Journal: Sunday, April 30, 2006

On Friday we held our annual Grandparents’ Day at school, and, from what I could observe, it was a day of good cheer and gratitude for one and all. There were smiles everywhere (though mixed with some confusion as our older guests tried to decipher what was happening in the different classes). In my classroom, children smiled and laughed as much as they normally do, but perhaps with a bit more exhilaration than usual, surrounded as they were by the charming grandparents. My students and I love visitors, especially those who come into the room with such wide smiles. It’s safe to say that those smiles grew out of pure gratitude, for all of us grandparents have much to be grateful for. Yesterday I occasionally paused to glance at the children -- those rich, youthful lives walking and running and holding hands and smiling around our campus. It was a miracle of life, and all our visiting grandparents were involved at the start of that miracle. I’m sure they must have felt the same sense of thankfulness that I was feeling. I also felt thankful, more than ever, that I am a teacher in our peaceful and enriching school. It always seem miraculous to me: somehow, in some vastly mysterious way, the universe set me down in the halls of this marvelous school back in 1978, and I’ve been a happy man ever since. Yesterday I felt especially happy as I saw our visitors proudly learning beside their grandchildren. It was a day of blossoming trees outside and blossoming family friendship inside.

Meditation: "A New Idea of Love"

This morning I was reading about St. Paul’s conversion – how he suddenly learned a completely new way of thinking about love – and I realized that I need to think carefully (probably for the first time) about what love actually is. First of all, perhaps I should capitalize the word, to show that it stands for a force that has no corporeality, and therefore no body and no limits, and therefore can never be destroyed, or even slightly injured. This is what Paul saw on the road to Damascus – that this power called love is not confined to any particular place or object, but is universal and supreme. Having no material boundary lines, there's no place where Love isn’t present, and there’s no power (not even a hint of one) that can oppose its supremacy. What’s really wonderful about this is that the same is true for other non-material qualities. Kindness, for instance, has no boundaries and can never be even slightly injured by any material force. Enthusiasm, too, cannot be confined in space and time, for it is made of nothing that can be held in or checked. Gentleness, confidence, generosity, peacefulness – all of these are spiritual forces that sweep through the universe unimpeded. I suppose what really astonished Paul about his new realization is that it thoroughly overhauled his notions about God. He had probably been trapped for his entire life in the belief that the supreme being was some type of super-human ruler who controlled the universe somewhat the way an absolute human monarch would. What he suddenly saw on the road to Damascus was that this force called “God” was actually far, far greater than he had imagined. He saw that it is a non-material, non-personal, non-local power that is totally invincible and utterly unrelenting. It’s the power of Love – the power that knocked Paul right off his horse.

On Teaching: "Open Air Classroom"

For the past few days, I have had some perfectly wonderful classes outside in the garden beside my classroom. Each day I arrived early and set my four folding blue lawn chairs out on the grass, sort of a signal to my students that this would be a day for outdoor classes. The chairs look particularly lovely in the early morning, sitting gracefully in the cool shade of the trees. I imagine my students passing by them as they enter the building and admiring the look of my open-air English classroom. Today was especially delightful. In fact, I had to pause several times during class just to tell the kids how fortunate I felt to be sitting outside with them in such a splendid setting. The speckled sunlight was flickering among us, a perfect April breeze was swirling here and there, and the students were making especially astute comments about the material we were studying. I felt like I was living the dream of all teachers everywhere. No doubt it’s also the dream of students around the world – to have class in a picture perfect garden on an unspoiled spring day. Indeed, English class is often a grind for my students, and I’m lucky I can offer them, at least on pleasant days, a more agreeable setting than my unexciting classroom. Any young student loves the outdoors. Sunshine and gentle winds beat florescent lights and staleness any day.

On Teaching: A Conversation with a Master

Yesterday morning I met a colleague, Jane, and her 14 year old daughter Molly for breakfast at Prime Time Cafe, and the conversation centered on teaching. I arranged our meeting because I wanted to be sure I had a chance to listen to this popular teacher speak about teaching before she embarks on her new profession as a bookstore proprietor. I asked Molly to join us because I was betting that she, probably more than anyone, would know what makes her mother so successful in the classroom.

I immediately asked Molly about that, and she said her mom has an absolutely infectious way of teaching. She said most of her friends simply couldn’t resist getting caught up in what Jane was teaching. Jane also has one of Molly’s key qualities for a good teacher – reliability. Molly said students can count on her mom being pretty much the same, day after day – and she said kids like that in teachers. They like to know that the routines and expectations in the classroom will be fairly consistent throughout the year, as they are in her mom’s classes. In addition, Molly said her mom is always “there” for her students – and not just the smart students, but all of them. She is a thoroughly reliable mentor, leader, and friend to her students.

Jane said she does try to be reliable, and she said she expects her students to be reliable, too. She told me, “My students and I count on each other to do our part.” She often says to the kids, “I need you to be with me. We’re moving now, and we have to be together.”

I asked her how she felt about the idea of “strength” as it applies to teaching, and she replied that, for her, strength equals resilience. She said you simply can’t be a good teacher if you can’t be resilient. She added that you also can’t be a good teacher if you’re afraid to show students that you’re upset with their behavior or performance. She doesn’t often show anger (Molly vouched for that), but she occasionally tells students she’s “disappointed” in their behavior or performance. (Molly added that, for her and many of her friends, teachers who get angry at kids a lot are not as effective as teachers who just quietly share their disappointment and then move on.)

As we were leaving, I asked Jane what would be the one piece of advice she would offer to a new teacher. She smiled, thinking of her daughter, Eliza, who has decided to pursue a teaching career and may need this advice as soon as four years from now. Both Jane and Molly said they would advise the young teacher to not be afraid to look stupid.

As I drove to school, somehow I couldn’t imagine my friend Jane, a teacher whom I greatly admire, ever looking stupid in the classroom.

Or in a bookstore.

Journal: Wednesday, April 26, 2006

I had a wonderful visit with my daughter, Annie, on Sunday. She came up from Brooklyn for Krissy’s baby shower on Saturday, and stayed through Monday morning so she could spend a little time with everyone. My grandson, Noah, came down to Mystic to visit with all of us on Sunday, and we had a grand time. It was a damp day, so we stayed inside and enjoyed ourselves in the comfort of Jan’s home. Noah, of course, entertained us with his typical charm and friendliness – counting, saying new words, leading us on adventures from room to room. Annie and I laughed continually as we watched Noah be his usual ebullient self. Later in the day, Annie and I went for tea and a salad to a small cafe in Mystic. The storm was sweeping through town outside, but inside there was coziness and quiet good cheer. We spent an hour just visiting and catching up. Annie reported that life was good for her, and that news was even more refreshing than the tea. It was good to be with my youngest child on that wet April day, and to see that her life is obviously unfolding in a natural and favorable way.

Meditation: "Two Kinds of Waiting"

It occurred to me this morning that there are two kinds of waiting – and that I spend far more time doing one kind than the other. The kind of waiting that I seem addicted to is like the waiting the man at the sheep market pool did in the gospel of John. He had felt “powerless” (terribly ill) for 38 years, John tells us, and each day he waited at the presumably magical pool for some special material occurrence that would heal him. He was essentially imprisoned – paralyzed – by his belief that the water of the pool had great power and controlled his destiny. However, he was fortunate that Jesus passed by the pool, because Jesus revealed to him, in just a few words, a wonderful truth – a truth that turned this waiting man’s world around 180 degrees. Jesus told the man he was “whole”. He made it clear to him that he was already – right this moment – an essential part of an infinite, harmonious dance called life. What the man learned, and what I hope to learn over and over today, is that we don’t need to wait for salvation, or healing, or safety, or comfort, or harmony. All of these are already present with us, each moment. What I do have to wait for today is the next astonishing miracle, but this is the happy, eager, breathless kind of waiting that we all love. What marvels will unfold in the next moment? That’s the question I need to ask myself all day today, and then wait excitedly for the answer to be revealed.

On Teaching: "Views in the Classroom"

I’ve been thinking lately about the immense power of “views” in my classroom. The fact is that each of us – all of my students and I – are entertaining a certain view of life during every moment of class. As I’m taking the kids through the steps of some lesson or other, each of us is holding in mind a certain outlook on reality, and this outlook actually predominates over everything else. No matter how wonderful the lesson is, what’s really important and powerful is what each of is believing about the world, and about ourselves. For instance, one student may be holding the viewpoint that the world is a scary place in which he has almost no chance to be successful. He may be almost paralyzed with this belief as he’s sitting in my classroom. Am I foolish enough to think that my lesson is going to even get through to him, much less have any important effect on his life? Needless to say, I can’t change the beliefs of my students ( not immediately, anyway), but at least I can stay fully aware of the power of their views. By keeping in mind how influential the outlooks of my students are -- how much their beliefs about life color every experience they have -- perhaps I can, to some extent, neutralize the power of those beliefs. Most importantly, by keeping my own stance toward life positive and uplifting (because, to me, that’s what life really is), perhaps I can open my students up to more optimistic views of reality. The truth is that views about life are an extremely significant force in my classroom – a force I need to be conscious of at all times.

Journal: Sunday, April 23, 2006

This was a week when spring displayed her finest softness. To start with, the air has been uniformly mild throughout the week. Whenever I’ve been outside – in the morning walking across the parking lot at school, during the day as I moved between the buildings, or in the park in the evening – the air has had the aroma and feel of gentleness. If a person were tense this week, just tuning in to the easygoing feel of the air might have lowered the anxiety level considerably. The softness of the season was also seen in the abundance of blossoms on the trees. Seemingly every tree was loaded down with the softest-looking blooms, almost as if colorful clouds had descended upon them. The streets appeared to be thick with the richness of spring’s new growth. And finally, this weekend we are experiencing one of the season’s most classic features, a light and delicate rain. For the most part, the rain has not been heavy enough to sway a branch or even tap on a windowpane – just a soft swishing of lines of rain through the air. It seems fitting, somehow, at the end of this week of bursting, peaceful blossoming, that a gentle rain surrounds us.

Journal: Friday, April 21, 2006

Yesterday the mild weather reached a wonderful pinnacle. By 4:00, it must have been in the high 60’s, perhaps even into the miraculous 70’s. The sun was bright and warm all day long, and a lovely breeze was continuously swirling around the campus. I think all of us – students and teachers alike – were completely charmed by the pleasant weather. It worked its magic on me so much that I held all of my classes outside. I set up my four blue folding lawn chairs in the garden outside my classroom, and the kids brought out other chairs or sat on the grass. It was a totally pleasant experience for me, and, I think, for most of the students. Every so often, in the middle of teaching, I had to pause just to enjoy the passage of the soft breeze through the garden. I couldn’t help but notice people looking at our little group as they walked by. It must have made a pretty picture – an old teacher sitting in the sunshine among spring trees with his small group of teenage students around him. I’m not sure how much any of us learned during those classes, but they were certainly tranquil and agreeable moments for my students and me.

Meditation: "What Do I Worship?"

It might be accurate to say that the most important question of all is: “What do I worship?” For there’s no doubt that we all worship something – some force, some power, some entity that we deem to have power over everything else. For some of us, it’s personal wealth; for others, it’s physical health; for others, it could be friendship, or appearance, or even a car. Whatever it might be, each person on earth worships, respects, adores, and venerates some “thing” because of its perceived power. It’s fitting that I use the word “thing”, because the foundation and root of all our adoration is some form of materiality. We seem to believe that matter is the most powerful force on earth, so we worship it in all its forms, whether it be our bodies, our dollars, or our cars, or something else. When we are up against a crisis and "reality" needs to be faced, we almost always bow down to some form of matter – often medicine or money – and beg it to help us. In this morning’s meditation, I realized that Jesus’ message to us is simply that we can change our allegiance. He showed us that we can wake up, see the truth, turn our loyalty 180 degrees around, and begin worshiping the only real power in the universe – that of Spirit (or God) instead of matter. Today I want to hold in mind that simple truth. Each moment, I want to consciously switch my devotion from the power of things to the power of thought, from the power of matter to the power of endless, eternal Mind.

Journal: Thursday, April 20, 2006

I'm not sure I've ever appreciated the mild weather of April more than this year. These days, for instance, I feel positively drawn to the mild outdoor winds, as if they have some sort of alluring power. Every chance I get, I wander outside at school just to feel the ripple of a breeze across my shirt, and I always open a window near wherever I happen to be sitting or standing. There's something about the cool pleasantness of the air that thoroughly enlivens me. I also love the look of the outdoors with the sunshine spread all over the new growth of the land. The park is especially lovely this spring, with its lawns of new green grass and its countless blossoming flowers and trees. When the sunshine is playing across the landscape of the park, the various colors seem to vibrate with life. However, perhaps my favorite time of day to appreciate this year's marvelous springtime is the evening. Somehow, all seems more peaceful than ever when the sun is gone and the cool air is moving quietly through the darkness. Just walking from the car to the front door, I have enjoyed the delicious feeling of the evening air. There's no doubt that this is one of the more extraordinary Aprils in my life.

Meditation: "Waiting and Watching...like a Mouse"

Someone once told me that I should live my life sort of like a cat waiting by a mouse hole. The cat is alert, sensitive to his surroundings, ready for anything, observant, thoroughly prepared. Something thrilling could happen at any moment, and the cat doesn’t want to miss it. He is thoroughly primed and geared up for whatever comes along. Truly, that wouldn’t be a bad way to live. In each moment today, any of a zillion events could occur, and I want to be ready to fully appreciate them. Like the mouse poking its head out of the hole, a fascinating occurrence is ready to happen each moment, and if I’m not totally vigilant, I’ll miss it. What this implies, interestingly, is that I can’t allow myself to be absorbed in my own thinking, because then I will definitely miss the mouse. While I’m lost in the endless forest of my thoughts, contemplations, beliefs, worries, and hopes, perhaps hundreds of astonishing events could occur today without my awareness. To stay with the analogy, countless choice, tasty mice could be coming and going as I robotically pass the time in pointless thinking.

May I be a fully awake and watchful cat today.

Journal: Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Yesterday I made a wonderful discovery. In between teacher-parent conferences, I managed to read, comment on, and grade 37 student essays – all in less than two hours. (In the past, that many papers would have taken at least seven hours.) I did this by employing a very simple strategy: read more quickly, make only a few marks on the paper, and comment briefly. It was a marvelous experience for me. I felt like I was sailing through the essays instead of slogging through them. What I find especially astonishing about this is that these kinds of discoveries happen to me all the time. I’m constantly finding new ways to do things, new things to notice, and new ideas to ponder. In that sense, I guess I’m somewhat of a pioneer or explorer, hiking the uncharted territory of each day and keeping a sharp eye out for strange sightings and unusual breakthroughs. Oddly enough, my little discovery yesterday turned the entire day into a relaxing, satisfying experience. My conferences proceeded in an orderly, professional fashion, and later I spent some quality time in the April sunshine in Wilcox Park. I’m sure I made some discoveries in the park, and as I enjoyed a quiet dinner with my son, although I can’t recall them specifically now. Perhaps they will dawn on my sometime later today.

On Teaching: "Getting"

I realized this morning that, as I go through the various activities that life presents, I am almost always thinking, “What will I get out of this?”, when a more healthy thought would be, “What will everyone get out of this?” After all, I don’t exist as an isolated, separate entity that can “get” things for itself (although I regularly fall into that hypnotizing belief). Rather, I am an integral part of a seamless, eternal event called “the universe”. (It’s significant that the prefix uni- means “one”.) Anything that happens during a day happens, not to “me” alone, but to the entire universe. Since the universe is like an endless ocean and I am one wave in that ocean, worrying about what I will “get” out of some experience is not only silly, but crazy. In each moment today, the entire universe will “get” exactly what it should get, must get, and needs to get. This truth can definitely apply to my teaching. During each class, instead of wondering how “I” am doing as a teacher, I should be wondering, or appreciating, how the class is doing, how the school is doing, how the world is doing, how the vast galaxies are doing. Instead of seeing my classes as local, isolated events, I should look upon them as they really are – temporary waves in the vast ocean of life. This outlook would surely cause a change in my entire attitude during class. I would be transformed from a fretting, nit-picking, controlling teacher, to a teacher who is totally relaxed because he knows the universe is doing precisely what it must be doing. I would constantly feel the reassurance that my students and I are getting exactly what’s best for us, because that’s the way the grand universe never fails to operate.

Meditation: "Taking Fast Hold"

“Take fast hold of instruction; let her not go: keep her; for she is thy life.”
–Proverbs 4: 13

What I especially notice in the above quote are the verbs “take” and “keep”, and the adjective “fast”, all suggesting a forceful, determined approach to the spiritual life. Regrettably, I don’t often take that approach. When it comes to putting into regular practice the truths I study each morning, I am typically more timid than forceful, more wishy-washy than determined. I frequently forget the spiritual principles of my meditations by 8:00 a.m., once I get into the busy routine of the day. The writer of the book of Proverbs would tell me that is a foolish way to live. He would say that if you have been given an enormous treasure to use and protect, you must be forceful and determined in your stewardship. You must keep your eyes on what’s important, watch every step you take, and stay vigilant at all times. Yesterday afternoon I was kicking myself for drifting through an entire school day without giving hardly a single thought to the spiritual facts I had pondered at the start of the day. I don’t intend to have to kick myself today. I plan to “take fast hold” of the great principles of spiritual reality each and every moment, and to “keep” them directly in front of my thoughts. After all, as the author of Proverbs knew, they constitute the veritable heart and soul of my life, and of all life.

Meditation: "An Utterly Astonishing Life"

This morning, as I was lying in bed trying to gather the energy to get up, it came to me, once again, how utterly astonishing life is. First of all, it’s always totally new. Each moment is a moment that has never, ever happened before. The universe has been around for billions of years, spinning its incomprehensible magic and arranging its untold variety of miracles, and yet never has it produced a moment exactly like the one that’s happening right now. Also, life is marvelous because it is completely unified, and therefore harmonious. Today, like every day, there can never be any discord because there can never be two things to clash and cause discord. In fact, there are no separate “things” at all. There’s only the endless and harmonious dance of the one, perfectly-proportioned universe going about its happy business. Finally, I find all of reality to be especially amazing because of what I would call its instantaneousness. What I mean by that is there’s no waiting involved. Whatever I need is always right here, right now, because whatever I need in any situation is always some type of change of thought, and thought can be changed instantly – no delays involved. My life can be completely transformed each and every moment because, in fact, it is transformed each and every moment – totally new and utterly astonishing.

Journal: Monday, April 17, 2006

This past weekend’s weather was wonderfully easygoing, just as a spring weekend should be. The air seemed thoroughly gentle from Saturday morning to Sunday evening. I spent a good part of the time in the park, and never once did I feel any stress or strain in the air. The breezes blew with a friendliness that is especially reserved for April. Late in the afternoon, when I spent an hour or so in the park, walking and reading and taking pleasure in the mild feel of the day, I felt a thorough sense of peacefulness. Families and friends were strolling with an easy grace along the walkways, a few gulls were floating above the pond with apparently no effort, and two or three silky clouds were wandering from east to west. It was a scene of utter tranquility. I noticed a similar atmosphere yesterday, Easter Sunday. I did my morning exercises in the park, and even at 11:00 a.m., families had started to gather to enjoy the placid weather. Amid blooming flowers of every shape and color, moms and dads strolled along with sons, daughters, and dogs. I went back for a walk with my son, Matt, around 4:00, and the weather seemed even more serene. Nothing was able to disturb the weekend’s ability to show people how good-natured springtime can be.

On Teaching: "The Importance of Silence, Rest, and Failure"

As a teacher, I have always believed that discussion, activity, and success are vital ingredients of any good classroom, but I’m finally beginning to see, after 40+ years on the job, that their opposites – silence, rest, and failure – are equally important. Recurrent and regular silent periods, for instance, are essential in a classroom because they provide the background against which students can make salient comments. The customary silence, or at least quiet, in a good classroom makes the occasional statements by the students ring with life. If the comments are constant, one after another, as they often are in classrooms (including mine), none of them can be distinguished from the general noise. It’s just a kind of steady clamor. The same is true of activity. If the atmosphere in the classroom is not one of general relaxation and peace, then the serious educational activities will have no background against which to shine. If students are constantly toiling away with great intensity, the toil tends to become nothing more than busywork. Activity needs to be carried on against a setting of tranquility in order to be fully appreciated. If the students work hard and rest hard during a given class, the work will be especially memorable for them. Finally, I wonder why I have never fully appreciated the value of failure. After all, it’s clear that without occasional failure, no student will be able to take full pleasure in success. Without the intermittent negative, the positive gradually becomes devoid of meaning.
Strange as it feels to say this, I guess what all this means is that I need to stop shunning -- and start welcoming -- silence, rest, and failure in my classroom.

Journal: Easter Sunday, April 16, 2006

On Friday, I spent a few wonderful hours outside with my 2 ½ year old grandson, Noah. When I pulled into the driveway, the little fellow came bounding toward me with a huge smile and wide open arms, and immediately we began helping with the spring yard work that his mom and dad had organized. Noah and I took charge of cleaning out the shed, and we made a fine team. I pulled things out from different areas, and then he wielded a huge (for him) broom to sweep the debris out. He was as industrious and tireless a little laborer as I have ever seen. Next, sort of as a “work break”, we wandered down the trail into the woods, where Noah showed me a big pile of dirt his dad and he had made. We examined some rotten twigs and small, damp leaf piles, looking for signs of insect life, but to no avail. Then we clambered up onto some large boulders and rested for a bit, looking out across the forest like two tired pioneers. A few minutes later, some true excitement was stirred up when Jaimie announced that it was time to scatter grass seed. Noah instantly bounced across the lawn to where his dad had set the seed spreader, and started dancing around the spreader with arms waving. It was obvious that this was one of his favorite activities. Soon he was using his great two-year-old strength to push the spreader across the lawn, apparently straining every muscle in his little body. It was easy to see that he loved doing it, and was proud of his accomplishment. When he was finished, we all gathered for lunch in the kitchen, happily reminiscing about yard work well done.

On Teaching: "Rhythm in the Classrom"

Surrounded as I am by the rhythmic forces of the universe, it’s surprising to me that I have never given much thought to the role of rhythm in teaching and learning. If we define rhythm as a regularly repeated variation in intensity or magnitude, it’s clear that I live in a rhythmic universe. In music, quiet sounds alternate with loud ones; in nature, light alternates with dark, cold alternates with warmth; in my body, my heart does a one-two rhythm of soft beats and hard ones. Sitting at the beach, I hear the endless pulsation of the surf: some moments of quiet, then a crash of waves, then more silence, then another crash. Rhythm is the way the universe works – negative/positive, negative/positive, negative/positive – and I wonder if I might be more attentive to it in my classroom. For instance, expecting my students to be alert and attentive for the entire 48 minutes of class is perhaps as silly as expecting the waves to constantly crash, or the sounds of a good song to be continuously loud. Perhaps I need to have more “pulsation” in my classes, more alternation between intensity and relaxation, between work and fun. My heart moves in a soft/hard rhythm, and maybe my students would be better students if I allowed them to do so also. I have emphasized efficiency in my teaching – getting work done as quickly as possible – but perhaps I need to remember that nature works most efficiently by alternating rest and work in equal amounts. My body works hard to take in a breath, but then relaxes and rests by letting it out: work/rest, work/rest, work/rest. If nature knows that this is the most competent way to be productive, why haven’t I realized that in my teaching? Why do I keep my students intensely focused on the task for 48 minutes, as if a beautiful symphony consists of instruments blaring their loudest, with no pause whatsoever, from start to finish? Maybe I need a little more rhythm in my room – an easy, on-off beat like a cool jazz piece, or like the regular pulsations of my students’ hearts.

Journal: Friday, April 14, 2006

Yesterday was a productive day for me. (Actually, I guess they all are, in some way.) I think a lot of the productivity came about because I made a good start. I rose at my usual time, 3:30 a.m., and spent about two hours meditating and writing. The house was silent at that early hour, and there was a peacefulness present that made thinking easy and pleasurable. Like a puzzle coming together of its own accord, wonderful truths seem to fall effortlessly into their proper places. Later, at school, I sat in our beautiful new library for about 45 minutes, just before my first class, and listened to a Mozart quintet and read some poetry. I looked out onto the athletic fields just awakening in the early sunlight, and beyond to the stone fence and the distant pasture. All was serene outside, and all was serene in my thoughts as the first class drew nearer. And indeed, my classes during the day all seemed to move along in a somewhat unforced and fluid manner. Because I had prepared myself for a peaceful day of classes, that’s exactly what I experienced. The students and I simply rolled through the lessons like a river rolls through the countryside. I guess you could say the entire day rolled elegantly along, producing wonderful results by the millions along the way.

On Teaching: "French Horns and Shy Students"

This morning, just before school, I listened to several movements of a Mozart wind quintet, and the perfectly beautiful French horn solos started me thinking about the art of teaching. Here was this fairly large, cumbersome instrument -- an instrument that is usually kept in the background of classical pieces -- playing lovely melodies by itself, and playing them in a rhapsodic and enchanting manner. As I listened, I thought of certain of my students, the ones who stay on the outskirts of discussions and seem to be only peripheral members of the class. I wondered whether these quiet students had beautiful music inside them that I was missing -- whether they could perhaps "solo" as beautifully as this French horn. I guess what this led me to was the realization, again, that all of my students have great splendor inside them, and it is my duty to draw it out. The quiet ones may not be able or willing to solo like the French horn, but at least I can let them know that I appreciate the singular beauty they are able to lend to the class. In order to do this, though, I have to be attentive to them -- to notice them, to see them, to listen for their beautiful words and ideas. Like the French horn in the Mozart piece, these timid, retiring students have lovely music to share.

Meditation: "Naming a Breeze"

For some reason, this thought came to me this morning during my meditation: Wouldn’t it be silly if we decided to give names to parts of a spring breeze? I imagined going out to Wilcox Park and watching the wind blow through the trees and saying, “Well, I’ll name the breeze in the upper part of the oak tree Jimmy, and I’ll name the breeze in the lower part Marie, and now the breeze in the lower part has changed, so I’ll have to rename it and ....” It would obviously be a nightmare, an utterly impossible task. The breeze in the park is not a distinct entity, but is part of something vast, part of the great wind that’s blowing through Westerly, which is part of the grand, unified weather pattern that’s constantly passing across the earth. Only a fool would seriously think he could isolate and study individual breezes. I began to wonder, then, whether it might be equally foolish to take seriously our isolating and naming of any so-called separate, individual parts of the single, harmonious universe. It’s strange, for instance, that the name “Hamilton Salsich” is used to actually identify me, as though all I am is a relatively tiny, distinct, unattached “piece” of the universe. In a very real way, that’s as silly as sitting on the hilltop in the park and saying, “Oh, there goes Julia” as a small breeze passes across my shirt. The truth is that the person referred to as “Hamilton Salsich” is not separate, not isolated, not solitary, but is always an inseparable and indivisible part of the infinite universe. I think and feel and do things because the universe thinks and feels and does things. The great system of winds blows across the earth, moving the breeze in the oak tree in the park, and the vast arrangement of the universe (sometimes referred to as “God”) dances in its eternal and harmonious way, moving the life called “Hamilton Salsich”. Don't get me wrong -- I like my name. I use it to make things convenient for me, but I realize, all the while, that it’s just a utilitarian label for something that can never be detached, explained, and named.

On Teaching: "Sowing Seeds"

I had a particularly wonderful class with 8th graders this morning, and, for some reason, the word "seminal" came to mind. It was a seminal English class, I thought -- and I began to wonder exactly what I meant by that. As I usually do, I went to my dictionary and discovered that the word comes from the Latin word for "seed", which was very helpful. In the 8th grade class this morning, I guess I could say that an extra large amount of seeds were planted. Indeed, that, I suppose, is what teaching is all about -- planting mental seeds that will hopefully sprout and grow into something beneficial for my students. As a teacher, I am like a farmer of the olden times, scattering my seed abroad as I work with my young students. I suppose every word I say, every gesture, every motion I make, is a seed cast down into the soil of my students' lives. Though I'm sure some of the seeds I toss out in class will waste away and perish before they have a chance to sprout, many of them will grow and thrive in my students' lives, though in ways I may never have dreamed of. Actually, unlike a good farmer, I have no idea what any of my seeds will grow into. I do plan my classes carefully, but that doesn't mean I know how the ideas and activities will eventually blossom in my students' lives-- or when. For some of my students, a seed tossed out in English class may finally sprout years and years from now, and the student surely won't even realize it. Ten years from now, one of my students may have his or her life quietly and silently change, just a wee bit, because of something that was said during a particularly seminal 8th grade English class. It's an exciting fact for me to ponder -- that I'm a sower of seeds, a farmer and a teacher both.

Journal: Wednesday, April 12, 2006

The warm spring weather appears to be here to stay. The last few days have been blissfully balmy, especially in the afternoons. There’s been a languidness drifting through town after lunch that’s very familiar to me – a reminder of 63 other wonderful springtimes in my life. All this week I have waited impatiently for the school day to end so I could rush over to beautiful Wilcox Park and enjoy the mild air. It makes me feel grateful to live in a climate that gracefully changes when April and May come along. The days of winter can be beautiful and inspiring, yes, but by March I am eagerly anticipating the arrival of spring in its fresh green dress. To wake up this morning and realize this best of seasons is, indeed, here to stay was a wonderful gift. I wonder how I will celebrate spring today? Will I step outside with my students for a bit of gentle fresh air during class? Will I climb the stairs in the park after school? Whatever happens, I know this: spring is here, and I am a happier man because of it.

Meditation: "Always One-ness"

This morning I recalled a wise truth that a friend once told me: “There is never two-ness, only one-ness”. As I remember the context, I think she was offering that as a remedy for any problem I might be faced with – any apparent obstacle in my path or threat to my well-being. All I have to do, she was saying, is quietly remind myself that, in reality, there’s no problem “over there” confronting me “over here”. There never is. In every seemingly discordant situation, there is always only one-ness: the infinite and harmonious Universe doing its ceaseless dance. The trouble is, this one-ness is often very hard to see and accept. For some reason, I am exceedingly attracted to the belief in two-ness, and I can easily spend whole days lost in the nightmare that I am one, separate, frail, and vulnerable entity in a terrifyingly threatening world. When I am in this strange dream-state, it’s no wonder that I seem to be surrounded by threatening forces. However, I am hopeful that today – a mild, sunny spring day –will be different. Today I hope to hold carefully in thought the truth my friend told me, that there is never two-ness, but always one-ness. Everything I see or hear or experience in any way is in me, and I am in them (to paraphrase Jesus). There are no problems, obstacles, or threats – just a smooth and graceful and perfect dance.

On Teaching: Teaching and Hiking:

I was thinking this morning that teaching a class is like hiking in a wilderness I've never visited before. First of all, in both cases I'm more of an observer than a do-er. When I'm teaching, I may think I'm doing important things and controlling everything that happens, but the truth is that I have no idea why or how learning takes place in my room. It just happens, moment after moment, in the same way that breezes blow and leaves flutter and flowers wave in the wilderness. During my classes, I'm really merely an observer who constantly marvels at what my students and I think and say and do, just as I marvel at all the astonishing sights and sounds in a mysterious wilderness. Strangely, I'm not sure I've ever seriously thought of myself as an "observer" in my classroom. I've never completely understood the fact that learning (and all of life) is an infinite and mysterious process that is constantly continuing, with absolutely no guidance from me. I am not the "leader" of learning in my classroom, but only one element in the vast and intricate learning process. Like a person hiking in a completely unfamiliar wilderness, I should remember to gaze around and marvel at the thrilling happenings in my classroom. This doesn't mean, of course, that I can simply "do nothing" and allow my students to run amok during class. No, I have to continue to be the best teacher I can possibly be, because that is my assigned "part" in the astonishing miracle called education. However, it's only one part, and it's no more important than any other part. While I'm dutifully performing my part, I can also look intently at all the other parts being so beautifully played by books, pencils, papers, sunlight, tables, and -- most importantly -- the thoughts and feelings of my students.

On Teaching: "Check Your Ego at the Door"

I suddenly realized this morning, as I was fretting about my shortcomings as a teacher, that a successful classroom has nothing to do with whether I personally feel successful as a teacher. After all, teaching is not, should not be, must not be, an ego-trip. Good teaching and learning is not about whether I can pat myself on the back after class and say, “Job well done”. Successful teaching is so much more than a single person in the front of the classroom desperately trying to make himself feel victorious and worthwhile. To use a timely analogy, teaching and learning is like the process of growth that happens in a forest in the springtime. No particular element in the woods is “in charge” of the process, because the process is much too vast for one element to organize and control. Rather, the seeds sprout and the breezes blow and the sunshine does its work and the rain comes when needed, all of them working together in a mysterious and seamless manner. This is similar to what occurs in my classroom each day. What happens to me – how I personally feel about my work as a teacher – is no more important than the countless happenings or feelings in my students. Indeed, while I’m feeling down about my work, a student in the back row may be having wondrous revelations about the book we are discussing. In the forest, if one flower is struggling to sprout, a thousand others are probably waving energetically in the warm wind.
There’s no doubt that teaching and learning is way, way bigger than one teacher’s isolated and insecure ego.

Meditation: "Teaching with Authority"

“And they were astonished at his doctrine, for he taught them as one that had authority.” -- Mark 1: 22

I have always loved this passage from the gospel, especially the words “astonished” and “authority”. The people who listened to Jesus 2,000 years ago were truly transformed by his teaching – figuratively “turned to stone”, to use the root meaning of the word “astonished”. His words were so unusual in their straightforward power that his listeners’ lives were changed from the inside out. One minute they were easygoing, befuddled fishermen and laborers, and the next minute, after hearing Jesus explain the true meaning of life, they were as silent as stones – stones that were ready to be further transformed into something wonderful. This transformation of his followers was able to happen primarily because they sensed unusual and enormous power radiating out from him. He spoke with the authority of a power much higher and vaster than just a single human person. My dictionary says that the word 'authority' has to do with “power assigned to another”, and it was clear to Jesus’ disciples that a truly wondrous force (they called it “God”) had assigned wondrous power to Jesus. He didn’t speak with the typically feeble power of a separate human being; he spoke with the authority of the immeasurable and invincible Universe. I wonder, today, if I could be this kind of teacher for my students. Could I teach in such a way that they could sense in my words an authority that comes from far away and far beyond a small, isolated, human ego? Could I teach in such a way that my students would be truly astonished at my words? These are not prideful questions on my part. In fact, they are the opposite, for they are born of my own sense of humility about my work. I have known for a long time that “I”, Hamilton Salsich, don’t do any of the teaching that goes on in my classroom. It’s all done by the infinite Universe (which some people call God). All I do is allow it to happen, and if I’m “allowing” in the best and fullest way possible, my teaching might just be astonishing to my students.

Journal: Monday, April 10, 2006

I spent a soothing, undisturbed weekend after my exhausting week in Washington with my 8th grade students. As usual, I did some work at school on Saturday morning. I always love the peaceful feeling in the building when I’m there alone on the weekend. My classroom then is like my own private “workshop” where I can plan and build excellent lesson plans for my students. Some men have workshops in the basements where important tools are hung with care, and where complicated wood working projects are planned and carried out; I have Room 2 at Pine Point School. In the afternoon, I had the pleasure of reading some of Paradise Lost, writing in my journal, walking in the spring-like weather, and watching the Red Sox win on TV. For me, it was the perfect way to spend a tranquil weekend afternoon. I felt like I had nothing to do but enjoy whatever happened to pass my way. Yesterday, Sunday, I spent a few wonderful hours up in Brooklyn, CT, with my two sons and their wives and my delightful grandson, Noah. He’s 2 ½ now, and as full of charm and wisdom as anyone I know. We read books together, danced a little to his favorite songs, and wandered around outside in the chilly April air.

Meditation: "Taking in Air, Getting to Know God"

"But I know him: for I am from him." --John 7: 29

This morning’s quote from my Bible lesson reminds me that I really don’t have to work hard, or struggle, or study, to get to know God. Lately, I have been doing just that. I made a decision a few months ago that I needed to find out just what this entity called “God” is, and so I’ve been “working” at it – pinching my brows over the Bible and my notebook as I “struggle” to understand this concept that has been a huge part of my life for many years. I’ve thought of the process as a “project” I can devote my efforts to – getting to know God the way you might get to know a difficult, abstruse book. However, this morning’s quote from Jesus settles me down a little, reassures me, reminds me that there is actually no work involved. After all, if I am part of something, I don’t really need to study it in order to understand it. That would be as silly as trying to “understand” my own breathing, or trying to “get to know” the beat of my own heart. I am as much a part of God as a wave is part of the ocean, or as a breeze in Wilcox Park is part of the winds blowing across the earth. I know God, not the way you would know a separate object, but the way a tree limb knows the tree, or the way a flower petal knows the flower. Today I want to remember this wonderful fact. Yes, in one sense it’s good to “work hard” at studying the spiritual truths of life, but it’s also important to realize that, in fact, those truths are as close to me as my fingers, or as the breath in my own lungs. Taking in air is pretty easy, and so is getting to know God.

Meditation: "Face to Face"

“I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.” -- Genesis 32: 30

What’s interesting to me about this quote from the Bible is that I do this every moment – and usually am not even aware of it. It’s true. Each moment today, the face of God will be present everywhere, and by that I mean the face of the infinite, ever-present power of Spirit. The wonderful fact is that there is no other power in the universe besides this one (sometimes called Mind, Thought, God, Allah, etc.), and so I have no choice but to be present with it at all times. In fact, since I am part of this power, I actually don’t see God face to face each moment; rather, I am the reflection of the face of God. A point to remember is that, when Jacob said these words, he also said that he had heard of God, but this was the first time he had seen Him or Her. This applies to my own situation. For years (maybe close to 30), I have been doing spiritual reading and meditating every morning. In other words, I have “heard” of God – the infinite power of the universe – by reading and thinking about it, but rarely do I really come “face to face” with it. My experience of this vast spiritual power has been more in the realm of words than of actual experience. Hopefully, I can make this drizzly, warm April day one in which the infinite power of God is truly present to me. In that sense, I want it to be a very special day. I want to walk around feeling the inside glow that’s actually always there because the only power of the universe is constantly, persistently with me.

And with all of us.

Journal: Monday, April 3, 2006

Yesterday I spent a good part of the day down in our lovely Wilcox Park, and it was the perfect way to spend an early spring day. Everything seemed to be precisely the way it should be, the way evolution, or intelligent design, or nature, or God intended it to be. The greening-up grass appeared to be perfectly placed beneath the enormous trees with their perfectly shaped buds, and the trees seemed to be standing just the way they should be on such a pretty day. Even the sky was just right in its utter blueness from east to west. I took many turns around the park, listening to my iPod and walking slowly and contentedly. I recall passing a few families who were going very slowly and seemed to be completely enjoying each other’s company. I remember thinking I could walk forever on such an ideal April day. Even the colors seemed perfect. I noticed groups of small purple crocuses gathered silently together and showing off their bright shirts, and a few yellow daffodil blossoms were waving in the warm wind. Down in the central meadow, a gray magnolia tree was presenting some early white blossoms to passers-by, so I stopped for a moment to enjoy their faultless beauty.
As I walked home, my own humble life seemed as spotless as all the loveliness I saw in the park on this great day.

On Teaching: A Few Moments of Inspiration

I love the old Shaker hymn, "Simple Gifts". (In fact, I've entered it into this year's Poetry Madness tournament.) When I went in search of inspiration to Jane's Science class on Friday, I didn't expect to be reminded of the hymn, but I was. For 15 minutes, I watched her teach in her elegantly simple manner. She has the "gift" the Shakers spoke of -- the gift of being clear, quiet, precise, and calm.
These are some simple (and instructive) pedagogical things I noticed:
* students coming into the room in a teenagerish way (laughing, sauntering, slouching, etc.) and then slowly settling down in silence, on their own, when they saw the teacher getting ready to begin;
* the teacher ringing a soft bell once (obviously to announce the start of class) and then starting immediately;
* the teacher always speaking slowly and very clearly, sometimes changing tone and volume to gain an effect;
* Olivia Mortrude (and many other students) literally staring at the teacher as she speaks;
* the teacher leaning over the desk and looking directly at a student as she answers his question;
* the teacher checking off the parts of the day's lesson, step by step, where it's clearly written on the white board;
* the teacher always remaining clear, quiet, precise, and calm.

It was apparent to me that Jane's students have been given a "simple gift" by being with her this year. She knows how to be straightforward and trouble-free during class, and she's obviously imparting that knowledge to the students. They're learning that they'll "come round right" if they stay clear, quiet, precise, and calm.
There was some "love and delight" in the 7th grade Science class yesterday, and I was glad to be there to enjoy it.

Journal: Saturday, April 1, 2006

I had a wonderful walk in the park today. I first went down to do some stair-climbing on the old cement stairs near the pond. With a Mozart piano quartet playing on my iPod, I slowly marched up and down the stairs, enjoying the lovely April scenery as I walked. I felt strong and peppy throughout the forty-minute exercise, helped, no doubt, by the lovely music coming in through my headphones. It was one of the best workouts I can recall. Afterwards, I walked home and got my copy of Paradise Lost and returned to the park. I sat on a bench beside the pond and listened to an audio recording of the poem while following in the book. I am so glad I decided to re-read the poem this spring, because it is one of the most enriching books I've ever read. As I sat by the quiet gray pond and listened to the musical words of the poet, I felt myself sinking into the kind of stillness and harmony that great poetry so often induces in readers. All in all, it was lovely day to be outside. There was a festival of some sort in the park, and groups of spring worshippers were out and about, appreciating the fine weather. As the day wore on to evening, the weather seemed to grow even softer. As night fell, the clouds in the west disappeared in a final flourish of sunlight, and I felt grateful to have enjoyed such a special day.