MEDITATION: "Making Friends with the Present Moment"

In some ways, the most important rule I can follow is this: make friends with the present moment. After all, the present moment is all I ever have. In the entire history of the universe, there has never been a single moment when the present wasn’t all there was – wasn’t all-powerful and all-creative. No matter how hard I try (and I often try very hard), I can’t escape the present moment, and so I may as well give in and make friends with it. This is not an easy task, as I can see by simply observing people on a typical day. So many of us seem to want to be anything but friends with the present moment. We resist it, want to change it, try to escape from it or overcome it. We fight the present moment rather than accept it. It’s more our enemy than our friend. Today, I want to treat each present moment as what it is: a wondrous, surprising, and valuable gift. I want to accept the gift, not reject it. I want to get close to each moment so I can feel and understand its enormous power for good. I want to be its friend, not its enemy. If I can do this, I will see something amazing happen: each present moment will become more and more friendly with me.

Journal: May 26, 2006

After a full day of outdoor classes yesterday (I now call them “garden classes”), I realize, more than ever, how much I have to be grateful for. The four 8th and 9th grade classes were simply idyllic. As the students and I sat in the flickering shade of the trees beside my classroom, we continued our review of the year (getting ready for the final exam), and I was again amazed by the scholarly comments of my students. It has been my privilege to be the English teacher for these intelligent, eager, and inventive kids for many months (two years, in the case of the 9th graders), and I felt especially appreciative of that honor as I listened to their responses in the garden. There was also something else that caused me to be thankful. In the 8th grade classes, I have been reading aloud Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, and yesterday, as I was reading, I became aware of how “true” that book is. I guess I had an epiphany, of sorts. I realized that there are millions – billions – of men and women all over the world just like George, Lennie, and Candy – people who have nothing to call their own, and who live from day to day, hoping to somehow survive. These are human beings – members of the human family to which I belong – and they are suffering moment after moment. As the birds whistled their charming melodies in the garden yesterday, and as I read the sad words of the last few pages of Steinbeck’s book, I shed a few inner tears, not just for the characters in the book, but for my entire five-billion-strong family across this earth. After the last class in the afternoon, several of the kids said, “Thanks, Mr. Salsich”, and I said thanks, too – thanks to the universe for somehow setting me down in that lovely garden with those admirable students all day. And thanks to the universe for giving me a heart that can feel what my brothers and sisters on earth are feeling.

MEDITATION: "Friendly, Not Frightening"

Yesterday some “bad” news led me back to the very good news about the nature of life. I came home from school in the afternoon and heard some news about a friend, and – strangely – I automatically thought of it as “bad” news. I did something I often do: I saw an “enemy” in the news, and immediately became apprehensive. Luckily, I had some time to take a walk in the park, and during the walk I looked at this news, and at the nature of life, more carefully. I guess you could say I prayed, which just means I tried my best to get back in touch with what’s really true. As I walked among the blossoming trees and looked carefully at this apparent “enemy” I saw in the news, I began to realize that I often see enemies everywhere – material entities of all shapes, sizes, and conditions that I believe can harm me. In a kind of blind, unthinking way, I sometimes see life as a continuing series of battles between a separate, material “me” and countless separate, material “enemies” waiting to injure me. These enemies take a variety of shapes – lack of money, joblessness, illness, car trouble, loss of friendship, student misbehavior – but, in the end, they are all seem to have a similar characteristic: a desire to harm me. As I walked up and down the stone steps in the park (getting exercise while praying), a wonderful old truth slowly dawned on me again. I saw more and more clearly that these enemies – every one of them – are actually nothing more than beliefs. They exist in my thought, not in some physical shape. “Lack of money”, rather than being a material monster separate from me, waiting to grab me and ruin me, is merely a belief – a scary belief, but just a belief nonetheless. I understood, as I walked along in the spring sunshine, that the “world” doesn’t manufacture my enemies – I do. I create them in my own beliefs, and the marvelous, reassuring truth is that I can also destroy them there. Life is ultimately mental, and the battles we have to fight – every one of them – are mental. Walking in the park, I realized that they are easy battles to win – as easy as replacing one belief with another. By the time I got back home, the news I heard from my friend seemed far more like an opportunity than a threat – an opportunity to prove, once again, that life, in its essence, is friendly rather than frightening.

ON TEACHING: "A Home Run Day"

When you’re sitting outside in a blossoming garden with your 9th grade English students, when the students are responding to your review questions like seasoned, accomplished scholars of reading and writing, when you want to pinch yourself to see if this marvelous situation is all just a happy dream – then I guess you can say you’re having a good day as a teacher. This was what happened to me yesterday. For inexplicable reasons, everything “came together” and I had some of the best classes in my long career (40+ years) as a teacher. Everything seemed perfect, right out of a textbook for graduate education courses. Needless to say, my days aren’t always like this. For every productive, satisfying day of teaching, I have at least two days of struggle and disappointment. In that sense, teaching teenagers is like hitting a baseball: a 33% percent rate of success could be hall-of-fame material. Yesterday, I guess I could say I hit a home run, but that’s not truly accurate. More accurate would be to say everything hit a home run: the weather, the lovely garden, the beautiful poems we discussed, intelligence, peacefulness, love, the entire grand universe. Yesterday life itself came to the plate and smacked the ball over the fence, and I was lucky to be there to enjoy it. After more than forty years of teaching, I had a box seat at some of the best classes I’ve ever witnessed.

MEDITATION: "A Great Truth"

I feel, this morning, that it’s time to return to one of the greatest truths I know – that all the evil in the universe, in whatever guise it presents itself, is created by, and exists in, our minds. Evil does not reside in things but in thoughts. No person, event, or experience is evil, but a thought, or belief, can make it seem evil. If I examine my experiences carefully, I’ll see that this is true. I’ll see that my own thinking has created all the evil-ness I’ve ever seen or ever will see. This is an astonishing fact to contemplate. It literally transforms reality for me – changes the universe from a place of things to a place of thoughts. It wakes me up to the fact that I’m living in a world that is totally powered by thinking – a world that can convert evil into good as fast as a thought can be formed. This alters everything. I see, from this truth, that every person, event, and experience is utterly perfect, flawless, and complete – but only as long as I see it that way. It’s the thinking that counts. Prince Hamlet was much more right than he realized when he said that “nothing is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.”

JOURNAL: May 23, 2006

Yesterday, for some reason, I was able to focus on the present moment for most of the day, and as a result, I experienced some wonderful moments. Writing in the early morning, for instance, was exceptionally rewarding. I quietly concentrated my attention on the keyboard, thinking quietly, tapping the keys slowly, letting my thoughts lead the way. I felt something I rarely feel – that whatever I typed would be exactly what I should type. I felt a similar sense of rightness in some (though not all) of my classes. In the 8th grade classes, each moment appeared to be exactly right, true, real, and perfect. It wasn’t that I had planned a particularly good lesson, or that I was teaching in a particularly brilliant manner – just that I was intent on enjoying each thing as it came along. Instead of fussing over every moment to try to make it better, I allowed each moment to be its beautiful self. I was fortunate to also remember to do this in my one outdoor class, after lunch. It was another exquisite spring day, so my 9th graders and I took our chairs out to the garden and discussed a poem by Poe while feeling the warm wind ruffle our clothes. Nothing could have made those 45 moments any better. Each of our spoken words seem absolutely accurate, and each of my students, as I looked around at them, appeared to be sitting precisely where they should be, and in a perfect posture. I’m sure, as well, that the planet earth was spinning just way it should and going unerringly where it must.

ON TEACHING: "The View from the Mountaintop"

When I look at my computer screen background these days – a view of the earth from space – I often think about my classroom, and how important it is for my students and me to maintain an appropriate “view” of things as we progress through our daily work. Often, I’m afraid we have a view that’s far too close-up to be helpful. We’re like hikers in a beautiful national park who are obsessed with the tiny patches of poison ivy along the trail. By focusing our attention on a minuscule aspect of the scene in front of us, we are unable to appreciate the grand immensity of what lies all around. I’m sure this happens to my students with regularity. They see only the test they’re facing tomorrow, or the sentence in A Tale of Two Cities they’re trying to understand today. They’re often unable to turn away from the little things and get a view from the mountaintop. It happens to me, too. Almost daily, even hourly, I lose myself in the minute details of teaching and fail to notice the spectacular reality that is spread out in front of me in my classroom. While I’m worrying about how to fill every minute of a class period, I’m missing the astonishing actuality of 12 infinitely gifted lives sitting in front of me. What’s really strange about this is that neither my students nor I have to do any “climbing” in order to reach the mountaintop and the best views. We’re already there – at every moment. All we have to do is train ourselves to turn 180˚ around – away from the tiny details of teaching and learning – and catch the view of the magnificence of our lives and of this universe we’re a part of. If we’re always on the top of a mountain in my classroom, we might as well enjoy the stunning views.

JOURNAL: May 21, 2006

I had a wonderful day yesterday visiting with my two oldest sons and their families. I drove up to Brooklyn, CT, in the morning to help Jaimie with some yard work, and he and little Noah (2 ½ ) and I had a wonderful time in the sunshiny and windy air. A load of sand for his patio-in-the-making had been dumped on the driveway, and the three of us, in just a couple of hours, made a serious “dent” in the pile. Noah and I shoveled and Jaimie carted the heavy wheelbarrow back and forth to the patio site. Often I would say “atta boy” to Noah, and he loved repeating it back to me: “Atta boy, Hammy,” he would say, “atta boy.” Around noon, I continued up the interstate to visit with Luke, Krissy, and young Kaylee. Krissy looked chipper and spirited, despite carrying a child who is due to be born any minute now. We had a wonderful visit together, enjoying good companionship and the comfort of their tastefully decorated and welcoming home. Luke and Kaylee and I took a relaxed stroll around the neighborhood, and I was so impressed by the tidiness of the yards and houses. These are obviously people who take pride in their homes, as Luke and Krissy do in theirs. I told Luke, as I’ve told him before, that they are fortunate to be raising their family in such a first-rate neighborhood. Later, Luke and I had a fine conversation in their lovely living room, just roaming casually across many important topics.

MEDITATION: "The Sun and the Source"

As I was driving up to see my grandson yesterday morning, I began noticing, more than I usually do, the lovely look of the sunlight on the land, and it started me thinking about the nature of the sun – and the nature of life itself. I first thought about how amazing it is that all the light that the earth experiences – from the pale light of the moon to the shadowy light of cloudy days to the vivid light we’re enjoying on this beautiful spring day – comes from one source, the sun. It’s always there, far away but dependably bright and hot – always there in the background, so to speak, providing the landscape with life-giving light. Every day and night, moment by moment, we enjoy the comforts provided by the light of the sun. What struck me, too – thinking about it as I drove across the Connecticut hills – was that I rarely think about where all this wonderful light is coming from. I enjoy the sun’s light in a kind of mindless, robotic way. I guess you could say I take it for granted, this astonishing light that has been pouring itself down on the earth for fifteen billion years. This, in turn, led me to think, as I often do, about the nature of life itself. I believe that all of life, all of reality, is powered by a single force that is far, far stronger than the sun. I believe that whatever comes to us in our lives comes from one universal and infinite starting place that would make the sun look like a pinprick. People call this source “God”, or “Allah”, or any of dozens of other names, but whatever name it is labeled with, it remains the power behind all things. Strangely enough, I am usually as unaware of this power as I am of the power of the sun. I take it for granted. I couldn’t breathe a breath or think a thought without this one Source providing all the necessary energy, and yet I rarely give it a passing thought. I live a good part of my life in a mental daze, sleepwalking in the warm light of the astonishing sun, and in the spiritual light of the one infinite Power. Perhaps I should wake myself up now and then.

JOURNAL: May 21, 2006

Last week the sun finally came out again, and I enjoyed the luxury of outdoor classes quite often. What good fortune it is to be able to sit outside in a bright and breezy garden and conduct English class with ten excellent, attentive students! Sometimes I can hardly believe my luck as I sit out in the golden sunshine and discuss great poems with the kids. Thousands of English teachers around the country would pay to take my place at this marvelous little school. What surprises me a little about the outdoor classes is how attentive the students are, even with birds doing their loudest songs, delivery trucks pulling up, small children laughing as they dash by, and enormous bumble bees circling around like helicopters. One of my colleagues mentioned just yesterday that he was impressed by the attentiveness of the students as he passed by a few times. I do remind them now and then about how important it is to ignore the distractions when we're outside, but nonetheless, I too am a little surprised by how alert they have been. Next week I hope to film segments of the outside classes, so I can capture some of the elegance of the scene. Watching intelligent, dedicated students engage in thoughtful discussions is a wonderful experience anywhere, but in a lovely spring garden it's especially inspiring. I hope to be able to look at the film a few times over the long summer just to remind myself of how enriching a teacher's life can be.

ON TEACHING: "Tips from a Veteran Teacher"

Looking for some inspiration for my teaching, I accompanied my retiring colleague, Alan, and his 9th grade Oceanology students yesterday on their weekly trip on the school's boat. Here are some tips I learned about good teaching:

1. Be calm when things go wrong. No sooner did we launch out into the Pawcatuck River than Alan quietly told us he had "lost the steering" in the boat. While some of his passengers might have been thinking dire thoughts about drifting out to sea with a boat that wouldn't steer, Alan calmly went about rigging up a temporary steering device, and soon he coolly told the students to prepare for their work. We motored out into the river with Alan somehow steering the boat manually -- and with utter tranquility.

2. Train your students so they know exactly what, when, and how to do their assigned tasks. In a sense, there was very little "direct instruction" happening on the boat when we were anchored in the river. The students simply went about preparing their scientific work (dragging nets, hauling up sediment from the bottom, studying water samples, etc.) in an efficient and dutiful manner. At one point, a student scientist politely asked me to move to the side, saying, "Please excuse me, Mr. Salsich. I have to examine what we found on the bottom." If you admire efficiency in a classroom, you would enjoy being in Alan's floating classroom.

3. Speak gently but firmly. All good leaders know this, and I saw it perfectly exemplified on this trip.

4. Expect very high achievements from your students. It was obvious that the 9th graders knew that Alan expected them to behave like accomplished scientists and shipmates. I felt like I was in the presence of advanced science students in a senior high school.

5. Enjoy being with kids. In my experience, no one does this better than Alan. I'm sad for the future students who won't get to enjoy being with him.

MEDITATION: The Only Important Question

Almost as soon as I awoke this morning, a familiar thought came to me: “Who am I?” is the only question worth asking. As I lay in bed thinking about it, a feeling for the wonderful simplicity of life came back to me. Good living is not a complicated process, not a treasure that’s secretly hidden somewhere, not an intricate machine that has to be studied. No, a totally happy and healthy life is as simple and straightforward as that question: “Who am I?” If I understand the answer to that question – really know it – then every moment of my life will be a moment in paradise. Amazingly, the answer to that vital question is actually very simple. The first part of the answer is that I am not in any way material, and the second part is that I am totally spiritual, or mental. I am not a thing but a thought. At any particular moment of my life, if I look carefully I will see that I am a brand new thought in a brand new universe. The implications of the previous two sentences are enormous, for they suggest a revolutionary kind of life (the kind that Jesus, one of the greatest revolutionaries, taught and lived). They imply, quite astonishingly, that there is never any reason to fear, because there is no thing to be hurt and no thing to do the hurting. There is only thought – only infinite Mind (sometimes called God, or Allah, or the Tao) unfolding its endless self. This is the wonderful answer to that utterly simple and important question I awoke to this morning.

ON READING AND WRITING: Simplicity in Two Poets

There’s an old song I love that talks of the greatness of simplicity. It suggests that life is lived best when it’s lived simply – that beauty is most beautiful when it’s plain. I thought of that song when I read Mary Oliver’s simple and wonderful poem called “Work”. In only 73 words (all of them very ordinary), the poet paints a picture of the power of simplicity – and reminds me of another poet who admired the beauty of simple writing.

Simplicity is everywhere in Ms. Oliver’s poem. One of the first things I noticed about the poem is the utter plainness – even bareness – of the diction. Her words seem as simple as the truth she’s trying to express. In fact, 60 of the 73 words in the poem are monosyllabic, and the most complex word is the familiar “punctuation”. She also uses phrases which could be called cliches, a definite taboo for poets who admire ornamentation in poetry. She says she “hang[s] out” at her desk as she’s writing, and she speaks of “grinding [her] teeth” – two very ordinary and overused expressions. She almost seems to be flaunting the plainness of her language – daring us to dislike her simple, honest language. However, the clearest example of the simplicity of the poem is the theme, or message, she conveys. Rather than trying to share some newfangled and intricate truth with the reader, she’s simply stating a fact that’s as ancient as language – that work can be as enjoyable as play. She writes of a typical, ordinary day in her life, a day that involves what is, for her, the simplest and happiest kind of work. All day she “work[s] / with the linen of words/ and the pins of punctuation” as she writes her daily poems, and her work seems more like recreation than labor. Ms. Oliver seems to be saying that it’s easy to enjoy the simple arts of writing and living.

The poem reminds me of another poet who discovered the pleasure of ordinary language. William Wordsworth began writing at a time (1790’s) when poets typically used ornate and fastidious language. If you wanted to be a poet then, you were expected to use the fanciest and most engimatic words you could find. A poem in those days was supposed to be something like an ornate, multifaceted puzzle. Wordsworth had a different idea. He believed that true beauty was found in true simplicity, and that the highest truths were the plainest. Some of his best poems used the most ordinary words to express the most extraordinary truths. The Lucy poems (including “She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways”) are as simple as sunshine and as clear as a blue sky. In them, Wordsworth gives us ordinary words that glow with a natural inner beauty. As we read them, we are astonished to find immense power in the most everyday words the most straightforward sentences. Like Mary Oliver, Wordsworth seems to be telling us the out of the ordinary truth that beauty is plainness and plainness is beauty.

In this modern world of complexity, intricacy, and obscurity, it is refreshing to come upon poets who believe that ordinariness is a treasure worth savoring. In their poems, Mary Oliver and William Wordsworth stated the simplest and most powerful feelings in the simplest and most powerful words. They wrote the way rain falls – directly and straightforwardly. The old song tells us it’s “a gift to be simple”, and these two poets definitely have the gift.

Journal: Wednesday, May 17, 2006

I saw three lovely sights yesterday. First, as I sat in the library at school around 7:00 a.m., doing some spiritual reading and listening to music on my iPod, I noticed some gulls out on the playing field. It was a damp, gray morning, and somehow the whiteness of the birds seemed brighter than usual. As I watched, one of the birds lifted itself lightly up and swung across the air and soared up into the still dark sky. Later in the morning, as I walked outside on my way to morning meeting, I stopped to look at some big leaves in the garden all covered with sparkling dewdrops. I stood there for perhaps thirty seconds (a long time in this hurrying world), admiring the simple exquisiteness of the wet leaves. Kids and teachers were hustling past on their way to the meeting, but I felt enclosed in a small peaceful space as I studied the look of the gleaming beads of moisture. Finally, during my daily walk in the park, I saw a grand sight – the sun flashing its afternoon colors intermittently as the clouds temporarily disbanded. After days and days of rain, it was a splendid sight to see the sunlight turning some of the town perfectly golden. At one point, I noticed an old brick building, which most people would probably call ugly, absolutely glowing in the fresh light.

On Teaching: "It's Not about Me"

Today I had a rather discouraging class with the 9th graders (interruptions, silliness, etc.), but I'm almost glad it happened, because it enabled me to remember a major truth about life: It's not about me. It's never about me. Nothing in this vast universe revolves around this separate ego called "me", because everything -- everything -- is joined together in one harmonious whole. No matter how discouraged I might feel in my perceived role as a separate, vulnerable teacher, the universe continually dances on in its agreeable, well-balanced way. My feeling discouraged at the end of the 9th grade class is about as silly as a single wave in the ocean feeling discouraged because it wasn't able to move just the way it wanted to. Obviously, the greatness of the ocean is not dependent on any one individual wave, but on the harmonious movement of all its immense waters. One small wave may not look especially wonderful, but as an integral part of the spectacular ocean, it is always playing an important role. It's always doing exactly what it should be doing. In a real sense, it's always perfect, and, in a real sense, the same is true for me. My 9th grade English class is not a separate enterprise that a separate entity called "a teacher" is solely responsible for. My students and I are always part of the pleasantly spinning universe, and, no matter how we may feel as individuals, everything that happens in my classroom needs to happen, must happen, and, because of that, will always bring beneficial results (though perhaps not the results I had planned on). Some marvelous benefits came, or will eventually come, from this class that so disheartened me, and if I weren't so focused on "me", I might be able to notice and appreciate them.

JOURNAL

Yesterday I actually walked, at least for a few moments, in beautiful sunshine! After what seemed like weeks of cold, stormy days, a wind wafted some of the clouds away in the afternoon and enabled a little sunlight to reach us. I was walking in the park at the time, and it was lovely to see the light making the blossoms shine once again. Of course, it didn’t last for long. This morning I awoke to the sounds of rain tapping on the windows and splashing in the streets. It looks like another damp day is in store for us New Englanders.

On Teaching: "Teasing"

Yesterday I slipped back into an annoying old habit, and I don’t intend to let it happen again today. Without even realizing it, I spent a good part of the day “teasing” my students – prodding, badgering, and pestering them as though I were one of their pals. It’s a behavior I used to exhibit regularly with my students – one which I thought I had left behind for good. I no longer admire that kind of behavior in teachers, and I plan to cut it out of my teaching style once and for all. I don’t like the teasing approach to teaching primarily because it suggests an attitude toward students that I find offensive. When I am teasing my students, I am doing it because I am not fully aware of who and what they are. Instead of seeing their true natures, I’m seeing them as merely physical “objects” that can be prodded, badgered, and pestered. Only a “mechanism” can be prodded, only a “thing” can be badgered, and only an “object” can be pestered. If I was seeing my students as they truly are – as talented, diverse, gifted, and infinitely inventive creations of an infinite universe – I would understand that they are not objects to be teased, but wonders to be appreciated. It’s interesting, in this regard, that the original meaning for tease was “To cut (tissue, for example) into pieces for examination.” This suggests, again, that teasing is done to some “thing” that can be taken apart, poked at, fiddled with, studied, and then perhaps cast aside. My students are not things. They are forty-two wonders of the world, and as such, they should be admired, respected, and cherished, not prodded, badgered, and pestered.

On Teaching: "Glory in the Classroom"

Rather than being a complicated and delicate process, learning how to be a really good teacher might be as simple as learning to see the glory and radiance in the classroom. After all, it’s not hard to see the brightness in a room when it is lit up with new florescent lights, so why should it be difficult or complicated to see the glory of my students when I’m standing before them? On a brilliantly sunny say, I wouldn’t think of saying, “Gosh, I’m going to have to work hard to notice the bright sunlight today.” The brightness of the sunshine would be impossible to miss, just as the radiance of my students should be hard to avoid seeing. The sad truth, however, is that I do fail to notice the glory of my students – their astonishing greatness as thinkers, dreamers, and inventors. I’m often like a person in a room with the shades pulled down on a perfectly sunny day. Because he didn’t know it was there, the person wouldn’t be aware, wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t appreciate the brilliance of the day, just as I don’t often appreciate the wondrous qualities of my students. In a sense, I might as well be wearing a blindfold while I’m teaching. Forty-two intense lights are shining in my classroom, but I am sometimes as oblivious of them as if I were blind. The truth is that I don’t have to devise intricate lessons or employ complex tactics in order to be a good teacher. All I have to do is open my eyes and see the astounding reality that’s in front of me – forty-two bright, brand new, just-switched-on lights. If I can do that, awe will be the teacher, and the learning will take care of itself.

Journal: Monday, May 15, 2006

Yesterday I defied the endless rains we are experiencing by taking a dry and pleasant walk in the park. Around noon, I wrapped myself in my best raingear and prepared for the wet journey. Several years ago, I purchased some rather expensive “foul weather gear” for a hiking trip, and it was good to get it out again and make use of it. By the time I left my house, I was covered with a lightweight pants and waterproof jacket (with hood), and was wearing my old impermeable Goretex boots. I was out for only about 30 minutes, but it was enough to get a feel for walking in a steady spring rain. I went slowly along through the dampness, trudging up and down the cement stairs and along the muddy pathways. Perhaps feeling softened and relaxed by the gentle rain, I did some unusually productive thinking as I made my way around the park. What I thought a lot about was how nice it was to be out enjoying this lovely storm. Strange, how I’ve grown up to believe that certain weather is “gloomy” or “dreary”. (It’s a little like believing a wrinkled $100 bill is not worth as much as a brand new one.) Looked at with fresh eyes, this soggy day was full of gray wonders as I walked along. I came back home rejoicing that I was lucky enough to be blessed with such beautiful showery days.

Meditation: "The Cause of Every Problem"

This morning I clearly understood a great truth. It came to me that every problem in life -- every sorrow, worry, obstacle, setback, or crisis – is ultimately caused by fear. If I was never afraid, nothing would be problematical for me. Whatever dire situation I might find myself in, it’s my fear that causes it to be dire – that causes me to resist it, fight against it, and run from it. If the fear wasn’t present, I would calmly accept every situation, and thus no situation would ever present a difficulty for me. When this realization led me to probe further and to ask where fear comes from, another wonderful understanding came to me – that all fear arises from a sense of separation. When I’m afraid, it’s because I feel like a separate material entity surrounded by other material entities; I feel alone and therefore vulnerable. If I think I’m basically on my own and by myself in this universe, then obviously fear is going to be a significant part of my life. This, in turn, led to me a final truth, the most wonderful one of all – that I’’m never alone, never separate, and therefore never have to be afraid. The simple, scientific fact (supported by discoveries in physics in the last hundred years) is that the entire universe is a single, vast, harmonious swirl of energy, of which I am an integral and necessary part. I am no more separate from the rest of the universe than a molecule of water is separate from its river, or a breeze in one part of my town is separate from a breeze in another part. Everything is together, one, unified, whole. When I move my arm in Rhode Island, the entire universe is altered in a small but significant way. And if that’s true – if we’re all together -- then I’m never separate, and therefore never need to be afraid. Indeed, being afraid in a world of oneness is just plain silly, because there is no other, separate thing to be afraid of.

Journal: Sunday, May 14, 2006

The rain still keeps coming. It’s been days and weeks now since we’ve seen the sun. Grayness and dampness is everywhere. We just expect it now; we awaken and anticipate a day of clouds and storms, and we fall asleep knowing we’ll hear the incessant sound of raindrops slapping against the windows. Despite the dreary weather, people, I guess, are going about their business – except for the oil change place up the street. I stopped in yesterday, thinking I would have a long wait, but the stalls were empty. Six guys in oily overalls were standing around with gloomy expressions, waiting for a customer. It didn’t take long; I sat in the waiting room watching cars splash by on the rainy street, and before ten minutes had passed, I was on my way again. Later in the afternoon, the rain seemed to almost stop, so I decided to have a go at walking in the park (my usual exercise). It was misting just slightly when I started, but soon the rain gathered force again, and before long I was walking through sheets of it. I managed to keep going for about 20 minutes, and then surrendered and headed home to dry myself out. What I really need to get myself dry is a few long days of comforting sunshine.

Journal: Friday, May 12, 2006

I’m staying dry, warm, and cheerful during these seemingly endless days of dreary, cold rain. Day after day, for what seems like weeks, the dampness has surrounded us. As I’m doing my early morning reading and writing, there’s no visible sunrise due to the ever-present clouds, and the evening sunsets are just as non-existent. From morning to midnight to morning, there’s been only sogginess, obscurity, and the pervasive cold. (Is this May, you ask? Yes indeed – May in New England.) I’m surviving, though – and actually, more than surviving. After all, there are other ways to cheer myself up than by feeling warm sunlight on my face – like reading inspiring poems, or watching students at school dashing around with their usual ebullience. And there are other ways to find warmth – like thinking warm thoughts, or teaching a lesson that plants new seeds of knowledge inside my students. Yes, I’m doing all right, thank you. Actually, I consider this stretch of so-called gloomy weather to be a blessing. It’s a gift – a fine opportunity to prove, again, that happiness is within, not without. Whether the sun is warming us or a weeks-long storm is soaking us, I can feel contentment carrying me quietly along. Happiness doesn’t need sunshine; all it needs is a present moment to rejoice in – and, thankfully, I always have that.

On Teaching: "A Gift"

Today I received a golden opportunity -- a true gift -- and I hope I took proper advantage of it. In one of my classes, an activity I had planned completely bombed. Right from the start, the kids were not into it; they reacted in exactly the opposite way from what I had hoped. I thought it would be an inspiring, enjoyable project, but to them it seemed more funny than inspiring, more silly than enjoyable. They were very respectful in their reactions, but their negative opinions were clear. I think I reacted to their response fairly well. I maintained a relatively (though not completely) calm exterior, and, once it was clear that the activity was not working, I quietly moved on to another part of my lesson. Despite my utter disappointment, I stayed composed and unperturbed, at least on the surface. Later, as I reflected back on it, I saw in my mind a picture I have often seen when thinking about failed lessons. I saw the earth from far away in outer space, moving among the innumerable planets and stars. I saw how relatively insignificant my students and I are when set against the background of the infinite universe. Millions of people on earth are hungry to the point of death as I write; millions of people are celebrating wonderful achievement or anniversaries; millions of people are crying right this minute because of some serious sorrow in their lives; and in space innumerable galaxies are sailing along as they have been for billions of years. Against this, how can I possibly fret about a tiny failure in an infinitesimal English lesson in modest Stonington, Connecticut?

Perhaps I should thank the students for the gift of wisdom they unknowingly gave me.

Meditation: "Presence"

I’ve been meditating this morning on the idea of “presence”, and it is beginning to seem like a vastly important and powerful idea. It actually appears to encompass all the might in the universe, as if the idea itself is a force a zillion times more powerful than the strongest physical force. After all, the first definition of “present” given in the American Heritage dictionary is “existing or happening now; current” – and that takes in absolutely everything. One of the most astonishing truths of reality is that only the present exists. When we analyze reality carefully, we see that there is never any past or future, but only the living and overwhelmingly forceful present. All of reality – all power – is right here, right now. I’ve been thinking about that this morning, as I sit at my desk at 4:34 a.m. and listen to the first birds starting their songs. It’s really an overpowering idea. I feel almost crushed (in a good way) by the enormity of it. If only the present moment exists, then all the power in the universe is in this very moment, right here, right now. What’s even more awe-inspiring is that– because it does not exist through time (past to present to future), but only in the present, right now – this power has no corporeality whatsoever. It’s not a not a physical or material force in any way, and therefore has no limits, no boundaries, no beginnings or endings.

And I am part of it. I’m not a separate physical entity, but am simply part of this endlessly powerful present moment. All power is here and now, and I am one with it.

That is, indeed, an important and powerful idea to meditate on as the sun rises on a May morning.

Journal: May 11, 2006

Yesterday was a day of cold weather and equally cold teaching. With the temperature in the mid-40s most of the day, I shivered through my classes in my chilly classroom. I was dressed warmly in a heavy winter sport coat, but it didn’t prevent the late spring chill from penetrating to my bones. I just couldn’t get warmed up. My teaching seemed to be affected by the weather, also, because it was fairly frigid and aloof all day long. I never felt inspired, relaxed, comfortable, or organized. I was “over here” and the students were “over there”, and I just seemed to be frostily trudging along toward the end of the day, trying my best to stay warm. Later, I took a brisk walk in the park (bundled up as in December), which revived my spirits somewhat. The look of the trees wrapped contentedly with pink and white blossoms would have raised anyone’s spirits. After my walk, while sitting on a bench on a small rise, I listened to a soft Haydn piece on my iPod and studied the serene appearance of the park. It was a perfect way to warm up the end of a fairly frozen day in May.

On Teaching: "Suitability in the Classroom"

Lately I’ve been thinking about how important “suitability” is in a classroom – and indeed, in all of life. For any activity to happen smoothly, be it the circulation of the stars or the movement of an ant’s legs, everything has to fit perfectly together, or be in its right place. Every part has to “suit” every other part. If even the smallest part is unsuitable, or improper, for the situation, then the expected activity will not occur, or will occur in an awkward, inefficient manner. For instance, in a living organism, illness is caused by unsuitability, or, we might say, impropriety. Something in the organism is not “proper” – not in the correct position, or not behaving in the correct manner. When this happens, the entire organism is thrown into confusion, and may eventually be destroyed. In a significant way, the same is true for a classroom, which is a kind of organism in its own right. An atmosphere of suitability and propriety (“decorum” would be another way to express it) is extremely important if the classroom is going to function in its most competent manner. There’s a proper way to sit so as to show respect to each other; there’s a proper word for each and every place in an essay; and there’s a proper way to write an essay worthy of the name (as in “a proper essay, not just a collection of random words”). If every educational piece is precisely where it should be in a classroom, then the puzzle will come together and be complete. If not, the pieces will remain scattered and only bad taste and disorder will reign.

Journal: Tuesday, May 9, 2006

I spent a few wonderful hours on Saturday with three of my favorite “boys” – my oldest sons, Luke and Jaimie, and my grandson, Noah. We all met at Jaimie’s house, ostensibly to help Jaimie and Jess install some lights in their kitchen, but we really gathered just to get together and enjoy each other’s companionship for a few hours. Luke did, in fact, get one light installed while we were there, but, more importantly, we all had some fine conservation and many healthy laughs. At the end of the visit, the light shone brightly, and so did our friendship. As usual, Noah led the way in building friendships. He smiled nearly the entire time, just happy, I guess, to be hanging around with his favorite friends. He shared his toys, his books, his tools (like his “fwudriver”), and his smiles. I count my blessings each and every day, and never more so than when I’m with my family. This entire universe is one vast family, and yet many people feel virtually family-less and friendless day after day. How fortunate I am to be able to drive for an hour or so to Jaimie and Jess’s little house in the forest and feel surrounded, there, by the joys of family life!

Meditation: "Dear Life"

I ponder many puzzling questions in my life, but none is as important as this one: “What is life?” In a way, everything depends upon my answer to this question, and yet it is a question I have largely ignored. I use the word “life” all the time in countless ways, and yet I rarely consider its precise meaning. I say “life is good”, and “I need to get a life”, and “I’ve lived an exciting life”, but I almost never pause to think about the meaning of what I’m saying. For example, one expression I have occasionally used is “as big as life”, as in “I could see her in my thoughts as big as life.” What’s strange about that expression is that it suggests an impossibility, for nothing can be as big as life. Life, when I stop to consider it (as I’m doing this morning), has nothing to do with matter, and therefore has no limits, no boundaries, no beginning or ending. Life does not reside in my heart or lungs or blood or brain; rather, it exists in the infinite workings of the vast universe. As such, it’s way too big to be imitated or defined or captured or enclosed. This reminds me of another common expression – “dear life” – as in “I ran for dear life”. I’ve never thought about that expression, but it does carry a great amount of truth. Life very definitely is dear, because it has no equal, and therefore no rival, and therefore no discord or disharmony. Life is so dear that I should regard it with the highest esteem and respect. Perhaps I should I write a thank-you letter to it each morning, beginning with “Dear Life”.

Meditation: "Getting Strong"

Perhaps more than anything else, everyone wants to be strong, and this morning, in my pre-dawn meditation, I have been realizing that it’s actually quite easy to become not only strong, but invincibly strong. It is true that strength is something all people seek after. It may be physical strength, emotional strength, or financial strength, but it basically comes down to the same thing – a feeling that we are stronger than any force that might oppose us. We want to feel confident, knowing that whatever obstacles may stand in our way can be easily overcome by our own overwhelming power. What I’m realizing, as I sit at my desk listening to the first morning birds whistling outside the window, is that becoming truly strong – indomitably strong – is actually rather easy. I don’t have to lift weights or go to a therapist or win the lottery to gain this kind of strength; all I have to do is turn my beliefs about life around 180 degrees. I simply have to see and understand the truth that life is not material, but entirely spiritual – a single, vast, harmonious universe of which I am a part. If I can make that simple change in my beliefs, I will instantly become what I’ve always been – a part of a power that’s everywhere and limitless and unconquerable. I will feel something wonderful surging through me – not just a physical or emotional or financial power (which are all limited and subject to change), but the unlimited and eternal power of the entire universe. In a true sense, I will feel the same power that is found in the most distant stars, in small golden daffodils, and in tumultuous storms in the mountains. It is the power of life and reality (some people call it God, or Allah, or other names), and it’s in me, and all of us, all the time.

Mediation: "Couples and Hands"

Walking in the park today, I noticed a happy couple strolling along arm in arm, and I immediately felt happy, too – happy for them and for myself. That wouldn’t have been the case a number of years ago, when I might have been more envious than happy. I might have thought, “Gosh, I wish I had a close friend like that. I wish my divorce hadn’t happened, and my wife and I were still as happy as we once were.” In the past, far from sharing in their happiness, I might have felt cut off from the joy I saw in this couple in the park. Today, though, when I saw them walking along so contentedly, I immediately felt joy, almost as if I was actually sharing it with them. And of course, the truth is that I was sharing it with them, because we three are part of a unified and harmonious reality. Every person, animal, and plant in the world seems to be separate from every other, but the simple fact is that we are all inextricably joined together. No one is really separate from anyone else, any more than my hand is separate from my body. The atoms that make up all of our bodies were created simultaneously at the time of the “big bang” some 15 billion years ago, and we’re all part of the harmonious universe that’s been dancing along ever since. After passing the happy couple, I began to wonder how I would feel if my hand were wearing a beautiful ring. Would I be envious of the hand because it looked so beautiful, so happy ? Of course not. I would know that that the hand and I are part of the same body, and therefore I would smile at its handsome appearance.

And, since the cheerful couple and I are part of the same "body" called the Universe, I can smile, too, at their lovely appearance. I can be grateful for what the Universe (sometimes called God, Allah, and many other names) has accomplished, both in me and in them.

Journal: Saturday, May 6, 2006

I realize that there are great works of art in museums all over the world, but I also know – and was reminded of it today – that there are stunning masterpieces all around me at every moment. What prompted this reflection was a walk I just returned from, a short stroll in our town’s lovely park. I was astonished by the beauty I saw there as the trees and flowers and sky and sunset showed off their finest spring colors. I sat on a bench for a while and gazed at a dozen different views, each one capturing a piece of the radiant scene. Each glance was a view of a work of art that outdid the finest paintings in the best museums. As I walked back home for dinner, I saw some more lovely views – the houses with the evening light on them, a car sitting beneath the pale green leaves of a tree, and two young women walking along under the early evening sky. Wherever I looked, there seemed to be a picture worth studying the way I might study a painting in a museum. My little town seemed filled with artistic masterworks. It led me to wonder whether people who travel far distances to visit museums might be missing the museums in their own neighborhoods. I was reminded of Thoreau’s famous response when someone asked him why he didn’t travel more to visit faraway places: “Why should I travel to faraway places when so much is happening in Benson’s meadow?” I feel the same way. So much is happening right outside my house – so much that is dramatically beautiful. I guess I’ll start thinking about journeying to museums in New York, Paris, and London when I’ve thoroughly appreciated the paintings nature does for me right down the street in the park.

Journal: Friday, May 5, 2006

I had minor surgery this morning, and it turned out to be – strangely enough – a gratifying experience. It was an outpatient procedure, so I spent last night at home (a good sleep), and awoke early for a “pre-op” walk in the park, which was especially lovely on this spring morning. The trees were overflowing with young leaves and blossoms, a mild breeze was moving here and there, and an air of peaceful solitude pervaded the entire place. I strolled peacefully along, listening to the morning bird songs and thinking comforting thoughts. My son Matt drove me to the hospital at 6:30, and by 7:00 I was on the table, fading off into oblivion as the sedative I-V dripped into my arm. The nurse who prepared me for the procedure was gentle and calming, as was the doctor and the assistant. In what seemed like seconds, I was woozily awakening in the recovery room. As I gradually regained my senses, I was carefully tended to for another hour or so, once again by nurses who knew the value of kindness and consideration. They seemed to be constantly smiling, and spoke only in the softest and most gracious tones. As I was finally wheeled down to the taxi that would drive me the few blocks to my house, I wondered how it is that an inconvenient and somewhat scary thing like surgery can end up being almost a pleasant experience.

Journal: Thursday, May 4, 2006

I’m going into the hospital tomorrow for some minor surgery, and, amazingly, I’m sort of looking forward to it. I guess I’m thinking of it as another adventure in my adventurous life. Each day, I embark on countless adventures as I teach my classes, talk with friends and strangers, see new sights, and think new thoughts, and tomorrow will simply be another interesting voyage into the unknown. Indeed, it’s completely unknown territory for me, not having had surgery in decades and rarely having been inside a hospital. Some people will be embarking on strange adventures tomorrow by starting off on safaris or beginning a new job; I will begin my journey by walking into Westerly Hospital at 6:30 a.m. Actually, I’m feeling oddly strong and relaxed about the whole thing. I know I belong to a universe that always does the right thing for itself and all of its parts, so I’m confident things will happen as they should. I’m sure I’ll be taken care of and the results will be the best ones for me and everyone involved. I’m also sure that I won’t be alone. At the same time as I’m undergoing my procedure, literally millions of other people around the world will be going through challenging, and perhaps scary, experiences. While I’m experiencing this fairly routine medical treatment, countless others will be enduring far more difficult circumstances. I’ll think of them tomorrow morning. Perhaps we can mentally join hands and get through our adventures together.

On Teaching: "Expressing Juice"

The word “express” is often used in conversations about education, as in “I want to help the children express themselves in writing”, but I haven’t often considered the word in the sense that it’s used in this sentence: “I am going to express the juice from an orange.” Here, we’re talking about doing something that takes effort and labor. We can’t get the rich juice out of the orange except by applying pressure to it, by squeezing it and thus forcing it to yield its sweet treasure. If there’s no compressing, there’s no juice. There may be an application here to my work as an English teacher of middle school students, for it is no doubt true that I sometimes must apply pressure in order to get the students to reveal the wisdom and artistry inside them. I guess you could say I have to squeeze my students now and then, because when I do, the best ideas sometimes start flowing like the juice from an orange. They are wonderful kids as they sit before me in class, but, like oranges, the real miracles are inside them. I express luxuriant juice from an orange, and I express ideas and creativity from my students.

On Teaching: "The Importance of Not Taking Things Seriously"

As a teacher, I can't think of a more important piece of advice for me than the title of this paragraph, for it points to a basic understanding of the truth of reality. Unfortunately, I often have a basic mis-understanding of the truth. I often fall into a hypnotic state in which I see reality as made up of countless material objects and forces, all of which I must take very seriously precisely because they are the essential elements of reality. In this state of mind, I see each event, each person, and each experience as being loaded with significance for my life. My survival literally depends on taking these events, persons, and experiences very seriously indeed. However, the title of my paragraph this morning reminds me that underneath this belief of a chaotic and threatening material reality lies the simple truth that life is one, infinite, and harmonious. All of the myriad events, persons, and experiences that enter life are simply the waves on the surface of an infinite ocean. The waves ceaselessly come and go, but the vast ocean remains whole and harmonious, just as infinite Life remains whole and harmonious while the varied elements of "my" life are rising and falling, entering and leaving, living and dying. So today, no matter what might happen on the "surface" of life, I can rest comfortably in the assurance that the great sea of reality is endlessly working its miracles underneath everything. The students may get a little unruly, or a class may not go exactly as I had planned, or some unexpected news may come my way, but whatever happens to this supposedly separate entity called "me", consolation will always come in the realization that, beneath it all, everything is fine, well-balanced, perfect, and exactly as it should be. In the midst of the worst news possible, I can quietly smile simply because I don't take any event, person, or experience very seriously. I only take seriously the immeasurable and harmonious universe, of which we are all a part.

On Teaching: "The Importance of 'Passive Voice'"

For many years, I have been teaching my students to avoid using the "passive voice" in their writing, because I want them to make the subjects of their sentences the doers of the action. I tell them that "I threw the ball" is better than "The ball was thrown". However, yesterday as I was walking in the park, I suddenly realized that the passive voice has a place in life, even if it should be steered away from in writing. The passive voice, after all, suggests that there is no doer of the action, but just the action itself. No individual person threw the ball; the throwing just happened. In one sense, of course, this sounds ridiculous; of course someone threw the ball. But in another sense -- a more spiritual one -- there's a wonderful truth in the passive voice. It reminds us that, while all of us are indeed individuals, we are, more importantly, part of an infinite force (sometimes called God, or Allah, or other names), and it is this force that actually causes everything that happens. It may appear that a separate person is throwing the ball or teaching the English class, but actually, from a spiritual viewpoint, the grand, limitless Universe is doing the throwing and the teaching. There is no individual doer, only the one universal Doer. Perhaps, when I describe what happens in my English classes, I should more carefully acknowledge who or what exactly does the teaching. Instead of "I had a good class today", I could say, "A good class happened today." Instead of believing that a single, isolated person called a "teacher" caused the learning to happen, I could use the passive voice to show that a far, far greater force than any one person was involved in creating whatever education happened.

On Teaching: "The True Miracles of the Universe"

I’ve been thinking lately about architectural marvels, and how we are always astonished in the presence of majestic buildings but rarely, I fear, in the presence of majestic people. It may seem odd, at first, to describe people as being “majestic”, but to my mind there is no skyscraper or monument that can come close to equaling the magnificence that exists in a human being. You can travel around the world in search of architectural wonders, but all you have to do is observe the person next to you in line at the supermarket to see the greatest wonder of them all. Skyscrapers are amazing, but human beings are way beyond amazing. Take my students, for example. Each of them was created by this zillion-year-old universe, the same infinite universe that makes stars and storms and daffodils. Each of my students shares atoms with the entire universe (atoms that were created billions of years ago), and each is literally born again each moment as oxygen is taken in and cells are purified and renewed. Even more importantly, my students are wonders of mental magic. Each moment a thought comes to them (who knows from where), and each of these thoughts (being non-material) knows no boundaries and cannot be injured or destroyed. Each of their thoughts is like a drop in the infinite ocean of the universe, a drop which will send out ripples for ever. I could go on and on. My students, and all of us, are the true miracles of the universe. I should behold my students today the way I would behold an astonishing building -- with awe and utter disbelief.