course, I have been listening to lots of classical music since I bought the iPod, but last night I bought and downloaded several old 60’s and 70’s pop tunes – stuff that I loved back in those heady times. Now this morning, at 6:24 am, I’m gyrating around the apartment as I enjoy the sounds of the Eagles blasting beautifully in through my little ear pods.

Poem: "Taking Inventory"

TAKING INVENTORY

He had five fingers
on each hand.
He had a yellow shirt
that flashed like sunshine.
He had the help
of fresh water from the faucet
and lights
that lived again
as soon as he switched them on.
He had thoughts
that threw themselves up
in the air of his mind,
making merry.
He had a hole in his heart
where fear drained out
and disappeared.
And he had this particular moment,
a miracle,
the present parading by
with shouts and praises.

Journal: 1/20/06

Yesterday was a fairly quiet day for me. The 9th graders were taking exams, so I had some extra free time to work on comments and other things. I tried writing comments while listening to my iPod, but soon discovered (as I often have) that I work best when I’m focusing on one activity. So I set my music aside for most of the day and just silently went about my duties. There is something very peaceful, almost sacred, about our school when quiet reigns. Occasionally I walked down the hall to get something, and I noticed – almost felt – the utter peacefulness of the place. Inside the classrooms, little and big people were working together to learn and grow, and they obviously didn’t need to be noisy to do that. Commotion had been replaced by stillness and contentment. Actually, even during my 8th grade classes, there seemed to be a hushed orderliness imposed on everything. For this I am grateful to my students, for they are among the most peaceful people I have ever taught. In my class, they come and go quietly, work quietly, and even speak quietly. It makes for a lot of mild and restful days, like the one I had yesterday.

On Teaching: "Being Merciful and Mighty"

MERCY: 1. Compassionate treatment, especially of those under one's power; clemency. 2. A disposition to be kind and forgiving: a heart full of mercy. 3. Something for which to be thankful; a blessing: It was a mercy that no one was hurt. 4. Alleviation of distress; relief: Taking in the refugees was an act of mercy.

MIGHTY: 1. Having or showing great power, skill, strength, or force: a mighty orator; a mighty blow. 2. Imposing or awesome in size, degree, or extent: a mighty stone fortress.

An old church hymn speaks of God as being both “merciful and mighty”, and I got to thinking the other day that the phrase could be used to describe what a good teacher should hope to be. Certainly mercy is a quality, or disposition, that should be predominant in any classroom. My students, the minute they walk in my door, should sense a “kind and forgiving” atmosphere. I would hope that, some day in the future, my students would even be “thankful” for the “blessing” of my English class, as if they might say, “It was a mercy that we got to go to Mr. Salsich’s class.” However, I would also like to think they might sense a “great power” in my classroom, as though something “awesome”, something of great force, is occurring there. My room could even be thought of (I hope) as being like “a stone fortress” where students can take refuge and learn important truths in an atmosphere of security and peace. In fact, perhaps I – the old, gentle, harmless English teacher – might even be thought of as an “imposing” teacher who is able to deal “a mighty blow” against ignorance.

This is the hope I have for my future years as a teacher – that I can be both merciful and mighty. I want the students to know that a vast river of kindness and forgiveness flows through my classroom, but that my room is also a fortress which allows no admittance to silliness, inattentiveness, or apathy. You’ll receive endless mercy in my room, but you’ll also be expected to be a valiant and “awesome” soldier in the war against ignorance. You’ll feel the power of clemency in my English class, but you’ll also feel the power of serious thinking, serious reading, and serious writing.

This is my hope, my big dream as a teacher. Hopefully I can teach long enough (I'm now a young 64) to see it come true.

Poem: "Remedies"

REMEDIES

Sometimes his thoughts
stumbled and crashed.
For that,
he went to the park
and praised the trees.
Sometimes he felt grief
flowing more powerfully
than ever.
For help with that,
he followed a cloud
as it quietly carried its cargo.
When his feelings
fell over a cliff,
he simply called to them,
and their wings unfolded
and ferried them away.
If a fire
of sadness or pleasure
was singing inside him,
he just listened with care,
and soon the fire was a friend,
and the song seemed like a prize
he had won.

Journal: 1/19/06

Yesterday I had some of the best 8th grade classes of the year. I’m not sure why, but I felt energized and inspired right from the start of each class. Perhaps it was because we were starting on the adventure of reading To Kill a Mockingbird, which we were all thrilled about; or maybe it was just that my feeling of gratitude and appreciation toward the teaching profession was flowing especially powerfully. Whatever the reason, I felt joyous and utterly at ease as I conducted the classes. I wonder if my students noticed. I hope so. I want them to know their English teacher loves his work, loves being with them, loves seeing their eyes brighten with understanding, loves coming to school each day. I want them to see, as an example for the future, an adult who adores the work he has chosen for his life.

* * * * *

I climbed the Granite Street hill a few times for my daily exercise. The wind was blustering and buffeting around me the entire time, but that just made it more exhilarating. I had my iPod along, and I listened to some inspiring spiritual songs as I walked. I am glad to report that the strength of those songs was way stronger than the strength of the winds.

On Teaching: "Being like Children"

I have often marveled at Jesus’ statement that we must become like children in order to enter what he called “the kingdom of God”, and lately I’ve been considering how it might apply to my teaching. Surprisingly, his statement seems to suggest that, if I want to discover the highest joys of teaching (the “kingdom”), I need to actually study my students and be more like them! This is a bit of a shock, since I have always thought of it in the opposite way – that my students should study and imitate me. Could it be that I have been utterly inattentive all these years – that I have missed the lessons my young students have been trying to teach me? For instance, perhaps they’ve been trying to teach me the importance of obedience. Right in front of me, day after day, these children in my class demonstrate the ability to listen to someone (their English teacher), accept what he’s saying as important, and then perform the activities he assigns. They don’t question it. They know the work has to be done, and they do it. Perhaps I could learn from this. The earth turns in surprising ways, and the universe continues its astonishing journey, and, like my students, I need to learn to do what is required of me as the miraculous days unfold. In a sense, I am assigned a task to perform each moment of my life (typing on the keyboard now, making coffee in a few moments, etc.), and I simply need to obey. I am given an assignment every second of the day, and I must do each of them to the best of my ability, without questioning or complaining, as my compliant students do.
I hope I can be more attentive to my 42 young teachers from now on.

Journal: 1/18/06

Yesterday was another frozen one. I stayed cozy at school in my tweed vest and wool sport coat, but I wondered about some of my students in their short-sleeve shirts. I noticed some of them shivering during English class. Listening to Mr. Salsich drone on is surely numbing enough without adding the wintry feel of January air on your skin.
* * * * *
I feel good about where I am in my teaching at this point in the year. We are halfway through, and, looking back, it feels like I’ve covered a lot of material with the students. It feels like we’re in a position to, in the next four months, slowly and carefully cover some other important items, and also – important – review things that are particularly essential.
* * * * *
It’s good to have Matt (my son) back home. He visited his girlfriend in Guatemala for two weeks, and now is back and getting set for 13 weeks of student teaching in a third grade class in New London. He’s looking forward to it, and I’m looking forward to hearing about it as the days pass. He’s going to be a splendid teacher.

Poem: "To Do List"

TO DO LIST

1. Send flowers
to a friend
whose life
is starting to unfold.
2. Find the smiles
you lost yesterday.
3. Get some stillness
and listen to it.
4. Lean on your hand
at your desk.
(It wants to help).
5. Bring a basket
of reassurance
to as many people
as possible.
6. Find fifty
simple things
that sparkle.
7. Let time
take its own
sweet time.

Journal: 1/16/06

Oh, what a bitter cold day it was! The wind screamed all night, and when I awoke the windows were frosted over with cold, and the computer said it was 8 degrees. I shivered just thinking about it. The coffee, steaming and fresh, seemed especially flavorsome this morning. I stayed home for a few hours, snug in my warm apartment, and graded some papers. I listened to a wonderful CD of Stephen Foster songs as I worked, and I’m afraid the emotions of the songs raised the grades pretty much across the board. There wasn’t a paper that got much lower than a B+, thanks to those lilting, melancholy songs. Later, toward evening, I trudged up and down the Granite Street hill a few times, listening to Beethoven’s violin concerto. The traffic was too noisy to really appreciate the music, but nonetheless, I found it inspiring to be marching along in the frigid air with Beethoven as a companion.

On Teaching: "Oysters or Flowers?"

In Dickens’ Dombey and Son, the author compares two kinds of teaching – that which attempts to pry open students’ minds as if they were oysters, and that which allows students’ minds to open in a natural, gradual way, like flowers. Teachers may be tempted to say, “Well, of course I prefer the second kind. Of course students should not be pried open like oysters!” – but I wonder if the oyster approach might play a larger role in teaching than we realize. I wonder if we don’t often, without even realizing it, think of students as objects that need to be forcefully opened so that we can put information into them. I wonder if we don’t do a lot more prying than allowing in our classrooms. Actually, the idea of allowing is one that seems foreign to many teachers and schools, because it appears to imply a lack of control. Many teachers feel that all of their training was directed at learning to manage, lead, guide, manipulate, and influence students – not to allow them to grow and blossom on their own. Teachers may ask, “Why are we even necessary, if the students can just blossom on their own?” I have an answer for that: Teachers are as necessary for their students as gardeners are for their flowers. Like the gardener, the teacher nourishes, protects, and generally provides a wholesome environment. Like the gardener, the teacher has the complicated task of arranging conditions that will be conducive to the process of growth. The teacher’s job is a demanding and essential one, not because she’s prying oysters open, but because she’s allowing -- making it possible for-- her students to naturally blossom into their beautiful adult selves.

Journal: 1/15/06

I am looking out my window (it’s 4:32 pm) at an astonishing scene. The sky is a very dark blue, and below it the roofs of the houses are shadowy and gray as evening comes on. However, between the sky and the roofs, the trees are covered with a band of perfectly lovely deep orange light from the setting sun. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
* * * * *
Yesterday I spent a beautiful morning with my grandson, Noah. Jaimie brought him down for the day, and Jan and I met them at the Mystic Aquarium for a few hours of happiness. Noah bounced from exhibit to exhibit, utterly enthralled with everything. I was enthralled, too, though far more by this remarkable little boy than by the sea creatures in tanks.
* * * * *
The weather turned piercingly cold today. I went for a shortened walk in the park, struggling against the frigid winds as I climbed my usual steps. I was out for only about 20 minutes before I headed back – panting and shivering – to the warmth of my comfortable apartment.

Journal: 1/14/06

A dense fog slowly settled down across southern Connecticut yesterday. It was slightly hazy and damp in the morning, and grew more so as the day progressed. The grounds of the school seemed more shadowy and strange with each hour. Walking from building to building, I felt like I was part of a mystery story. I drove up to Westfarms Mall in the afternoon (to get an iPod), and that’s when I really noticed the fog. It had grown very thick, so much so that the headlights of other cars seemed to be advancing toward me out of an ominous cloud. I drove cautiously, guiding the car along the slick roads and squinting into the foggy darkness ahead. It was worth it, though, because I found the Apple store, purchased the iPod, and drove home anticipating many hours of happy listening. Interestingly, I barely noticed the fog on the return trip.

Journal: 1/13/06

Yesterday we had a most wonderful assembly to honor Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the students perform so seriously and responsibly. Each piece of the program was carried out in a smooth manner, as though they had been practicing for weeks. I was especially impressed with one 8th grade girl, who gave us, with great emotion and elocution, a portion of Dr. King’s most famous speech.

* * * * *
I came home right after school and took a delightful walk in the park. The winter daylight was still bright, though growing dim and golden as the evening came on, and there was a balmy, April-like feel to the air. I went up and down the steep steps with youthful fervor.

* * * * *
I’m thoroughly enjoying Dickens’ Dombey and Son. Somehow he manages to create characters that I genuinely care about, and that also help me understand my own life better. For a few minutes each day, I live in their world, not mine, and in doing so, I, by some means, learn more about mine.

On Teaching: "A Comforting Thought"

In the midst of the turmoil of teaching English to adolescents, it’s comforting to remember that my students are in the very early stages of their lives as readers and writers. Most of them will live well into their 80’s and even 90’s, which gives them abundant time to develop the finer skills related to the use of their language. For at least 75 years, the boys and girls in my class will be reading and writing – and probably getting gradually better at it. This is a reassuring thought, one that always slows me down, enables me to take a deep breath, and helps me to remember that there’s no hurry. It’s not imperative that my 13-year-old students master the art of visualizing while reading, for they have decades ahead of them in which to practice. It’s not a major disaster in their lives if they don’t become superior readers of Dickens in 9th grade. Perhaps they’ll discover his greatness, as I did, in their 40’s, or even in their 80’s. Life is long. There are zillions of days left for my students to reach ever higher plateaus in the practice of reading and writing. This is not to say that I shouldn’t continue to be the best teacher I can possibly be. I need to carry on with taking my work as an English teacher seriously – just not too seriously. My students won’t be condemned to a life of lousy reading and writing if they don’t master the use of transitions and reader’s journals in my class. After all, they have something like twenty-nine thousand days left.

Journal: 1/12/06

I’m continuing with my (very) early morning studies, and also with my evening outdoor exercises. Yesterday morning, as usual, I arose at 3:30 (after 6 ½ hours of good sleep) and studied and wrote for two productive hours. I truly love that early time. My mind seems fresh and rested, and I find the silence of the dark morning stimulating. I feel like I’m preparing myself, in a serious and almost ceremonial way, for the journey through the forthcoming day. The last thing I do before leaving for school is sit in my comfortable chair under the lamplight for thirty minutes of reading. I’m just getting into Dickens’ Dombey and Son these days, and it’s a joy to follow the adventures of his appealing characters for a half hour each morning. I think I carry some of his graceful sentences and profound wisdom with me throughout the day. I also love my evening walks up and down the long, steep hill of Granite Street. It’s lit by streetlights that send down a pleasant golden glow, and the sidewalks are amazingly wide. It’s as if I’m walking on a parade grounds or in an outdoor stadium. The cars rush noisily past me, but I’m almost oblivious to them, my thoughts being lost in absorbing meditations of one sort or another.

On Teaching:

I came upon the word "salute" in the dictionary today, and of course it led me into thinking about my work as a teacher. The first definition -- "to greet or address with an expression of welcome, good will, or respect" -- caught my attention immediately, because it seemed to capture an important mind-set that I need to develop and maintain. When my students come to my room each day, I should "salute" them, meaning I should unmistakably show them that they are welcome in my room. I should make it a point to specifically greet or address each student as he or she enters. They need to know that their entrance into my room is a significant event in my day, one that deserves my strict attention. By greeting them in an attentive, even somewhat ceremonial, way, I not only let them know they are welcome in my room, that I want them to be here, but --as the definition suggests -- I also make it clear that I want only the best things to happen to them. I have "good will" toward them. My "will", or wish, is that today's English class will bring them important rewards. To that end, I will have carefully planned a lesson that has a good chance of being beneficial to them, and my heartfelt greeting, or salute, lets them know that. Finally, my greeting should be the kind that tells my students I have the highest kind of respect for them. They are fellow human beings with astonishing powers and talents, and I can only be a good teacher for them if I thoroughly value what they are. Hence, my daily greeting should never be silly, capricious, or condescending. It should, indeed, be a salute -- a greeting to a group of young people for whom I have immense esteem.

Poem: "An Invitation"

Please join us
for a very ordinary day.
Don’t think anything special will happen.
The sun will be its usual
fair-haired self,
the sky will unroll
its everyday magnificence,
and the earth beneath your feet
will follow its customarily perfect path
through the paradise of space.
Don’t expect
anything extraordinary.
Above us, a zillion stars
will sail together
like a silver fleet,
and the blood of our bodies
will send its ships
to all our zillion cells.

Please join us.
It will be
an unusually commonplace day.
The present moments
will make their characteristic
exquisite music.

Journal: 1/11/06

Yesterday I came home from school early to take Matt’s car to the shop, and it gave me an opportunity to enjoy a late afternoon in winter outdoors, instead of inside my classroom. I drove the car to the shop, and then walked back the few blocks to my apartment. It was a chilly afternoon, but I had my heavy sport jacket on and I tucked my wool scarf close around my neck, so I was comfortable as I strolled along. I got a glimpse of the golden sun low down among the trees in the park, so I decided to change clothes and do my daily exercise walking in the park while the sun was setting. It was a good decision. I climbed the steps by the pond eight times, and I was enthralled, as I climbed, by the lovely look of the park on this winter day. I wished I had brought my camera, because the sights were something to behold. The pond, with its silveriness and its shining reflection of the sunlight, was especially beautiful. The surface, as I saw it from the hillside, seemed completely motionless, which created a perfect mirror effect. It looked like a huge piece of miraculous glass someone had set down in the park centuries ago. I glanced over at it many times as I trudged up and down the steps. I walked back home breathing heavily, but happy that my walking had brought me the satisfaction of seeing the park dressed up for a winter afternoon.

On Teaching: "Peeling a Book"

Browsing through one of my dictionaries today, I came across the word “peel” and was immediately intrigued by it. The first definition was “to strip or cut away the skin, rind, or bark from”, and I thought instantly of the way my students and I are reading A Tale of Two Cities. The book is like a large piece of succulent fruit, and we have picked it from the tree and are carefully peeling away the layers to get at the inside “juices”, the interior themes of the book. We are taking our sweet time about it, because, as with any tasty cuisine, we want to extend the enjoyable experience as long as possible. (I’m sure my students don’t find the book nearly as “tasty” as I do, but...oh, well, at least I can hope.) Many people read books in a different way. Following the fruit analogy, they don’t take the time to peel a book and get to the luscious insides; rather, you might say they just hurriedly scrape away at the skin, get as much as they can as quickly as possible, and then toss the book aside, largely uneaten. Often the best parts of the book – the beauty and wisdom that lie beneath the surface – are left completely untouched by these hasty readers. If you’re reading a fluffy beach book, that approach may be acceptable, but with a large, delicious piece of fruit like a classic novel or a Shakespeare play, a more meticulous approach is called for – one like my students and I are employing. We realize that there’s no rush, just as there’s no rush in eating a scrumptious orange. We’re painstakingly peeling the layers of the book away and are beginning (I hope) to discover some of the secret, flavorsome inner parts. It’s a slow process, but that’s the way it often is with the truly profound experiences in our lives.

Journal: 1/10/06

Yesterday there was a touch of spring in the air – in early January! It was somewhat mild even in the morning when I drove to school, and I could feel it in my first few classes. That may be why I was unusually effervescent as I was teaching. I felt utterly loose and satisfied. At one point, I leaned back in my chair, popped in a Junior Mint, smiled, and said, “Life is good, boys and girls. Life is good.” The lovely weather continued all day. When I walked down the walkway to the library or the gym, I glanced out at the field, and there seemed to be a spring-like haze hanging over everything. The day seemed to be shining the way they sometimes do in May. In the late afternoon, just as darkness was coming on, for my daily exercise I climbed the Granite Street hill many times, and again I felt the pleasant quality of the air. I was in the heart of winter, with weeks of frozen days and nights ahead of me, and yet I could sense the springtime standing not too far off. As I walked, I swung my arms with special enthusiasm.

Poem: "Listening"

He heard
his mighty heart
holding itself steady
in his chest.
He heard a tree
telling its story to a storm,
and the tires of cars
singing the songs of open roads.
When we walked,
he heard coins calling out in his pocket.
He heard heaven
quietly opening its doors
every moment of his day.
He heard happiness
sailing in his bloodstream
like small boats.

Poem: "Writing in the Early Morning"

He was privileged
to hold his cup in his hand
and sip the coffee.
It was an honor
to have another day
driving up to his house
in its fancy car. It was
a mark of distinction
that his toast had turned
the perfect shade of brown,
and that butter
was shimmering on its surface.
And he was fortunate
to find a word
just when he most needed it,
shining like a special award.

On Teaching: "Pace"

I must confess that I have rarely thought about the importance of pace in my teaching. I guess I'm like a runner who just goes out each day and starts running, with little or no thought given as to how fast to run. I make careful lesson plans for each class, and I think I'm generally a hard-working teacher, but, as far as pace goes, I just sort of blindly push ahead. Each day's pace is about the same. I set out my plans, wait for the starting gun, and then run for the finish line. What would it mean for a teacher to "pace" himself, and to pace his students? Well, it certainly would mean taking a long-range view of the teaching now and then -- looking ahead on the road of days and weeks to see what the "course" looks like. (It's interesting that we call English a "course", as if it is, indeed, a race of some sort.) If I think of a single week as a separate "race", it might mean starting the week slowly, so that we can end the week on a fast-paced, energetic note. Thinking about the entire year as one long endurance race, it might mean planning week-long "breaks", when we slow the pace and refresh our energies. I could even think of each day as a race the students run, in which my 47- minute class is simply one stage. Thinking of it this way, I would plan for a relaxing, reenergizing, slower pace for at least a few minutes of the class, knowing that the kids are in the middle of an all day race. I might whisper to myself now and then: "Pace yourself, Ham -- and pace these hard-running kids."

On Teaching: "Inventing in the Classroom"

Since I’ve always wanted my students to be “inventive”, I decided to do a little dictionary work concerning the word. It’s interesting that it derives from the Latin “venire”, which means “to come”. Hmmm...does this mean that, when we invent something, we don’t actually create it, but simply “come to” it, as if it was already existing and we simply found it? In that sense, is inventing actually more like discovering ? The more I thought about it, the more I liked that idea, especially as it relates to my teaching. I have often told my students that writing and reading is like making, or building, something, but perhaps I should also introduce them to the idea that writing and reading is like discovering something. Instead of thinking of themselves as builders laboring away at an essay or an interpretation, perhaps they could see themselves as explorers searching for beautiful paragraphs and deep understandings. What I like about this notion is that the paragraphs and understandings are already there, waiting to be found. That suggests that my students, instead of trying so hard to be creators, deep thinkers, and hard workers, should focus more attention on being alert and circumspect searchers. The truths are out there. Like lost lakes and hidden valleys, the beautiful essays and profound interpretations are waiting for my students to come to, discover, or “invent” them.

Journal: 1/08/06

It’s been an utterly comfortable weekend for me. I almost feel guilty to have spent so many hours in total liberty and wellbeing. I did nothing that I didn’t want to do, and nothing that I didn’t enjoy. From watching good football games to reading some chapters in Dickens’ Dombey and Son to working quietly in my classroom, everything I did had the feel of harmony and rightness. It was a cold weekend, but that didn’t bother me at all. Actually, I didn’t go outdoors much. I had five good days of hill-climbing exercise during the week, so I took the weekend off and enjoyed the warm indoors. How fortunate I am to be able to slightly nudge a thermostat and feel instant heat rising around me! The only regretful thing about the weekend is that I didn’t get to see my grandson. Jaimie and Jess were busy with friends, but actually, it worked out pleasantly for me, because it gave me still more hours to enjoy my peaceful solitude. Next weekend I’ll spend some exciting hours with young Noah; this weekend was for tranquil and productive hours by myself.

Journal: 1/07/06

Yesterday I completed a good week at school – well, half a week, since we started back to school from the vacation on Wednesday. I wasn’t a perfect teacher, by any means, but I did a few things right, which always cheers me. First of all, I managed to write a reflective paragraph about teaching each day before I left school in the afternoon. Despite wanting to get home as soon as possible after a long day, I took about 20 extra minutes to think and write on an aspect of teaching. I found a topic for the paragraphs by simply browsing through my dictionary until I hit upon a word that seemed to speak to me. On Thursday, for instance, I wrote about the word “ignite” and how it relates to teaching. I enjoyed writing those paragraphs, and I hope I can do one each school day. This week I also managed to maintain a composed and gracious mood during all my classes. This is probably the area in which I’ve made the greatest improvement in my teaching over the years, and I’m pleased with the change. I’ve grown increasingly able to accept whatever happens in the classroom. Not that I necessarily like whatever happens, but I can accept that it happened and calmly move on. For instance, now and then the 9th graders started giggling about something slightly off topic, and, instead of resisting it and causing a commotion, I accepted the giggling, giggled a little myself, and then we all got back to work. I think my students see me as a relaxed, calm, patient, and confident person, and that’s good. That’s exactly the kind of teacher I want to be.

On Teaching: Looseners and Untie-ers

Since this is the time of year when many people are thinking about resolutions for the new year, I've been passing some time considering how resolutions might be important for both my students and me. As I usually do, I went to my dictionary first and discovered, to my surprise, that the word derives from the Latin "resolvere", which means "to loosen or untie". That puzzled me for a bit, but soon it occurred to me that when you make a resolution, you do it because you have "untied" the knotty problem related to what steps you should take in your life. You've "loosened" the log-jam of questions, puzzles, and decisions, and now you know exactly what you need to do -- so you make a resolution. You resolve to take some definite steps. This makes me think of my students and me. In our academic work we often feel utterly "tied in knots" by all the bewildering tasks we face. As a teacher, I sometimes feel as though I'm stuck in a mental traffic jam, with dozens of ideas pushing up against me and causing a numbing mental gridlock, and I'm sure my students feel the same. What we all need to do is make a decision, a resolution, about where we should be going next, but we can't really do that until the knots of our minds are untied and the traffic jams are loosened. Instead of making quick-fix suggestions or mapping out plans for myself and my students, I should be quietly helping them -- and me -- sort out the details of English class so we can "see our way clear" and make some decisions about what to work on next. Instead of being a drill sergeant, pushing us ahead to task after task, perhaps I need to be more of a loosener, an untie-er. If my students and I are going to make resolutions about the next few months in English class, we first have to resolve our confusions -- untie and loosen them -- and then the proper course of action will probably become clear.

Journal: 1/06/06

I wore a new light blue v-neck sweater to school yesterday, with a tie, and received a surprising number of compliments about it. Every so often, someone would suddenly say something like, “Ham, that sweater looks so nice on you”, or “What a pretty color that is.” It occurred to me, toward the end of the day, that nothing like that had happened to me in years. I just go about my business as a teacher, not expecting anyone to notice my clothes, so receiving effusive compliments, especially so many, was a startling, and very pleasant, experience for me.

On teaching: Ignite or Dampen?

In my long teaching career, I'm sure there have been any number of times when I have probably said, or thought, that I would like to "ignite" a class, but lately I've been musing about the ramifications of that word. It means "to light a fire", and it suggests, to a teacher, a roomful of students whose thoughts and feelings have been aroused by the content of the lesson. Every teacher, I suppose, wants to have this happen in his or her classroom. It's what we sort of vaguely hope for day after day, year after year -- a classroom where excitement is constantly flaring up into bonfires. However, I wonder if we give much thought to the opposite process of dampening. I wonder if tamping down fires might be as important in the teaching process as igniting them. I guess my problem with "fires" in the classroom is that it's very hard to control them, just as it is in nature. As I write, there are wildfires raging across the Southwest, destroying everything in their paths, and there are countless teachers, I'm sure, who have somehow ignited classes to the point where feelings and ideas are flaring every which way, and neither students nor teachers are sure what, if anything, is being learned. It may be that, if I want to become a truly excellent teacher, I need to focus some attention on learning how to occasionally dampen the inner fires of my students, so they can burn in a harmless, productive, and even beautiful manner. Fires, after all, can be lovely and inspiring things in our lives -- carefully controlled hearth fires, for instance. Perhaps I can think of each of my classes as a room filled with the quietly glowing flames of my students' thoughts and feelings -- thoughts that have been carefully considered and expressed, and feelings that are not blazing wildly, but are instead burning healthily and beautifully, with the help of a little judicious dampening, now and then, on my part.

Meditation: Reading and Doing

My spiritual reading each morning is a tranquil and inspiring experience. I usually listen to some soft classical music as I read, and there are typically a few candles burning in the room. The silence of the night is still present, giving me the feeling that I am preparing myself for the coming day before it arrives. I often finish the last sentence of the reading with a burst of joy, knowing that I have been in contact with some of the great truths of the universe. However, reading is one thing, and doing is quite another. To paraphrase a popular saying, I can read the read, but I can’t always do the do. I often completely forget about my morning reading as I go through the busy minutes of my school day. It’s as though the reading fills my pockets with valuable coins, but the pockets have holes in them and the coins slip quietly out during the day. Perhaps today I can wear pockets without holes. Perhaps I can remember important truths I came across this morning, like the simple fact that the universe (including my students and I) is a spiritual creation, and that all power is spiritual, not material. Maybe today I can do what I read about. After spending an hour or more taking in glorious truths in the morning, it would be foolish not to bask in them throughout the day.

Journal: 1/05/06

Yesterday, Pine Point School, all 300+ of us, gathered again at 8:23 to begin the new year in our classrooms and offices. I felt jubilant, really, to see everyone again. I had a wonderful life during vacation – traveling to see my extended family in St. Louis, relaxing with books, working on writing projects, and enjoying the wintry outdoors whenever possible – but I was ready to get back with my students today. I was actually thrilled to see the first group of kids walk into my room this morning. Oddly enough, I don’t really think I was an especially efficient teacher today. I seemed to sort of float through the classes in a hazy and distracted way, even though I had planned them fairly carefully. Still, I might have been a at least a good teacher, because I somehow felt that a good deal of learning was happening throughout the day. (It reminded me of an old truth I’ve learned – that “I” don’t really do the teaching.) I felt somewhat little indolent during the day, having had a restless night, and I was contemplating skipping the faculty meeting. But luckily I decided to fulfill my obligation – and I’m glad I did. We watched a distressing film about child abuse, and it served to remind me of exactly why I’m proud of my profession. We teachers guard, as the film put it, “our country’s most precious natural resource – our children.” I’m honored and grateful to be entrusted with such an important task.

OIn Teaching" "Mosaics in Room 2"

I was thinking today that my students and I, as we work through the English curriculum, might be somewhat like a mosaic. One of my dictionaries defines a mosaic as "a picture or decorative design made by setting small colored pieces into a surface". I had fun, as the early winter evening was coming on today, picturing my class as a picture or design -- something that might be called beautiful and that other people might like to look at and admire, as they might look at and admire a work of art. All of us, students and teacher, are in the design in just the best place, all coming together to make a truly unique work of art. I like the idea that my class makes up not just a design, but a "decorative" design. My students and I are not plain, not ordinary, not simple, not drab. We bring the extraordinarily vibrant colors of our lives to class each day, and, one way or another, we find our special and proper place in the goings-on of the class, and the result, day after day, is a lovely mosaic. I guess I could pretend that I am the artist that puts together this mosaic each day, but that would simply be foolish pride and nonsense. The truth is that, no matter how carefully I plan my lessons, a power way more potent than I is the one that settles the design into its beautiful pattern. Often the final pattern at the end of the class is not at all the one I planned, but, in some (often unfathomable) way, it's always right and always beautiful. I wish more visitors would come to my room and see the mosaics slowly come together in each class, each day.

Journal: 1/04/06

Yesterday a soggy, thick snow was falling all morning, and fortunately it was heavy enough, and hazardous enough, to earn us teachers and students a day off from school. I was up early doing my reading and writing when I received the call on our automated alert system. I quietly cheered, changed back into my casual vacation clothes, and proceeded to have a serene and useful day. I had received a gift, and I made the most of it. I spent some time reading, of course – a chapter in Dombey and Son, as well as some spiritual reading – and worked at school for awhile. I intended to go to the gym for a workout in the afternoon, but instead I fell into a pleasant sleep for about forty minutes. Later, I met some friends for dinner at our favorite restaurant, where we share conviviality and well-prepared food. I was home early, and was soon asleep. I recall lying in bed and peacefully drifting off to unconsciousness, letting my thoughts go where they would. Sleeping is one of the finest pastimes that life affords all of us animals, and I do it quite outstandingly.

On Teaching: Information or Inspiration?

It’s interesting to consider the difference between informed students and inspired students. I think I have, for most of my teaching career, been far more interested in producing informed students than inspired ones. I have wanted to give my students information that would help them perform various functions, like writing papers and analyzing literature. In a sense, I have thought of my students as “forms” that I could alter and shape to my own design by giving them correct and significant information. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this approach, as long as it is combined with the understanding that students are not actually "forms", but are, in fact, unlimited and indefinable participants in a boundless and indescribable universe. I can certainly continue to offer them information that will be helpful to them in their everyday lives, but I must also see clearly that their minds are vaster and more complex than I can ever imagine. Their minds, in fact, are constantly being infused with inspirations that I am totally unaware of and have no control over. This is where it becomes clear that inspiration is more important than information. The universe, in fact, is powered by inspiration, and all the great things accomplished by the human race have been accomplished through inspiration, not information. Infinitely powerful ideas are pouring into my students at every moment, and they have little or nothing to do with information. My job as a teacher is to continue to inform my students, but to be always aware of the underlying, overlying, and all-encompassing power of inspiration.

Meditation: "The Gift of Suffering"

An important truth for me to remember today is that suffering can bring important blessings. In fact, suffering may be the quickest way for me to learn, or re-learn, the most fundamental truths of reality. I often get lost, for days and weeks, in the dream (nightmare?) that life is a material phenomenon, and suffering can awaken me to the simple, shining truth that all reality, including all power, is spiritual. Suffering is like an insistent alarm clock that tells me it’s time to wake up – to turn away from materialism and toward an understanding of the spiritual nature of the universe. Jesus understood this. When he was preparing himself for the suffering he was going to experience during the crucifixion, one of the first things he did was give thanks to God. I can imagine him, in the midst of his fears, quietly remembering that, no matter what happens, spiritual power (or God), manifested in qualities like love, kindness, patience, and courage, has no limit and no opposition, and that it will ultimately be victorious. I can imagine a refreshing peacefulness filling his heart. No doubt it’s strange to think of being grateful for suffering. Most of us want to avoid suffering at all costs, and we flee from it at first notice. But perhaps I can be different today. Perhaps I can keep in mind that any kind of suffering is a quiet, generous gift from the universe – a gift to remind me that all is spiritual, and all is well.

Journal: 1/02/06

A small, wet storm descended on us yesterday. When I drove over to school in the morning, the trees in the park were wearing slim coats of snow, and cars along the streets seemed to be moving extra slowly under their loads of snow. It was a wet and warm storm, however, and most of the white stuff had melted away by this morning. I spent a few hours today working on some last minute items at school, puttering around and listening to soft background music. It felt good to be back in the classroom. I have a lovely home in Westerly, but there’s no place more comfortable or welcoming to me than my little classroom at Pine Point School. I think I’m ready for the kids tomorrow. I have some good plans laid out, but of course I’m always ready for surprising twists and turns. The roads of teaching go in infinite directions, and I must be prepared for anything.

Meditation: "The Web of the Universe"

I feel like I’m making progress in understanding that I am not a separate, isolated part of the universe, but am rather a part of an infinite whole. I’m realizing, more and more, that whatever affects someone else, affects me. It’s as if the entire universe is an endless web, where the slightest motion in one part of the web ripples out to even the most distant part. When someone is sad in one part of the world, I, in some way, am affected, or changed, by that sadness; when someone is filled with joy, no matter if they are on the opposite side of the world, I share in that joy. I think the word “share” is especially important here. In a very real sense, we all share our lives with every other life. Take a feeling like happiness, for instance. If I see a person walking down the street in obvious happiness, I actually possess as much of his happiness as he does. After all, happiness is not a physical, material thing that can be “owned” or “kept” by anyone. It’s a spiritual, unlimited quality. Once it is felt by a single person, it instantly flows out on the web to the farthest part of the universe. The sad reality is that most of rarely feel this connection with the rest of the universe. We think of feelings like joy and sorrow as sensations that we privately own, not realizing that we can no more own them than we can own the wind. The wind blows across the entire earth, and so do our inner lives. If I am totally aware today, I will share the happiness or sorrow of the world as it ripples to me across the never-ending web of creation.

Journal: 1/01/06

I’ve had a quiet weekend – not much New Year’s celebrating, but a lot of much needed peace and quiet. The week in St. Louis was wonderful but exhausting (non-stop fun is always tiring, I guess), and I have appreciated, during these last two days, the silence and calm of my small apartment and the empty school. I’ve watched a little football, read some spiritual articles, and messed around in my classroom to get things in order for the coming week. Matty left early Saturday morning for 14 days in Guatemala with his girl friend. He has worked diligently for 12 months to earn his Masters in Teaching (with straight A’s), and some time off is a proper prize. Since he and Stacey haven’t seen each other in 18 months, I’m sure their reunion will be a momentous one for them. Right now, it’s 6:41 p.m., my apartment is cozy with burning candles, a close game is on TV, and I’m settling in for a comfortable night.