On Teaching: "March-ing in the Classroom"

With the month of March coming on this week, I fell to thinking today about how the word applies to my teaching. Normally, I wouldn't think it does, since I don't often picture my students "marching" as they go through their English work. In fact, I have always liked to think of them as "sailing through" their work, or "exploring" it, or "investigating" it. The idea of marching somehow seemed contrary to what I am trying to do as an English teacher. However, when I started thinking about the word and about my teaching, some new and appealing ideas unfurled. I thought, for instance, about marching bands, those precisely coordinated groups in which young people both follow strict guidelines and enjoy themselves immensely. Yes, they march in a lock-step manner, which may seem to be the opposite of creativity, but in doing so they create a spectacular show -- one that they are no doubt extremely proud to participate in. If only my English students could be that proud, that excited, about their work! And then I thought about soldiers marching in formation during their training. Military organizations insist on this because they know it will instill the sense of discipline the soldiers will need if and when they go forth to wage war. Aren't my students going to have to wage their own kinds of "wars" in future English classes, and in the real world, and shouldn't I help create the discipline that will aid them in those situations? Perhaps, after all, "marching" isn't such an inappropriate word for my classes. Perhaps I do want my students to march along through their work like an energetic, supportive group of learners. Perhaps it's not so bad to require them, at least now and then, to "march in formation" as they prepare themselves for the difficult schooling that lies ahead.

Journal: Monday, February 27, 2006

Paradoxically, I had a restful, laborious weekend. On Saturday morning, I went to school early and graded seventeen 9th grade essays -- a completely pleasurable process on this occasion. The writing was good – occasionally brilliant – and I listened to some tranquil classical music as I worked. I felt utterly peaceful as I went through essay after essay. The students’ graceful, intelligent writing was as easy to read as sipping hot coffee (which I did off and on as I worked). On Sunday morning, I went back to school, this time to get my lessons organized for the coming week. Again, I worked hard and accomplished much, but it was an easy, painless kind of work. The music was soft and pleasing, and so were the jobs I was doing.

On Teaching: "Beautiful and Complete"

I’ve completely changed my mind about what my primary task as a teacher is. For most of my teaching career, I thought my job as a teacher was to make my students more “complete” – to give them skills and knowledge that would make them “better” people. I guess I saw my students as deficient individuals who needed my help to somehow complete them, round them off, put some finishing touches on. They lacked something, and my responsibility was to provide what was lacking. In the last few years, however, I’ve begun to believe that this approach is entirely wrong. My students are not flawed and incomplete, but beautiful and complete – just like the entire universe. At any given moment, everything in the universe is exactly the way it should be, and this includes each of my students. I may not see or understand the beauty and completeness of all things, but it’s there – and it will be there in my classroom today. My task today is not so much to change my young students or improve them, but rather to see them as they are. If I can truly recognize and honor the beauty and completeness of my students today, I will be the best kind of teacher there is. By acknowledging their perfection in this moment, I will enable them to become perfect in a different way in the next moment. I can’t make my students become more brilliant than they already are, but I can help them become brilliant in new and different ways. That’s my job – my duty – as a teacher, and it’s a sacred one, to be sure.

On Teaching: "Nap Time in 8th Grade English?"

Perhaps I should allow my students a little “sleep time” during my classes. As odd as that sounds, it would seem to make perfect sense, when I remember that we humans spend roughly one-third of the twenty-four hours of each day sleeping. Nature has made it clear to us that we need that much rest. In order to function as proficient human beings, our bodies and minds need to turn off, or at least way down, for approximately fifteen minutes for every thirty minutes awake. During that time, we escape from pressures of all kinds in order to rejuvenate ourselves with new vitality. My students work very hard in each class, including mine, from 8:30 to 3:00, and it makes sense that they should take time out now and then to rest and recuperate. Just as they need their long sleep each night, perhaps they should be allowed to rest for a period of time in my class. And just as we often awaken in the morning with a new-found energy, perhaps my students would awaken from their brief rest with a burst of passion for English work. It seems reasonable: We couldn’t go a full twenty-four hours without a good rest, and my students perhaps can’t be expected to go a full forty-eight minutes in English class without a relaxing break. Hmmm...What would my principal think if he walked into my classroom and found my students blissfully napping?

Journal: Saturday, February 25, 2006

A windy cold front blew across southern New England yesterday. At school, doors were whipping open and people were blowing down the walkway all day. I could hear the cold wind whistling around the windows as I went about my teaching. I felt immense gratitude to be working in a cozy classroom, complete with a small space heater humming in the corner by my desk.
* * * *
I’m making my way through Dickens’ Dombey and Son. Earlier this week, I read the poignant chapters in which little Paul dies. It’s some of the best Dickens writing I’ve ever read – the clarity of the descriptions, the depth of the emotions revealed, and the utter gracefulness of the sentences. It’s the kind of book that needs to be not just read, but cherished. As I would if I were in the presence of a great friend, I need to enjoy its company.
* * * *
I worked out at the gym yesterday afternoon, pumping fairly hard on the bike for 25 minutes. I don’t feel nearly as strong as I do in the summer months, but yesterday I got through the workout in pretty good shape. I was breathing heavily as I left, but I felt like my body was growing stronger. I felt a little fresher, a little bouncier, than I did on Thursday after my workout. Little by little, one step at a time, I’m working my way toward spring when I can take to the roads on my bike.

Meditation: "The Old Mistake"

This morning I made a mistake I’ve been making off and on for most of my life. As soon as I was out of bed, I began thinking about how I could make myself into a very spiritual person so that I could have a rewarding spiritual day. It was all about “me”, as though I – and here’s the mistake – was a separate, physical person who could “make” himself into whatever he wanted. I was acting no differently than if I was baseball player deciding to practice hitting fastballs today so I could raise my batting average. The problem was that I was attempting to live a spiritual life by thinking of myself as a material person in a material world. In a spiritual universe, there are no separate individual entities that have to struggle to reach some goal. There is only the one infinite spiritual reality (often called God), and this reality, or force, is constantly at work creating its own harmonious universe, no matter what "I" appear to be doing. What I forgot this morning is that a distinct, material person called "Hamilton Salsich" doesn't have to exert any energy or control in order for this day to be a perfectly balanced day. It already is a perfect day, and always will be. In fact, there is, in reality, no distinct, material person called "Hamilton Salsich". There is only the grand and faultless spiritual universe (in Latin, "un" = one), of which "I" am an important and inextricable part. I don't need to try to live a spiritual life today, because the spiritual life is all there is.

Meditation: "Stepping Out of the Story"

Today I want to try to "step out of the story" every so often. This is a phrase used by many spiritual teachers, and it refers to removing myself, now and then, from the on-going personal story of "me against the world". All of us succumb, at an early age, to the delusion of seeing life as a personal story with a main character (me) who struggles over time with countless obstacles and threats, but it's important to see that there's another, radically different way of perceiving life. If I can simply step away from the personal story now and then, and simply observe it instead of play a role in it, I will see that life is a great deal more peaceful than I had thought. For I will see that life continues on without my personal participation. When I have stepped out of the story, things continue to happen, and the wonderful part is that I am not responsible for making them happen. They just happen. The grand universe continues without my personal help or approval. This is a marvelous truth to realize, because it immediately removes a weighty burden from my shoulders. Suddenly, after a lifetime spent worrying and controlling and manipulating and feeling guilty, I realize that everything is being taken care of. The magnificent cosmos is spinning along in its harmonious manner, and I, being part of it, am serenely spinning along with it. In class today, I can step away from the story of "me against the curriculum and my students" and just observe as the curriculum takes care of itself. I am part of a productive, efficient universe, so my classroom can't help but be productive and efficient. I don't need to be in charge, because the universe already is.

On Teaching: "Meekness"

As the years have passed, I have become convinced that meekness is one of the most important qualities in a good teacher. This goes contrary to what I believed when I was younger, having been raised in a culture where bravado and machismo were rated far higher than humility and gentleness. I grew up believing that a teacher must be strong, authoritative, committed, and consistent, all of which seemed to cancel out any possibility of meekness. I guess I thought of a meek person as being basically "weak", and there was no room for weakness in my image of the master teacher. Lately, though, I have been considering meekness in a completely different way -- a way that allows me to see it as a quality associated with immense strength. Interestingly, the word derives from a Latin root meaning "soft", and I'm beginning to see, as I think about it, that soft things are actually surprisingly strong. In fact, their strength is created by their softness. Think of water, air, and sunlight. Because they are all soft, they are not easily injured, and from this comes their astonishing power. In a sense, they can't easily be defeated, and undefeatedable forces are, by nature, extremely impressive (On the other hand, hard things, including teachers, are rather easy to damage, and are thus neither strong nor impressive.) I would like to become a "softer" teacher than I am now -- a teacher who gains strength through meekness. There's an old truth that the greatest weakness can hide the greatest strength, and I would like to be a "weak" teacher in that sense. Like water and sunlight and air, I want to "give" and ebb and flow and recede and go around and settle. This is the opposite of hardness and rigidity, and it may make me a stronger teacher than I've ever been.

Journal: Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Today was filled with a variety of activities. In the early morning, I spent a few hours at home doing my usual pre-breakfast reading and writing. I sat at the brown table in the soft light of the desk lamp and read slowly and carefully, taking notes along the way. The time passed quickly, mostly because I was absorbed and focused on what I was doing. After breakfast, I drove to school and had some wonderful classes throughout the day. The morning 8th grade classes were, as they usually are, efficient and productive (although the students did appear abnormally lethargic, perhaps because of the four-day weekend). The afternoon classes with the ebullient and restive 9th grade were also splendid, although I don’t think I was at my best as a teacher. After school, I took a brisk walk up and down the stairs in Wilcox Park. The sun was setting and laying a golden light on the ice of the pond, which made my walk especially inspiring. I felt strong and full of life as I paced along. When I returned home, I enjoyed a cup of steaming tea and reflected back upon a satisfying winter day.

Journal: Monday, February 20, 2006

Today was a day of intense, unremitting cold. I felt it from the moment I woke up and noticed the windows glazed over with frost. I sat at the computer shivering, sipping my steaming coffee, and trying my best to shake off the glacial feeling and reheat my body. As I ate my bowl of hot oatmeal, I felt myself warming up, but the windows were still iced over with a silver gloss. During the day, I went out now and then to run errands, and each time, I felt the cold piercing my jacket and pants. My clothes seemed to give no protection whatsoever against the chilling wind. Each time, I couldn’t wait to get back home; each time I dashed into the house to get that wonderful feeling of heat and comfort from the baseboard heaters. Strange, but I even felt cold in the apartment now and then. I sometimes walked around shaking and shivering, clapping my hands and rubbing my arms as if I was outside in the frigid air. Even getting into a good book or sipping scalding tea didn’t seem to help. The cold was the king. All day I was the servant of a relentless and frosty master.

On Teaching: "Caricatures"

When we teachers describe students at meetings, I sometimes feel like we are inadvertently creating caricatures of the students instead of genuine portraits of them. According to one dictionary, a caricature is a “false ... or impudent imitation of something”, a definition that unfortunately might fit some of our descriptions of students during these meetings. When he talk about kids, it seems to me that we create a picture of them that is tidy, neat, and convenient, but that often has very little to do with the actual reality of their lives. We might as well draw a quick sketch of a student and then claim the sketch tells us a lot about the student. What bothers me most is that we don’t usually seem to be aware that we are doing this. Most of us seem to believe that we are actually capturing the essence of the students when we discuss them – that our words and phrases about them reveal their true natures as students. We put labels on the students, and we apparently believe that the labels accurately identify and reveal them. In this connection, I like the word “impudent” in the above definition, because I believe it is impudent of teachers to pretend to capture the reality of their students during meetings in which labels are conveniently used and judgments are quickly passed. It’s like looking at the Grand Canyon and then “labeling” it in a few sentences. Our students are all human Grand Canyons, and they deserve thoughtful, professional, and humble treatment from us. We need to stop making caricatures of our students and start describing the depth of the riches their lives.

Journal: Monday, February 20, 2006

I had a long day of driving yesterday, but it was surely worth the trouble. Actually, it was not much trouble at all, for the day was bright and beautiful (although frigid) and my car ran comfortably along the roads. I was snug and safe inside my little Kia Spectra as we cruised up toward Brooklyn, CT and Millbury, Mass to see Luke and Jaimie and their families. I listened to some audio tapes as I drove, which inspired me even more that the good-looking countryside. What really made the drive worthwhile was the end result – a visit with my oldest sons and their loved ones. I first spent a few hours in the woods of northeastern Connecticut with little Noah and his mom and dad, enjoying their warm house (the new wood stove was purring in the corner of the kitchen) and their affable company. Noah showed me how he can stand on his hands (so to speak), and of course he talked incessantly in his happy, charming way. I then drove another forty minutes to hang out with Krissy and Luke. We enjoyed a hearty breakfast at Puffins, but even better was the excellent conversation. It was a rather bitter day outside, but inside the little cafe there was only coziness and optimism.

Journal: Sunday, February 19, 2006

I am thoroughly enjoying Dickens’ Dombey and Son. I’m reading just a few pages each day, much the way Dickens’ readers in London read it when it first came out in weekly installments. The characters, as is usually the case with his novels, are vivid, fascinating, and – some of them – quite loveable. I am particularly drawn to the good Captain Cuttle and his unselfish young friend, Walter Gay (whom the Captain calls “Wal’r”). Yesterday I read for about thirty minutes, and became worried about the fate of Walter, who is being sent to the West Indies by the hard-hearted Mr. Dombey. He leaves behind his uncle, the cheerful but needy Solomon Gills, and also a budding romance with Florence Dombey. I’m hoping that Mr. Dombey will relent and keep Walter in the home office. (Surely Dickens won’t send him so far away!)
* * * *
It’s a frigid Sunday morning – 11 degrees! I’m heading up the highway in my warm car to visit with Luke, Krissy, Jaimie, Jess, and little Noah. I’ll take some inspiring spiritual tapes with me to keep me cozy as I drive.

Journal: Saturday, February 18, 2006

I was thankful to begin my long “winter weekend” holiday yesterday. How nice it is to have four days in the middle of winter to do pretty much whatever I want! Since I planned my students’ essay assignments so I wouldn’t have a ton of papers to grade this weekend, now I’m free to enjoy whatever activity comes my way. I’m like a ship that’s broken free from the fleet – on my own and cruising with the currents and the winds. Yesterday I drifted along in an indolent, lighthearted way. I graded some lovely essays by 9th graders (just a few), which turned out to be a thoroughly peaceful experience. I also had a productive, encouraging workout at the gym, breathing lightly and feeling strong all the way through. Today I plan to do some reading in Dickens’ Dombey and Son, grade a few more papers, perhaps take a long walk in the park, give consideration to my plans for next week’s classes, and, when all’s said and done, enjoy the passage of the hours. It’s a good life, especially when you have four days to do whatever seems pleasing at the moment. I’m sure I’ll be adequately entertained these next three days.

On Teaching: "Together, Not Separate"

Yesterday I found myself falling into a typical pattern: I was fretting about how I was going to “handle” my students. As often happens, I was seeing them as “objects” separated and somewhat distant from me, and my job was to figure out how to manipulate them into thinking and behaving the way I wanted them to think and behave. I felt almost like a military commander planning a strategy for defeating the enemy. Luckily, though, a wonderful, reassuring idea returned and rescued me from this mixed-up way of thinking. I remembered that my students and I are not separate, material objects, but rather ideas in the infinite, ever-present, all-powerful Mind (which some people refer to as God or Allah). My students are not “over there” waiting to be manipulated by me; they are simply thoughts existing in the same immeasurable consciousness that I exist in. This is the plain truth of reality, and I find it astonishing that I continue to lose sight of it during the school day. I often fall into the hypnotic state where I try to pressure my students into thinking this way or acting that way, when what I should be doing is merely enjoying the spiritual dance that we are all involved in. At any given moment, my 42 students and I are gracefully flowing in the eternal waltz of ideas. There really isn’t any separate “teacher” and “class”, but only the continual unfolding of new, breathtaking ideas. I don’t need to “handle” anyone. I just need to enjoy the dance.

On Teaching" "The Depth of the Riches"

In my teaching, I find that it’s so easy to get lost in the minutiae on the surface of things that I seldom appreciate the depth of the riches in my students’ lives. In that sense, perhaps I could be compared to a miner for gold who spends his days chipping away at surface rocks, completely oblivious to the treasures that lie just beneath his feet. Because he’s so busy rushing here and there with his small mining tools, he has no awareness of the truckloads full of gold awaiting him below the surface. I’m afraid a similar thing happens to me. It’s as if I’m wearing some type of special glasses that enable me to only see the myriad, minuscule details directly in front of me, all the while missing the vast treasures spread out in the depths of my students’ minds and hearts. There’s a fairy tale in here somewhere. It’s about a man who desperately wanted to be a great teacher, and set out in search of that noble goal. For years he exhausted himself by making detailed lesson plans, fretting over a million details like how many essays can he grade in an hour and who’s whispering when they should be listening. Finally, he fell asleep of exhaustion, and when he awoke, he saw his 42 students standing in front of him, shining so brightly it was as if they were made of gold and diamonds. He then heard a voice say, “This is the secret of great teaching: just be always aware of the immeasurable richness of your students’ lives.” Today, I can’t allow myself to fuss about the picky details of teaching, because if I do, I will miss the treasures that lie in front of me – the 42 “gold mines” loaded with wealth. Each of my students brings with them an infinite depth of wisdom and insight, and it’s my sacred task to simply stand back and marvel at them, and to allow them to reveal their treasures. Actually, unlike actual gold mines, no “digging” is required. All I have to do is open my eyes and see what’s right there --- these groups of young people as luminous as gold.

Journal: 02/13/06

I guess we experienced what will be known as the “Blizzard of ‘06” yesterday. The storm blew in on Saturday night and howled across southern New England all day Sunday. The snow was heavy (about 20 inches) and the winds were strong, so it wasn’t a day to be taking a leisurely winter walk. My son Matt and I just “hunkered down” in the toasty apartment and watched the snow swirl past the window. And what a treat that is, to be forced to enjoy the comforts of a warm home in winter! We read, played music, talked, drank tea, and watched the winter Olympics on TV. It was a day of peacefulness and satisfaction for both of us. It was also a day of quiet contemplation for me. I often thought about all the people right here in Westerly who don’t have a comfortable home to enjoy on a stormy day, who don’t have friends to share warmth and good will with, who perhaps are cold and lonely on this beautiful winter day. When I looked out at the white landscape with the snow sailing among the houses and trees, I often thought of people for whom this storm is nothing but one more disaster in their lives. It put things into perspective. It made me think deeply as I sipped another cup of hot tea.

Meditation: "On the Impossibility of Separation"

Yesterday, I spent some time thinking about the amazing and reassuring truth that there is no “separation” in the universe. This is always a comforting realization, because the idea of separation has beleaguered me for most of my life. In fact, the belief that I am a separate, vulnerable, material entity in a universe filled with countless other such entities has caused every problem I’ve ever encountered. I guess it's true for everyone: problems always arise from fear, and fear always arises from feelings of separation. So I was not a little comforted yesterday by my meditation on the “non-separateness” of the universe. It came to me, for instance, that I can no more be separate from the rest of life than a breeze in one part of the park can be separate from a breeze in another part, or than a wave in the ocean can be separate from the rest of the ocean. I often feel like a separate entity, but the truth is that I am always an indissoluble part of the infinite flow of life. What happens to me this moment happens because life – or Life – is flowing in a certain way at this moment. This idea became even stronger when I passed a “stranger” in the street and realized that he is actually not a stranger at all. One definition of the word stranger is “outsider”, and I realized yesterday that no one can be an outsider, because there is no “outside” to reality. The man I saw on the street is not on the outside, while I’m on the inside. No, we are both parts of the irresistible flow of universal Life. As I thought more about it, I realized that this river of life is a river of awareness. The man on the street exists in my awareness – or just awareness, because I don’t own it – and so do I. The entire universe, in fact, could be called Awareness, because that’s really all there is. Awareness is just another name for the illimitable and all-powerful force that some people call God – and I realized yesterday, happily, that I am an inseparable part of it.

Journal: 02/11/06

I took the 9th grade class up to Providence last night to see a performance of Hamlet at the Trinity Repertory Theater, and I think we all had a grand time. We first ate dinner at the Trinity Brewhouse, all of us sitting convivially together at two tables in the basement. The food, it appeared, was acceptable to everyone, and the conversation was brisk and merry. As I looked around at all the happy faces, students and adults alike, I once again felt grateful for all my bountiful blessings. After dinner, we walked a few blocks to the theater, where we quickly found our excellent seats, just to the right of center and close by the stage. From the various comments I heard, the students were pleased by our closeness to the stage, and by the charming set (a well-to-do living room from the 1930’s). We settled in for a special evening of entertainment, and we were not disappointed. The acting was always good and occasionally excellent, and the forceful emotions of Shakespeare’s lines came across with clarity and beauty. I felt – and I think others in our group did also – the agony of this young prince who got lost in his hopes and sorrows. The play was written over 400 years ago, and yet many of us sensed the present-day relevance of the words. In different ways, it was an inspiring and satisfying evening for all of us, one I hope we can replicate at least one more time before this splendid class graduates in June.

Meditation: "Like Winning the Lottery"

This morning it came to me that the truth of reality is a completely astonishing one. If I truly understood it, I would walk around in a happy daze all day. I would act as though I had won the lottery and was guaranteed total security for the rest of my life. For this great truth tells me that I live in an utterly harmonious universe where nothing ever actually “goes wrong”. Every thought, action, or event— even the ones that are apparently “evil”— happens within a perfect plan. Every “thing” is actually a thought moving in the infinite and perfect dance of the universe. Nothing can clash or fight or disrupt, because there is literally no “thing” to do the clashing, fighting, or disrupting. The truth is, that in this satisfying and astonishing universe, there is only Mind (or God, Allah, the Tao, etc.) and its perfect manifestations, of which I am one. Wow!

Meditation: "On Being a Success -- Each Moment"

I had a wonderful time yesterday thinking about the truth that I am actually a huge success at each moment of my life. I can’t help but be a success, because each moment I am doing precisely what I should and must be doing. I am part of the infinite universe, and as such, I am playing the exact role that I should and must play each moment. Because the universe is humming along in its perfectly syncrhonized way, so am I. If I am simply walking down the hallway at school, I am doing it in a totally successful manner. At that moment, I am a perfect walker. If I am driving my car down Route 1, I am driving it with utter success. Right at that moment, I could not be living more perfectly. Even if I’m in the midst of making what seems to be a mistake, like interrupting someone at a meeting, the fact is that my "mistake" is actually part of the harmonious movement of the universe, and thus you could say I made the mistake in as perfect a way as possible. That doesn’t mean that I am glad I made the mistake, or that I don’t care if I make it again. On the contrary – by accepting the complete “success” of my mistake, I will be better able to see its negative results. I also will be better able to quietly decide to do things differently next time.

Meditation: "The Only Power"

A good question to ask myself today (actually, every moment of today) is, “Who, or what, is in charge?” Who or what controls everything – every thought, action, experience, and occasion? When something happens today, even the tiniest, least consequential thing, what power has caused it to happen? I guess what the question means is, “Who or what is God?” It’s certainly a vital question, because if I could answer it, I would have all the knowledge necessary to be content in life. No matter what happened today, I would be settled and satisfied, because I would know, in an utterly confident manner, precisely what caused it to happen. I would smile quietly to myself, saying, “No problem. I know where that came from. I understand, and therefore I can relax.” Well, the marvelous truth is that I do know who or what the Master is – and an even more wonderful fact is that it is not me. The frail, separate, isolated entity labeled “Hamilton Salsich” is in charge of absolutely nothing today. I don’t have to fret, worry, plan, cover all the bases, or take responsibility for things. The load has been lifted from my shoulders. (It was actually never there in the first place.) The reason for this is that a far, far greater power than “I” is quietly and efficiently operating all things, today and every day. Some people call this power “God”, but lately I’ve been preferring “The Universe”, or just “Presence”. Whatever label I choose, it refers to the infinite, immaterial, unnamable force that is behind every single action or thought or experience or occurrence. Today I can relax and be happy at all times, because everything has been taken care of. The universe is in good hands – the best possible hands.

Journal: 02/08/06

Last night I held my annual 9th grade potluck dinner and book discussion (on A Tale of Two Cities), and it was a wonderful success. The students were as passionate and astute as they usually are during class, the food was bountiful, and the parents who joined us seemed to take pleasure in listening to the literary discussion their children engaged in. I think I was at my best as a teacher, partly because I love working with this particular class, and partly because I seem to elevate my teaching a few notches when visitors are present.

Journal:02/07/06

On Sunday, Luke and I visited Jaimie, Jess, and Noah for breakfast, and we all had a pleasant time together. I’ll never forget the bountiful greeting I received from little Noah. As I was walking up the path to the door, he suddenly sprang out with a smile and said, “Hello, Hammy. Please come in. Be careful. Sowwy. [Sorry]”, and then dutifully ushered me into the house. This from a lad who’s not even 2 ½ years old! I was astonished by his intelligent, almost sophisticated manner – like a small boy with an adult’s refinement. This generous, heart-warming behavior continued throughout the visit. Noah seemed always more concerned about our happiness and comfort than his own. I noticed him watching very carefully as Luke talked, as if he wanted to make him feel welcomed and appreciated. When I told Noah I was going to be leaving soon, his face turned extra sympathetic, as though he felt bad that I had to drive such a long distance to get home. We adults had a congenial visit (we hope to do this Sunday morning thing on a regular basis), but as usual (and appropriately) our happiness seemed to flow out of the warm center created by Noah. On that raw, rainy morning, he was the wee, steady furnace of goodness that kept us cozy and comfortable. Jaimie had his small wood stove purring reliably in the kitchen, but Noah was all the warmth any of us really needed.

On Teaching: "A Neglected Machine"

Yesterday I enjoyed using the overhead transparency in my classes – amazingly enough, for one of the few times in my teaching career! This practical machine has been sitting in a corner of my classroom for years, and yet I have rarely made use of it. Every few years I have pulled it out and used it for several days, but never consistently, and never with a real plan in mind. I have no idea why I have ignored it, because it is certainly a useful piece of equipment for a teacher of writing. As an example, yesterday I spent a few minutes in each class looking at transparencies of excellent student writing. It took only about 5 minutes of class time, but in just those few minutes I was able to convey some crucial ideas about improving writing. I faced the students as we discussed what was on the screen, and I could see that they were extremely attentive. They were definitely learning from the lesson. Hopefully this can become a regular part of my teaching routine. Perhaps it’s a forerunner of the Smartboard for me. If I can learn how to prepare and present lessons on the overhead projector, that should naturally lead to some effective lessons on the Smartboard. (Let’s hope the overhead projector doesn’t end up back in a dusty corner in the next few weeks.

Meditation: "Just This Moment"

During my morning meditations, I often say to myself, “I want to remember these truths all day long” – but I should probably change the end of that statement to “...just this moment.” After all, the wonderful truth is that this moment is all that ever exists. In truth, there is no “all day long” in the future, because there actually is no future. There is only the now, the present, what’s happening at this very instant. It’s where I always am, and where all of life and reality always is. Therefore, I don’t need to fret about remembering spiritual truths for all these hours and minutes that appear to lie ahead today. I only need to do it for just this moment.

On Teaching: "Attention and Non-resistance"

From time immemorial, spiritual teachers have taught that we should be attentive to the present moment, and lately I have been pondering some intriguing educational implications of this statement. First of all, it seems clear to me that attentiveness implies non-resistance. If I’m going to be truly attentive to the experience I am having at any given moment, than I must be willing to completely accept that experience. I can’t be attentive and resistant at the same time. This applies in an interesting way to my teaching. Occasionally things seem to go awry in my classroom, and when they do, I naturally give my “attention” to the skewed state of affairs in order to restore order and harmony. You might say I “attend” to the situation. What this implies, though, is that I not offer resistance to the situation, since I can’t be totally attentive to something and also resist it. If I hope to “take care of”, or attend to, the seemingly unpleasant circumstances, then I must be willing to thoroughly accept and embrace them, as one does when one truly takes care of something. An example: If a student begins talking without raising her hand, I can best attend to the situation by offering no resistance. Her behavior happened, it had to happen, there was something special and unique about it, and now another special and unique experience is happening. The river of life flows on. If I leap in and try to stop the flow of the river, I’ll only cause further confusion and exhaustion. What I need to do is pay attention to the flow in my classroom – observe it, appreciate it, and marvel at it. In that way, paradoxically, bad behavior will disappear far more quickly than if I vigorously resist it. By truly being attentive to the special magnificence of each present moment, my classes will shine with their natural power and beauty.

Journal: 2/3/06

I’ve been continuing to enjoy my new iPod. For one thing, it’s caused a complete rebirth of my appreciation of classical music. I’ve loaded all of my 500+ classical CDs into the iPod, and now I’m gradually listening again, one by one, to those perfectly lovely and celebrated pieces. The music of Beethoven and Mahler sounds delightfully clear and beautiful through the little white earphones as I sit in my apartment or stroll along the walkway in the park. I’ve also been enjoying a few audiobooks. An especially good one is a tape of a retreat given by Eckhart Tolle, a spiritual teacher whom I’ve been reading lately. He has a soft, inspiring voice which comes through the iPod beautifully. I have listened to it frequently during the day at school – a few minutes here and there just to get a an uplifting thought or two to help me be a better teacher. The iPod does bring with it, however, a potential problem – out-of-control spending. It’s so easy to click a button and order a book or a song: bingo!-- and instantly it’s downloaded to the iPod. I guess I should look upon it, though, not as a problem, but as an opportunity to practice some further self-discipline. Who knows – perhaps my spiritual audiobooks on the iPod will help me gain that discipline.

On Teaching: "Beethoven and Acceptance"

Several times last week I put on my iPod earphones and listened to classical music in between classes, and it was an interesting experience. One morning I was listening to the slow movement of Beethoven’s 6th symphony as the kids entered in their usual casual and chatty manner. It was strange, and somehow wonderful, to be watching them come in with lips moving and arms gesturing, and yet to be hearing mostly the beatific melodies of the symphony. In some way, Beethoven’s music brought out the simple beauty of the students’ entrance into the room. It seemed like a ballet was starting instead of just a second period English class.

* * * * *

A friend once told me to remember this whenever I’m faced with an apparent problem: “If you fight it, you’re stuck with it.” Lately, I’ve been relating that to my teaching, and the truth of it is becoming increasingly clear. As is true in any classroom, I am occasionally faced with situations that seem to be “problems” – an unruly student, a lesson gone awry, or even a bit of general chaos. In the past, I would simply fight the problem – head on, immediately, and with all my energy. It seemed to be an obstacle in my path, and I felt it needed to be destroyed. This suggestion by my friend, however, implies that by fighting the seeming problem, I’m only giving it greater power and longevity. In trying to get rid of it, I’m actually increasing its control over me. It suggests that, for the past 40 years, I may have been approaching classroom “problems” in precisely the wrong way. Perhaps what I should do, when faced with unruliness or an appearance of disorder, is remind myself that the universe obviously isn’t resisting this situation, and therefore I shouldn’t either. If it’s happening, then the universe must have a perfectly good reason for it to happen, and perhaps I should just step back and observe the situation, instead of fighting it. This doesn’t mean that I should give up control of my classroom, or that I should allow bad behavior to continue. Far from it. Like any teacher, I want my classes to operate in a harmonious and efficient manner, but the strange truth is that I may be able to reach that goal much more quickly by gentle acceptance than by forceful opposition. Paradoxically, by fighting a problem, I get more and more stuck with it, whereas by accepting whatever is occurring, I gain control over it. Sailors, of course, have always known this. They accept what the wind is doing and try to take advantage of it. By surrendering to it, they conquer it – and I can do the same with any problem that arises in my classroom.

On Teaching: "The End of a Journey through a Great Book

Yesterday I had one of the most amazing days I have ever had as a teacher. My 9th grade students and I reached the end of our long journey through Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, and we concluded in a fittingly poignant way. The night before, I had picked out two rock songs I thought connected well with the final chapter, and I played one ("Lean on Me" by Bill Withers) at the start of class and the other ("Heart of Gold" by Neil Young) at the end. In between, I read the final chapter of the novel aloud to the students. The songs, full of the emotion of friendship, love, and longing, brought tears to my eyes, and the reading aloud thoroughly choked me up. In fact, I had to stop a few times to gather my composure in order to make it through to the end. The chapter is a powerful culmination of a very powerful novel, and I felt the full force of it as I read -- and I think a fair number of my students did, also. I recall thinking, as I read with tears gathering in my eyes, "This is why literature has been so important for so many centuries." After school, I reflected back on our Dickens adventure. We took a full three months to read his book, which might have been the secret of our success. We didn't rush through the vast world of A Tale; rather, we took our time, because we wanted to relish and absorb it, not just read it. We traveled through that magnificent book in an alert and patient manner, and yesterday we brought it to a moving and near-perfect conclusion.

On Teaching: "Being Available"

Over the years, I’ve heard many adjectives used to describe an excellent teacher (“energetic”, “committed”, “knowledgeable”, “organized”, etc.), but I don’t recall hearing “available”. I can’t remember anyone saying that a good teacher must simply be, as one definition suggests, “present and ready for use”, or “willing to be of service or assistance”. We’re all encouraged to be active and helpful in the classroom, but no one has ever told me that a great teacher is also one who knows how to stand aside and just be ready. We all want to jump in and guide, direct, organize, and instruct, but what about stepping back and merely being available? It reminds me of something I read recently – that all of us must learn the importance of “stepping back”. The author suggested that most of us are always eager to step forward and help (by taking charge, controlling, organizing, etc.), but we sometimes forget the importance of moving off to the side and just observing, waiting, and allowing. Often we see beautiful things happen when we quietly step back and simply notice. Certainly this could help me as a teacher. I am usually far too ready too shoulder my way into the students, shoving them along toward what I hope will be some kind of learning experience. What I need to work on is allowing instead of forcing. I need to remember to step back now and then and let the universe’s natural propensity to educate do its quiet, efficient work.

Journal: 2/1/06

Yesterday was a day of pleasant surprises. To start with, I was surprised to find that a moment or two of quiet spiritual reading just before class can be of assistance in helping me be a better teacher. On a couple of occasions yesterday I briefly listened, in between classes, to an audio version of a wonderful book about living in the present moment, and I found it to be pertinent and inspiring. It was just what I needed to elevate my teaching a bit, to give me that extra push that might transform me, next period, from a fairly dull teacher into a more interesting one. I was also surprised that, after suffering through a partially frustrating day of teaching on Monday, I had four splendid classes yesterday. I especially enjoyed the 9th graders, who were utterly attentive and responsive as we discussed and read a chapter from A Tale of Two Cities. On Monday, some of them had been a bit disorderly during class, causing me to grow discouraged about my teaching, but yesterday they were back to being model students, as they normally are. I even heard – and this was the nicest surprise of the day – one of the 9th graders say, “Oh, I wish the book [A Tale of Two Cities] wasn’t ending!” I’ve been teaching a long, long time, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a student say something like that about a truly classic book we were studying. It was a heartening thing to hear, and it actually brought a tear to my eye, later, when I reflected back on it. In a universe that surprises me moment after moment, yesterday was typically astounding

On Teaching: "A Reading Tea Party"

Looking for a lift for my teaching (midwinter doldrums, I guess), I stopped into Holly's room yesterday morning and sat in on a small, appealingly cozy reading class. In her cheery room, Holly was sitting at a table with three girls, going over some blends, and they all looked so comfortable, they might as well have been enjoying a tea party. (Over the many years, it's become clear to me that Pine Point is, above all, a "comfortable" school.) Being a part-time writer and a full time devotee of words, I enjoyed watching Holly take the girls though a series of pairs of flash cards, showing words like “sh-oe” and “t-oe”. I found it fascinating, and, as I watched the girls, I could see that they did too. They were alert, eager, and responsive. Every so often, they shifted a bit in their chairs, but that was just to get more comfortable for the work ahead. They were obviously very “into” what Holly was doing. I loved watching one girl carefully forming a word with her mouth as she prepared to pronounce it. I could see that every muscle in her face (and probably in her entire upper body) was being brought into play as she got ready to say the word. It was a moment of pure intensity for her. Finally, with a soft burst of pleasure, she pronounced the word – I think it was “badge” – and there was such force in her expression you would have thought she had spoken a word of immense power and magic. I especially enjoyed a game Holly played with the girls. She held up a card with a word on it, gave the students perhaps five seconds to look at the word, then covered it and took them through some quick drills: “Write the word in air.” “What’s the first sound?” “What’s the final letter?” “What’s the second sound?” And my favorite: “Spell the word backwards.” The girls responded earnestly and correctly each time. I was rather astounded, especially since I realized that I could not have done so well — especially with the backward spelling!

Just before I left the delightful reading tea party, I noticed an acrostic poem the children had composed on the board. It was about snowflakes, and one line especially caught my eye: “flashing frost coming down”.

As I walked down the walkway in a frosty wind, I was warmed by the memory of the teaching and learning I saw flashing around that table in Holly’s inviting room.