POEM: Easy

It’s easy to see leaves
leaning one way and another,
or a sky in silver above him.
Holding things is also easy –
lemons that resemble lights
in his hands, and books
with signals flashing inside.
He knows it’s easy to listen
to spoken words
because they’re made of soft air
and thoughts,
and to sit still
on this gracefully spinning planet.

POEM: A+ Days

There are days
when everything seems correct.
The cars are just the way
they must be,
the streets lie where they were laid,
every wind waits
for the perfect time to puff.
On those days every thought
seems like a shining stone,
every feeling falls like a feather.
On those distinguished days,
even a plastic bag
discarded on the sidewalk
is wrinkled in a way
that seems flawlessly right.

POEM: Looking for Limits

He sometimes tries to find
the limits of things like love.
Can you love only so much
and then it finishes at a fence
or peters out like a small stream?
Is love like a savings account
that could quietly come to an end,
and then no more money
or love?

He thinks the answer
is no, for each day
he rides on a sea
that has no shore,
is borne along by breezes
that never began.

JOURNAL: August 31, 2006

Yesterday everything seemed to happen just as it was meant to happen – thoroughly and correctly. Whatever I found myself involved in – meetings, conversations, meals, driving somewhere, teaching a class – seemed to be precisely what I should be doing at that time, and I seemed to be doing it perfectly. Everything occurred the way it was meant to occur. You might say, I guess, that yesterday was an ideal, faultless day. That’s not to say that everything went exactly the way I wanted it to, or the way I had planned. Nor is it to say that no mistakes were made. Like any other day, my personal plans were occasionally thwarted or sidetracked, and I wish I could do a few things over again and do them a little differently. However, it’s still undoubtedly true that whatever happened yesterday was exactly what was supposed to happen. Even the mistakes had some purpose, some value, some importance which I hope I will someday understand. It was a day when the universe carried on with its harmonious, perfect work, and I enjoyed being part of it.

POEM: Counting Memories

He once thought he would count
all his memories,
but he stopped
when he got to the thousands.
It was a night
when he was standing
on a silver hillside
in December. Overhead
the stars were sailing together,
and he knew
he was surrounded by distances
of kindness and concord.
Memories sometimes passed him
like wafts of wind.

POEM: To Be a Teacher

TO BE A TEACHER

To be a teacher,
you must stand directly
in the fires of the present moment.
You must hold up your sincerity
like a signal light.
Your music must be swing
and smooth jazz
and the lonesome blues.
You must make the mountains
a struggle to climb.
Your heart must be the lake
that lets in every river and stream.
Your thoughts must be like
spears or flashlights or nets
or shovels or clubs
or stars rising in the darkness.
Your lessons must have wings.
You must speak the words
of both frost and summer,
as well as those that unfasten hearts.
You must test the tightrope
each day.

JOURNAL: August 30, 2006

During the last few days, it seemed like memory played an extraordinarily large role in my life. Case in point: I had my first college class on Monday, and I found it remarkable how many principles of good teaching I recalled as the class proceeded. I loved teaching the class (that first class of the year is always particularly thrilling for me), partly because so many of those great truths about teaching kept coming back to me. After 40 years of teaching, I guess my memory bank is overflowing with ideas, and on Monday night, thankfully, they flowed back in a steadily inspiring way. I’ve also been enjoying an unexpected number of memories as I prepare to teach my middle-school students. Teaching teenagers is a joyful but sometimes bewildering task, and my countless memories of successes (and failures) inevitably make it easier to locate the right path. This past week, I have recalled an unusual number of rock-solid truths that will help me make this a good year for my young students. And finally, as I prepare for a quick visit with my large extended family in St. Louis (including my flourishing 90-year-old mother), it’s odd how many memories are coming back to me. I have eight siblings, four of my own children, and something like 40 nephews and nieces, all of whom have provided me with wonderful memories. I’ve been enjoying them this week, along with the memories of my unforgettable many years as a teacher of children and adults.

POEM: What Happened AT 4:42 a.m.

He rolled a blue pencil
back and forth on his brown desk,
a car rushed past his house,
someone closed a door somewhere,
fires flared under stars
in a far-flung land,
the little planet we ride
played an unsophisticated song,
and the universe flashed along
faster and faster.

POEM: Getting Lost

He lost himself one day.
He didn’t know where he was,
whether swirling among stars
or simply sitting at his desk
as the sun ascended east of Westerly.
It was embarrassing, of course.
A person should always know
precisely where he is,
but now he had lost himself.
He whistled,
hoping that Ham would hear,
perhaps on the highest mountain passes,
or in the districts of the sea,
or just at his desk
as Tuesday takes off across the sky.

ON TEACHING: Daily Celebrations

Since I read in my favorite dictionary that one meaning of celebrate is "to observe (a day or event) with ceremonies of respect, festivity, or rejoicing", I’ve been wondering if we could do some of this kind of celebrating in my classroom this year. Surely we all want to respect each other from the start of each class to the end, and perhaps it could be a sort of celebratory thing. Since we celebrate certain holidays out of respect for a person or an event, why couldn't my students and I celebrate a kind of holiday each day in English class, out of respect for each other. We don't need to have a parade or barbecues to do this; all we need to do is treat each class like a respectful celebration in honor of some dedicated students and a hard-working teacher. We could even think of English class as a series of festivities. After all, the word festive derives from the Latin word for a feast, and I certainly like to think of my classes as being feasts for the mind. Each day I spread out books and lessons like carefully prepared dishes for my students, hoping they will find them "tasty" and satisfying. When they enter my room, they are entering my "home" for a special banquet of ideas -- a banquet which I always hope will be thoroughly unforgettable for my students. Lastly, the dictionary uses the word rejoicing, and perhaps it's not too much to hope that my students will occasionally feel like rejoicing during my classes. English class, after all, should be about changing lives through fine reading and writing, and wouldn't we want to rejoice if we felt our life changing for the better? We might not clap and slap each other on the backs during my classes, but maybe we can regularly do some silent, inward rejoicing because of what we're learning. It's the kind of celebrating any teacher would love to see in his classroom.

POEM: Cleaning His Glasses

He cleaned his glasses,
and then everything seemed special.
It was strange how easy it was.
Just a small act
like spraying his glasses
and wiping them
with a white paper towel
made his whole world
suddenly seem surprising.
The cup on the counter
looked like a precious museum piece,
and the pencils on his desk
were models of flawless construction.
He walked across the carpet
like a king. He looked
out the window
at a world that never ends.

ON TEACHING: "Bearing Gifts"

In my classroom this year, infinite riches will be brought to each class. My students, for instance, will walk through the door bearing marvelous gifts. They will carry inside them thoughts of an unlimited variety, many of which they will bestow on the rest of us through our class conversations. The students may not have a dollar in their pockets, but the ideas they bring will add up to untold wealth. I, too, will carry ideas to class – not really “my own”, but ones I’ve borrowed from innumerable sources as the years have passed. They were freely given to me by the world, and I will freely give them to my students each day. (After all, those who have been given much must give away much.) What’s odd about all this is that both my students and I will often be totally unaware of the gifts we carry to class. If someone said, “It’s so nice of you to bring so many thoughts as gifts to class”, we might say “Huh?”

Strange – from September to June we will enter my classroom (both college and middle school) loaded down with gifts, and we often won’t even know it.

JOURNAL: August 28, 2006

I spent a wonderful afternoon yesterday with my two grandchildren and their families. Around 3:00, I drove up to Brooklyn, CT, to Jaimie, Jess, and little Noah’s house in the forest, and then we drove together up to Millbury to visit with Luke, Krissy, Kaylee, and baby Josh (who’s almost 3 months old). It was a stormy day, the rain slanting down on the roads as we drove along, but we brightened things up in the car with conversation. Noah and I sat comfortably in the back, chatting and enjoying each other’s company. We had a lovely time at Luke and Krissy’s, partly because Josh was in an especially fine mood. He cooed and smiled and waved his arms and generally took pleasure in being alive. For over two hours he was the contented prince of the household. As we ate dinner, he sat happily in his new bouncy chair, as though presiding in his innocent way over the festivities. I was thrilled to be there. As I often do when I’m at family gatherings, I said many silent prayers of gratitude for the gifts I’ve received in my life, a great family being the finest gift of all. As I watched my sons and their families enjoying life so much, I almost couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to be a part of it all. It seemed too good to be true.
* * * * *

A CELEBRATION

One morning,

he thought he’d celebrate

by buying a bagel and coffee

at the shop on the corner.

It couldn’t have been easier.

The universe was celebrating

(a car cruising along Spring Street,

someone coughing in a small house,

a skirt of sunlight showing off

in the eastern sky),

so why shouldn’t he?

The butter on the bagel

was the best ever,

and the coffee couldn’t wait

to get to his lips.

POEM: Steadiness

He’s noticed
the second hand of his watch
moving unfailingly
in the midst of a fierce storm.
He’s seen it stay its course
when his days were collapsing like sticks,
and when his whole life
seemed to be slowing to a stop.
The second hand
keeps control of itself.
On his bedside table at night,
it does its quiet work
while his heart is doing its
and the steady stars
are doing theirs.

ON TEACHING: A Good Fit

Lately, I’ve been mulling over the word “fit”, discovering different ways that it “fits” with my work as a teacher. The first definition given in one dictionary is to be the proper size and shape for someone, as in: “These shoes fit me.” It’s interesting to think of my English class as being like a properly fitting pair of shoes. It’s a wonderful feeling to slip on shoes in a store and, because of the comfort you feel as you test them out, instantly know that they fit, and perhaps I can bring that kind of feeling to my students. “Here”, I can say to them, “try on this lesson today. I have a feeling it will fit beautifully.” Of course, I have to be alert to the possibility that the lessons might not fit some of the students, in which case I’ll have to make use of the second definition of “fit”: To cause to be the proper shape and size, as in “The tailor fitted the pants by shortening them.” I guess I’ll have to be sort of a tailor-teacher – one who constantly takes his lessons into the back room and alters, cuts, styles, and shapes them until all the students have a good fit. After all, a student who is taking an ill-fitting English class is about as uncomfortable as a person wearing pants two sizes two small. A third definition is: To equip or outfit, as in “fit out a ship”, and this definition applies particularly to what I’ve been doing these last few weeks. I’ve spent long hours at school “fitting out” the good ship of my classroom for the long nine-month voyage ahead. I’ve laid in supplies and carefully arranged everything so that our journey will be safe and profitable. I’m the captain of this sturdy ship, and I must make certain it is properly equipped for the long classes ahead.

POEM: The Source

The coffee was brewing
because the thought to brew it
occurred to him,
but why did the thought occur?
Where, he wondered, was the source
of that thought that was causing
several cups of sweet-smelling coffee
to come into being? He studied
this question for a few minutes,
making his way in his mind
through hours and days and decades
and centuries and eons.
He stared out the window
to a sky that was endless.
Slowly the apartment filled
with infinite space and stars
and the fragrance of fine coffee.

JOURNAL: August 26, 2006

Yesterday was a very successful day. It began with a fine workout at the gym at around 6:00 am. On the stationary bike, I started slowly and gradually built up speed and resistance until I could feel my heart working vigorously. In my own small way, I felt like a victorious athlete when I got off the bike soaked with perspiration. I then spent a profitable few hours in my classroom, sorting things out and generally preparing for the first day of school. It wasn’t especially hard work and I didn’t come up with any particularly spectacular ideas for my teaching, but I nonetheless felt like a winning teacher when I shut off the lights and left. I felt like I had put in the kind of time that’s necessary if I want to be a teacher of any consequence. Then, in the evening I drove down to Chester with friends for a delightful dinner at one of our favorite cafes. It wasn’t as though I did anything exceptionally wonderful (the tab was picked up by one of my friends), nor was I particularly important to the conversation, but I nevertheless felt like a good friend at the end of the evening. It was great to see our old friendship thriving so well after all these years.

POEM: Splurging

He decided to splurge,
so he used several squares of paper towels
instead of just one.
He felt them nestle in his hands
like soft birds,
and when he used them
as napkins at lunch,
they brushed his mouth and hands
like smooth wings.
While he was sitting in his house
spoiling himself,
outside he could see rain
effortlessly descending to the grass.

POEM: Late Summer Light

He’s never sure
what the light of his life
will be these days.
It could be his old car
which sometimes begins to shine
as he walks toward it.
Or perhaps it will be the belief
in the benevolence of things
that he carries inside him
like a secret street light
that shows the way.
It might even be the many trees
he’ll pass throughout the day,
their leaves shaking
like little lamps.

ON TEACHING: Sharing

As the first day of school approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of sharing, and I found three definitions in the American Heritage dictionary that have been helpful. First, the dictionary gives this meaning – “to divide and parcel out in shares” – which suggests a spreading around of wealth, and there certainly will be wealth in my classroom this year. Each of us will bring a treasure trove of ideas to class each day (more than we can ever be aware of), and all the riches will be laid out for everyone to share. My classes will be like prosperous “idea companies” coming together each day to dole out the profits. Another meaning given for “share” is “to participate in, use, enjoy, or experience jointly or in turns”, as in “They all shared the chocolate cake together.” I don’t dare to presume that my classes will be as rich and pleasurable as chocolate cakes, but I do hope we will have the feeling that we are taking part in something fun and rewarding. Perhaps I’ll try to think of each class as a special cake I have baked for my students. A final definition from the dictionary states that “to share” means to “relate (a secret or experience, for example) to another or others”. I like this, because I do think of myself as someone filled with extraordinary secrets about the beauty of literature and good writing, secrets which I will spend this year sharing with my students. Someone passing my room might see us huddled together in discussion, as if passing secrets about a wonderful book around to each other. Hopefully whoever passes will stop in to join in the sharing.

JOURNAL: August 25, 2006

Several truths became clear to me yesterday. First, it’s obvious that summer tutoring is an almost effortless way of earning money. I guess I’ve been doing it for so many years that it’s become as easy as sitting in a comfortable chair in an air-conditioned library and chatting with some very cordial young people. Perhaps it’s the sense of luxury and well-being I feel in the library, or perhaps its just the utter goodness of the students; whatever the reason, this summer’s teaching has been a joy. I’ve earned a sizeable amount of money, and there’s no doubt I’ve had great fun doing it. It also became apparent to me yesterday that working out in the morning before school has many advantages. My morning workout yesterday was neither easy nor especially enjoyable, but I reaped the benefits later in the day. I felt stronger and livelier almost from the start, and it was wonderful to realize that I had gotten that most difficult chore of the day over with. I sort of floated through the day, knowing that, instead of going to the gym in the afternoon, I could practice some welcome indolence and idleness.

JOURNAL: August 24, 2006

Yesterday supplied many rewarding experiences for me. In the morning, I worked with five students who seemed to genuinely want to learn. Yes, it was a lovely summer morning and they were yawning and distracted a good part of the time, but they were all trying their best to be good tutorial students. Our sessions together were both relaxing and productive. In the afternoon, I had a wonderful workout in the park, marred only by a regrettable encounter with some young boys. I was dutifully climbing up and down the stone steps when a group of boys asked me for some money to get a drink. When I said no and continued walking, I heard them mutter some unkind things about my stinginess. It was sad to find some meanness in the midst of the beautiful park. In the evening, I went to some friends’ house for dinner and enjoyed a perfectly pleasant evening. Their house was filled with good cheer and sincerity. We enjoyed excellent food and the best kind of satisfying conversation.

POEM: Early One Morning

When he stood
and looked out the window
and saw a few leaves falling,
he decided to fall too,
down to his bed once more.
The mattress seemed as soft
as a place in the park
where he loved to sit
and read Shakespeare
as the planet he was riding
rushed easily through
the resting universe.

Before his eyes closed again,
he noticed a single leaf
fluttering past the window
with no effort whatsoever.

JOURNAL: August 23, 2006

Yesterday there was a feeling of efficiency in nearly everything that happened. At school, I sat quietly and comfortably with my tutorial students, and we accomplished quite a lot. Even though I hadn’t carefully planned any specific lessons (I find that I don’t need to when I’m tutoring), the sessions seemed to proceed in a well-organized fashion. The minutes passed quickly because we were absorbed in our work and getting much accomplished. Later, when I hiked up and down the steps at the park, I felt like a competent exerciser. I wasn’t Superman, but I did feel like a healthy and hearty sixty-four-year-old. I walked briskly and confidently, and felt wonderful afterwards as I strolled home to my apartment. Still later, I spent a resourceful hour or so in the park before dinner, quietly thinking through some ideas for this year’s teaching. A pleasant breeze was stirring the tree limbs, and some productive ideas were stirring in my mind. I wrote notes in my journal in an especially tidy script, loving the look of the thoughts as they were capably set down on the page.

POEM: A Celebration

One morning,
he thought he’d celebrate
by buying a bagel and coffee
at the shop on the corner.
It couldn’t have been easier.
The universe was celebrating
(a car cruising along Spring Street,
someone coughing in a small house,
a skirt of sunlight showing off
in the eastern sky),
so why shouldn’t he?
The butter on the bagel
was the best ever,
and the coffee couldn’t wait
to get to his lips.

POEM: His Blue Angels

There are lights inside words.
Sometimes he sees them clearly
as he's typing a poem.
The words signal him from his computer,
like small planes
moving across the sky of the screen.
The cursor shows the way,
flashing on and off
as the words perform
their routines.

POEM: The Center

Yesterday he found the center of his life.
It was a small piece of scrap paper
resting in the grass in the park.
The instant he saw it,
he knew it was exactly where it must be.
Perhaps that’s why it was shining
like a small star
on that overcast afternoon.
Someone had tossed it aside,
not realizing its value,
its loveliness when sitting in the hand
of a teacher who happened to be passing.
He held this piece of paper
like you might hold something holy,
like the universe holds him
precisely where he should be.

JOURNAL: August 22, 2006

I’m feeling more and more excited as the new school year approaches. Yesterday, in fact, my excitement began to border on fear. Off and on during the day, I had this feeling (and I’ve had it in previous years) that, come September 4, I would be heading off into an immense wilderness with very few maps and supplies. It came to me, over and over again, that this business of teaching children is an utterly colossal undertaking, one which I am actually ill-prepared for. It’s as if I’m going to be blasting off on a journey to the moon, and I know absolutely nothing about space or space ships! I suppose there’s some exaggeration in that statement, but not much, I’m afraid. As a teacher, I am involved in a thrilling but dumbfounding enterprise. My students and I are infinitely complex parts of an infinitely complex universe, and to pretend that I understand how we work and how the universe works well enough to be even a mildly astute teacher is just plain foolishness. I’m afraid the truth is that I will be walking in a great darkness, just feeling my way, hoping I do no harm. Of course, there’s another way to look at it – a more heartening way. If my students and I are parts of a universe that has been successfully creating and expanding for billions of years, perhaps I can simply trust that universe to continue being productive after September 4. If I do my best, the Universe (which is my name for God) will continue to do its best – and its “best” has proven to be fairly wonderful. That’s a reassuring thought. I guess I can breathe a little easier now as I go about the happy task of preparing for another school year.

JOURNAL: August 21, 2006

Yesterday I was fortunate to spend many happy hours with my two flourishing grandsons. First, I stopped in to see Noah, who just returned with his mom and dad from three weeks on the coast of Maine. When I went into the house, he was pretending to be napping on the couch, so I tip-toed over and placed my head beside and pretended to be asleep also. He smiled, took my hand, and we proceeded to have fun together (with Jaimie and Jess, too) for a short time before I had to leave to get up to Millbury on schedule to visit 10-week old Josh. There, Luke, Krissy, and I enjoyed a Subway lunch (with Luke holding Josh contentedly against him in the sling), before Krissy took off for an afternoon of freedom with some of her friends. Luke and I had the pleasure of caring for the little boy together, then, feeding him a bottle, rocking him, making ridiculous faces to try to entertain him. He got a little fussy, though, so Luke took over (Josh fell quickly asleep in the sling) and I went out and mowed their small lawn. It was a lovely day, and I had great fun working on the lawn. It’s been years since I did that kind of work, and it was a pleasure to see, once again, how nice a lawn looks after a good trimming. Afterwards, I gave Luke and young Josh a hug and drove back to Westerly, smiling all the way.

ON TEACHING: Kids and Caterpillars

As I was reading this morning about the metamorphosis of caterpillars into butterflies, I began to wonder whether the same kind of astonishing transformation happens in people, and specifically my students. Every year across the earth, trillions of caterpillars undergo a complete transformation – a change so thorough that it literally remakes them into entirely new creatures. A butterfly is not just a re-tooled caterpillar; it’s a completely new and different animal. As one writer put it, it would be as if you dropped off a bicycle at the repair shop and when you came back, it had turned into a 747 jumbo jet. This marvelous rebirth happens on a daily basis all over the world, and I wonder if it might also happen in my classroom, without my realizing it. If tiny worm-like creatures can magically become butterflies, then perhaps my students can transform themselves into something new and amazing. Maybe it happens every day, right in front of me – as the students are analyzing a passage from Shakespeare, or writing paragraphs, or just gazing out at the promising trees and sky. Maybe they are becoming brand new, over and over again, before my very eyes. After all, few of us have ever stopped to notice and marvel at a caterpillar as it’s going through its metamorphosis, and, similarly, perhaps I’ve just never been aware of the radical changes that are happening all around me in my classroom. Perhaps “butterflies” have been bursting out on a daily basis, and I’ve never known it.

JOURNAL: August 20, 2006

Yesterday, for the 40th consecutive year, I had the great pleasure of spending a day in my classroom preparing it for the upcoming year. Weather-wise, it was as perfect a day as I can recall. An enjoyable breeze was blowing in through the big screens, and I could see the sunshine flashing in the trees as I worked. As I went about my chores, I pictured other people out and about, enjoying the mild, spring-like air, but I was thrilled to be exactly where I was, wandering around this classroom that would be “home” for my students and me for the next nine months. I didn’t rush my work, which is what made it so pleasant. There’s no hurry. The students won’t be walking through my door for another two weeks, so I have plenty of time to allow everything to fall into place in the room. And actually, “allow” is a good word to use, because I had the distinct and wonderful feeling yesterday that “I” wasn’t doing anything. Somehow, ideas were occurring and actions were happening by themselves, with little interference from me. I guess the Great Spirit of education was present in my classroom, and all I did was listen and follow it around. I hope I can dutifully listen and follow it all the way to June.

POEM: A Well-Lit Room

He’s amazed to see the light
shining in the refrigerator
whenever he opens it.
It looks like a bright room
with food sitting around
in ease and style.
Everything is plainly visible --
a milk bottle in its brilliant white shirt,
some peaches with pink cheeks,
bunches of broccoli
relaxing together on the bottom shelf.
Far in the rear,
even a few pickles
can be clearly seen,
resting and waiting
for someone to call them
to come out for lunch.

JOURNAL: August 18, 2006

Yesterday’s weather was lovely – almost spring- or autumn-like, with a silver sky and a fresh breeze constantly blowing. I spent the morning at a student’s house, working on his writing skills as we sat in the sunny dining room looking out on a flower-filled yard. I could also see, through the shrubs, the bluish water of their swimming pool, the water swirling softly because of pumps. We accomplished a lot, partly, I think, because of the beautiful weather. In the afternoon, I enjoyed the day by loading my backpack with 25 pound weights and hiking up and down the long hill beside my house five times. It was actually fairly warm by that time, and I was hot and wet with perspiration before long. I persisted, however, and felt better and better as I climbed the hill again and again. Afterwards, I relaxed in the shade in the park and read a chapter of Dickens, always a rewarding experience.

POEM: Morning Steps

He often listens
for the steps of the new day
outside his house.
It’s always quiet
as it draws near,
but sometimes he can sense it
holding its breath beside the window,
bursting with enthusiasm.
Sometimes he hears the morning
make a sound like satisfaction,
but always just in a whisper,
like a soft new wind that wants to share
its self-confidence with someone.
He listens carefully
to hear the sound of sunshine
as it steps among the trees
distributing its favors.

POEM: Getting Wisdom

He went out to get some wisdom.
He told his friends
he’d be back soon,
but, alas, the sky was too blue
and the morning sunlight
was making graceful music.
He stopped at a coffee shop
where a conversation carried him away
on its wings,
and then he saw a man on Main Street
making his life lovely
just by waiting at a crosswalk.
A truck passed him
exactly the way it should,
followed by a wind
that had been wandering across the earth
for eons. It was hours
before he returned to his friends,
for he found some thoughts
flowing like the sweetest river.

JOURNAL: August 17, 2006

Yesterday, around 7:00 p.m., I spent about thirty minutes in the park enjoying a perfectly splendid evening. A pleasant breeze was swirling around me, the late sunlight was lighting up the trees and shrubs in soft ways, and a few people were walking here and there, obviously finding some pleasure in the beautiful park. I just sat under a spreading tree, taking it all in and feeling very grateful. I also read part of a chapter from Dombey and Son, going even more slowly than usual and enjoying Dickens writing even more than I normally do. I savored the words. I stopped whenever I wished and read a passage over again, which got me thinking that perhaps I should ask my students to do that. Instead of worrying about rushing to get through the reading assignment, perhaps I should encourage them to truly appreciate at least part of the assigned pages rather than dashing through the pages to complete the assignment. After all, they can always go to Sparknotes to find out what happened – and is that really so terrible? (If you visited a beautiful island and fell in love with a small part of it, would it be wrong to ask a resident for a quick description of the rest of the island??)

POEM: How a Poem Was Made

Somehow his hands came to the keyboard,
and somehow his fingers found the keys
to send certain words to the computer screen.
It was quite astonishing, really,
just as the passing of a car on the street was,
just as the breeze that brushed
against the window screen was.
He didn’t know how it was happening.
His fingers kept flowing along
like dancers who did what they must.
The words strutted across the screen
effortlessly, to his absolute amazement.
He was sitting in his chair
as if he had just been set down there
by the stars in the sky,
sharing the work
to get a small poem made.

JOURNAL: August 16, 2006

Yesterday the universe, as usual, did everything right, and I was one of the beneficiaries. My morning spiritual reading went very well (starting at 4:00 a.m. in the silent darkness), after which I went for an inspiring walk in the park. Breakfast was especially delicious, and my tutoring sessions in the morning were efficient and enjoyable. I spend the afternoon working on my curriculum for the coming year, which is always an enjoyable task. I sat at my desk at home and slowly got some lessons organized as a pleasant breeze blew through the screen. The minutes passed in total peacefulness.

POEM: A Thrill

Sometimes he feels a happy thought
pulling him along its quiet road.
When this happens, he relaxes
and lets the thought have the thrill
of showing him the countryside.
It’s best that way,
just allowing the thought
to lead him to new insights --
perhaps a shy truth
standing by the side of the road,
or a sea made of startling feelings
spreading out ahead.

Usually this happens in the early morning,
when the day is just starting to tow
its pleasant surprises across the land.

JOURNAL: August 15, 2006

The delightful weather has continued these last few days. A fresh breeze has been almost constantly blowing, which has made it especially pleasurable to be outside. Regrettably, I have spent most of my time inside (tutoring and working at school), but when I did get out occasionally, I loved the feeling of the cool wind. It was a treat just to walk from one building to another at school. My early morning walk yesterday was an even better treat, since it happened when the temperature was an almost nippy 53 and the clear morning sky was just beginning to lighten with the sun. I paced up and down the steps in the park with confidence, going slowly enough to appreciate the joy of it, but fast enough to feel the muscles in my legs working hard. Afterwards, I enjoyed my cup of coffee and toast with blueberry jelly with special enthusiasm. However, perhaps my best memory of the wonderful weather these past days is of some friends and I walking up Water Street last night after having dinner at a cafe. It was a perfectly beautiful evening, with a sunset disappearing in the sky and the loveliest breeze imaginable blowing. The trees were throwing themselves around as though they were entirely happy with the way things were. As I drove back to Westerly, I felt pretty happy myself.

POEM: Falling Asleep

It’s so easy now
because he’s done it so often.
(Twenty-three thousand times, at least.)
And actually, he doesn’t do it.
He doesn’t say, “It’s now 9:00.
and I have to do my job
of falling asleep.” No,
the sleep simply happens,
like a sunset does,
or like a stirred-up pond settles
back to its peaceful state.
His thoughts have been running races all day,
and now they are strewn on the grass,
exhausted and resting.
All his feelings have fallen
into silky nests.
His hard-working heart
is opening and closing its doors
a little more slowly.
He knows that trustworthy sleep
will soon take his hand
and hold it,
just like the universe effortlessly cares
for everything.

POEM: Writing a Poem

What he had that morning
was a blue pencil on his desk,
a silver car on the street outside,
and a land of sunlight beyond.
You might say it wasn’t much,
but he smiled
and started to work.
First he let the pencil
sway across a piece of paper,
side to side,
for about fifteen minutes.
Then he imagined those words
riding in the silver car
like lucky winners of a contest.
The car passed over hills
in a vast land
until it was painted with pure light,
and then he imagined it
stopping again just outside his house.
The words stepped out of the car
and into his room
and on to the piece of paper,
where they sat down
the way a new poem should.

MEDITATION: Self-ishness

Self-ishness
Over the years I have heard people say things like “take care of yourself”, or “you worry too much about yourself”, and this morning I’ve been thinking about exactly what is implied by that use of “self”. Basically, it suggests a belief in a materialistic view of reality – a view that sees a universe composed entirely of separate material entities, of which each person, or “self”, is one. According to that view of reality, it is imperative that each person watch carefully over him or her "self", so as to protect it and help it prosper. This leads to an anxious, tense, worrisome way of living, since you’re always on guard to save your “self” from harm.

I prefer to live an entirely different way, based on my belief that the universe is made up of a single spiritual force, of which all of us are integral parts. There’s no tension or struggle involved in this kind of life, because only one force (sometimes called God, Allah, etc.) exists. If only one power exists, there can be no discord -- only endless, undefeatable harmony.

JOURNAL: August 13, 2006

The last few days have been delightfully cool and refreshing, perfect for any activity. Every time I went outside, I noticed the cooling air and the trees tossing in the pleasant breeze. The temperatures couldn’t have risen much above the high 70’s – just right for the beach, for walking in the park, or just for feeling the enjoyable air passing through the window and into the house. These days were wonderful gifts, and I used them well, I think. Yesterday Matt and I drove to the mall to do some “school shopping”. This will be his first year as a classroom teacher (3rd grade), and it’s an exciting time both for him and me. I love helping him as he prepares for the start of the school year. To me, there’s nothing more thrilling than getting organized for another year of teaching, and now I get to experience it for myself and for another son. (My older son Jaimie has been teaching 8th grade English for several years.) Matt and I went to several stores yesterday, just browsing to get ideas for our classrooms. I bought a set of inflatable blocks that I can use to promote book discussions, and Matt bought an excellent soft office chair, which he plans to use in his classroom for read-alouds and circle talks. It was a joyous experience for me to travel around on such a beautiful afternoon with my son the teacher, helping him get set for the beginning of a great adventure in September.

Later, I went to an outdoor party at a friend’s house, and it was lovely to stand on their lawn and talk with friends under the quiet and colorful evening sky – a perfect way to bring a perfect day to a close.

POEM: Surprises

One day he realized
that everything is a surprise.
He was walking under a sky
blossoming with sunshine,
and he suddenly understood
that each second of life discloses things
he never expected or could have guessed.
A moment is like an entrance
to a house of revelations,
an on-the-spot surprise party
that never ends.
It’s like unwrapping a present
every second of his life,
starting right then
as he walked through a thundershower
that showed up from nowhere.

POEM: Being Touched

Yesterday something special touched him.
He isn’t sure if it was just the sweet air
of the summer day,
or a certain breeze that passed through Westerly,
or perhaps the smile
of the girl at the coffee shop.
He knows something unusual
set its hand on him.
Was it a word that one of his students said,
just a simple word
that imperceptibly brushed against him?
Was it a thought
that let itself in through the door
and tapped him on the shoulder?
Or was it the pleasant sandwich he enjoyed
as he drove through the countryside
in the sitrring sunshine?

JOURNAL: August 11, 2006

No one could have had a happier day than I had yesterday. The entire day was peaceful and productive, but I’m thinking especially of the afternoon, when I spent a few hours in Millbury with my youngest grandchild, Joshua Michael Salsich. He’s been a bit of a challenge for Luke and Krissy (he’s an expert at crying), so I drove up again yesterday to lend a helping hand, and I was the winner in that arrangement. I was lucky enough to spend three hours walking with him in the sling against my chest, playing with him while he sat in the bouncy chair, and feeding him a bottle. I felt like I was in the presence of a miracle. As he took his bottle (on and off again over a period of an hour), we stared into each other’s eyes, and, in some ways, I felt as close to a person as I ever have. It was a magical time for me. On a pleasant summer afternoon, you can have your beach or your park; I’ll take a few hours with Josh Salsich anytime.

POEM: A Mess

One day there was a thought
that tasted like honey,
and another that tasted
like peas with sweet butter
spread across them.
Then a thought presented itself
like a plate of pasta
with a spicy red sauce,
followed by a thought
that sent up aromas
of strawberries freshly picked.
He grew confused.
The thoughts were spread out
on the table of his mind.
It was a mess, really,
but obviously a serene mess,
all the thoughts being
precisely where they must be.

JOURNAL: August 10, 2006

Yesterday was perhaps the finest day of the summer, weather-wise. I spent the morning tutoring at school, and every time I walked outside to take a break, I was impressed by the coolness and freshness of the air. After so many sultry days, the summer finally brought us a day for celebrating. I honestly felt like running around in the pleasant air, maybe even skipping or dancing.

In the afternoon, I sat in the park and read a chapter from Dombey and Son. (The suspense is building. Will the sinister Mr. Dombey get his revenge??) The weather, again, was absolutely perfect. A cool breeze rustled the pages of the book as I read, and the clear sunlight made the trees and grass shine in a special way.

In the evening at home, I listened to, and read, a very emotional scene from The Winter’s Tale. I was choked up as I turned the pages, and tears gathered in my eyes.

ON TEACHING: Labeling the Universe

This year I’m hoping I can avoid, as much as possible, attaching labels to my students. It won’t be easy, because labeling seems to be one of my most deeply ingrained habits. It’s natural for humans to want to grasp the meaning of things, and I seem to think I can do that simply by labeling everything. Almost as soon as I come into contact with a person, a situation, or a thing, I categorize it, label it, and then conveniently file it away in my mind and move on to something else. For countless years, teachers have fallen into this trap, and I am no exception. Without even being aware of it, I constantly affix labels to my students. I say to myself, “She’s a slow learner”, or “He has trouble with poetry”, or “She has ADD”, or “He’s a wonderful writer”, or “She’s one of the best readers I’ve ever taught.” I apparently believe that this process of labeling helps to significantly identify the student. By attaching a label, I appear to be convincing myself that I have a fairly good understanding of the boy or girl. The problem is that, whether a label is negative or positive, it ultimately has the effect of, not identifying the student, but actually masking the student’s identity. It’s similar to labeling a few constellations in the night sky and then saying you understand the universe. Each of my students – and I sincerely mean this – is as infinite and mysterious to me as the universe, and so attaching a label to him or her seems not only not helpful, but downright foolish. This year, instead of applying handy labels to my students, I should spend more time just appreciating, in an awestruck way, their vast inscrutability – as vast as the night sky above.

POEM: Tasting Words

He’s afraid to tell his friends this,
but one of his favorite things to do
is tasting words.
It actually makes sense.
After all, a poem is a soup,
and of course he has to carefully taste
each separate word
before he releases it into the pot.
Some special words
have the finest flavors,
and frequently he savors them
for many minutes as the poem
simmers on his desk.
If you passed his house at such a time,
you might see him
hunched over his desk,
smiling and licking his lips.

POEM: Writer's Block

One morning
he didn’t know what to write about,
so he didn’t.
He just sat in his writing chair
and let some thoughts take off
inside him like small planes.
He watched them with care
as they ascended –
graceful ideas by the dozens
rising up inside him.
There were thoughts about friends,
about throwing baseballs when he was a boy,
about making poems in the morning,
about coffee that comes
to help him awaken.
He watched the thoughts climb
and circle away
and slowly disappear.
He watched them
and wondered at their poise and loveliness,
these mysterious thoughts
that would never be part of a poem.

JOURNAL: August 8, 2006

Yesterday I began my summer tutoring sessions. I met with students throughout the morning in the comfort of the air-conditioned library at school, and it was about as pleasant a teaching experience as I’ve ever had. The students I worked with are cordial, well-mannered, ambitious kids, so each session was smooth and productive. The students seemed a little sluggish at the start of each session (they are, after all, still in the middle of the indolent summer break), but before long we were hunkered down in some helpful English exercises.

After lunch, I drove up to Millbury, MA, to visit with Krissy, Luke, Kaylee, and young (8-week-old) Joshua Michael. He’s been a challenging baby for the parents, and I’ve tried to help out as much as possible. Yesterday I once again wrapped the little fellow in the sling and walked back and forth in the shady yard for over two hours as he slept peacefully at my side. As I walked, I read and listened (on my iPod) to Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale¸ and enjoyed it immensely. It’s an astonishingly powerful play, though perhaps a strange one to read as you’re holding your sleeping grandson in your arms on a lovely summer day.

JOURNAL: August 7, 2006

The heat wave finally blew away on a few days ago, and we enjoyed a pleasant summer weekend here in Westerly. The beginning of the end for the sultry weather was a wild thunderstorm on Thursday evening -- one of the most ferocious storms I’ve ever witnessed. It only lasted about twenty minutes, but there were dozens (perhaps hundreds) of lightning bolts in that time. It was like being present at a fireworks show when they simultaneously send off countless rockets at the end. Many people lost power, but everyone was pleased with the refreshingly cool air that swept in after the storm. Friday morning dawned clear and serene, and the entire weekend turned out to be one of the most beautiful of the year. Annie was visiting from Brooklyn, and she loved the look of the sunshine and the feel of the resort-like summery air. She celebrated by spending a few hours at the beach with Matty. Later in the day, she and I drove up to Jaimie’s house to pick up his car (she and Gabe will drive it up to Maine for their vacation), and we had a wonderful conversation. I see Annie only every few weeks, and it’s always wonderful to hear how her life is going. She seems very happy right now, which made me very happy to hear.

POEM: A Student Writer

One day some words escaped from her.
She didn't want to let them go,
those adolescent, spirited things,
but she was writing with a pencil,
and the words slipped out from the tip
and stole across the paper.
She knew she couldn't call them back
once they had broken free.
My poor student simply sat at her desk
and watched these undomesticated words
as they swaggered in her essay
like springtime.

MEDITATION: Prayer

Contrary to what I was taught as a child, prayer is not a form of pleading to some super-human being, but rather is simply a re-awakening to the true nature of reality – its spirituality, its harmony, its infiniteness. Prayer is like opening our eyes again to see what’s really happening. It’s not hard work, and it doesn’t involve any formulas or recipes. It’s as easy as waking up (and we can do this constantly) and greeting a new kind of world.

POEM: Taking Comfort

Perhaps we shouldn’t take it at all.
Perhaps we should leave it where it is,
in the quiet clouds
and the comings and goings of the sea.
Comfort is something we can see
in the veins of our hands
and in the rising of silence at sunset.
It’s in a table
that allows our elbows to rest,
and in a shirt
that shares its softness with our skin.
Comfort will care for us
when we call it.
It’s as near as any street
that effortlessly shows us the way
to the next street, and the next.

JOURNAL: August 5, 2006

I finished reading (and listening to) Shakespeare’s As You Like It yesterday, and enjoyed it immensely. I got lost occasionally in the jargon and old idioms of his language, but there were scenes that were positively brilliant. My favorites were the scenes written in blank verse, the lovely flowing five-beat lines that Shakespeare was a master at. Those are scenes I could (and did) read over and over again.
I have also done some serious reading in Wordsworth this summer. While in England, I read almost the complete Prelude, plus many other poems, and fell completely under the spell of his musical lines, but also his visionary outlook on reality. He was a Buddhist, a Taoist, and a true follower of Jesus, without even realizing it.
Dombey and Son is also coming along nicely. I have averaged a chapter per day this summer, doing a few annotations as I go. It’s a strange story (as all Dickens novels are), filled with great light and very deep darkness, but I know the light will win out. (It always does in his books. He and Wordsworth would have had much in common, had they met and talked about philosophical and spiritual matters.)

POEM: Best Friends

He lives with people,
but also with ideas.
Sometimes he drives to school
with Silence beside him in the car,
as resolute as a best friend.
He often meets Peacefulness for lunch,
which gives them the chance
to again express amazement at how similar they are.
His steadiest companion is Acceptance,
who always seems to have both arms extended
as if to receive astonishing gifts.
When he’s teaching,
he loves to have Patience right beside him,
reminding him that flowers
can’t be rushed into blossoming.
When he comes home,
there’s always Presence waiting for him,
pointing to something simple and insignificant
and smiling.

JOURNAL: August 3, 2006

The heat wave continues, but I’m surviving quite nicely. I actually had a wonderful night’s sleep last night, thanks to my window fan and a powerful little fan near my bed. Breezes were blowing across me all night long, just as if I was lying in a soothing, windswept forest. Yes, the breezes were very warm breezes, but they were refreshing and comforting, nonetheless. I also found refreshment and comfort during the day yesterday by spending a few hours at two pleasantly air-conditioned libraries – our town library just down the street, and our new library at school. Both places seemed like little oases in a New England desert. I read in perfect comfort, often looking around at the other cool and contented patrons. I felt grateful that I had places like these in which to escape the pitiless heat. Later, I went to the park to do some reading, but only occasionally did a breeze ruffle the pages of my book. The park was an airless, stifling place at that time, so I didn’t stay long. I soon packed up and walked home to my four trusty fans and a pitcher of ice water.

JOURNAL FROM A TRIP TO ENGLAND'S LAKE DISTRICT

LAKE DISTRICT (ENGLAND) JOURNAL
July 15-27, 2006

Saturday, July 15
Today was a totally smooth day of travel. My flights to Raleigh and then to Boston were as pleasant as they could possibly be. The little planes I flew in rose up quickly to a level where I could see billows of peaceful-looking clouds below us. As easy as these flights were, we might as well have been sailing on a perfectly mild sea. Surprisingly, I didn’t have to rush at all in the airports. There was plenty of time to make the connecting flights, so I relaxed and enjoyed myself, both in Raleigh and Boston. In fact, at Logan in Boston I enjoyed a glass of wine and watched a bit of the Red Sox game while waiting for my flight to Manchester. I wish I could say I relaxed on the flight across the ocean, but the opposite was the case. I tried my best to get some sleep, but of course, trying to sleep only renders sleep more unattainable. I’m afraid I spent most of the six hours of the flight shifting in my seat and hoping the minutes would pass quickly.


Sunday, July 16
After a long overnight plane ride and a hot two-hour taxi ride, I finally reached the Grange Hotel in the village of Grange-over-Sands around 2:00 p.m. today (9:00 a.m. Rhode Island time). The Grange is a perfectly lovely old-world hotel. From the shaded lawn you can look out on the long stretch of marsh and sand for which the town is named, and beyond that is the bay and sea gleaming in the distance. All of us “English lakeland ramblers” gathered for a hearty lunch and then a walk to nearby village and its Augustinian abbey. It was great fun meeting and chatting with my eight fellow walkers: Bill and Laurine, Pam and Sara (sisters), Ruth and Lauren (mom and daughter), Susan, and Gloria. We finished the first day together with a very elegant dinner in the spacious and gracious hotel dining room.


Monday, July 17
After a wonderful night’s rest, I walked down to the little train station, bought a Daily Telegraph, and sat on a bench overlooking the far stretches of sand and the distant bay. Later, I enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast in the “breakfast room” of the hotel.

8:40 a.m. Sitting at a white ornamental iron table on the elevated terrace in front of the hotel. Nearby, I hear the sound of a mason’s hammer hitting stones, while in the distance a machine of some kind is working away. Birds are darting here and there in the trees below me.

1:15 p.m. Resting in the shade on a narrow country road, enjoying a refreshing lunch after a hard morning’s hike. Weeds growing up around. Soft breezes blowing.


Tuesday, July 18
Yesterday, for me, was a wonderful day of walking. As I told some of my tour companions, I felt like I did when I was a boy and would set out early on a summer morning with my buddies and just “walk around” for hours. In a way, that’s what we did yesterday. Yes, we did have a goal toward which we steadily made progress, but there was also a sense of aimless, happy wandering, or “sauntering”, as Thoreau liked to call it. I loved the whole day. A few special memories come back. I recall the stone tower on the summit of a hill in the morning sunlight, with a Greek inscription from Homer, meaning “rosy-fingered dawn”. Our guide explained that the landowner many decades ago had the tower erected as a tribute to the fabulous sunrises he had seen from that hilltop. I recall, too, walking through countless pastures while cows and sheep were grazing just yards away. In one pasture, we had to gently prod the animals to move so we could continue on our way. One especially large brown cow resisted until the last moment, and then finally pulled herself up and moseyed off with her friends. I also remember walking through acres of six-foot high bracken and thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped, when Allan Breck and David Balfour hid from the Redcoats in the bracken of Scotland. We were walking on a hot and steamy trail, which helped me sympathize with the plight of Stevenson’s heroes. I pictured them ducking down to become invisible in the sweltering bracken as the British soldiers searched the hillside.


Wednesday, July 19
Yesterday featured easy walking followed by some of the hardest I’ve ever done. We started out from the lovely Swan Hotel in Newby Bridge and spent a few hours strolling through undulating pastures,. passing more cows and sheep as we walked. We often remarked on the many varieties of “stiles” – quaint wooden and metal gates that allow humans to pass, but not farm animals. We stopped for a time in the Rusland Valley to visit an historic chapel, and then enjoyed lunch in the shade by a small stream. (Before we settled down to eat, several of our group helped a farmer free a sheep who had become entangled in a fence.) The day was growing seriously hot, so some in the group decided to ride in the minibus to the next hotel after lunch. The rest of us climbed up a very precitious and rocky hill to Bethecar Moor, a strangely empty and almost hostile place. The weather had grown still more sultry, and our pace slowed considerably as we climbed higher into open country covered with bracken and heather. We were rewarded, however, at the summit of the moor with a stunning view of a large lake called Consiton Water, a refreshing sight on this scorching day. We almost rushed down through the bracken to meet Anne, one of our guides, who lovingly provided us with refills for our empty water bottles. After resting a bit, we drove to our next hotel, a small, snug inn on the lake. We stayed there two nights, enjoying the lovely lawn and garden in back, facing the water. Many of us sat out quite late after dinner, taking pleasure in the cooling evening air and the dancing flights of swallows.


Thursday, July 20
Yesterday was a day of much needed rest – and a surprising amount of inspiration. The day began with a delicious breakfast in the hotel dining room looking out on the high fells (hills), followed by a ride in the Coniston Launch (boat) over to Brantwood, the last home of the 19th century art critic and essayist John Ruskin. I found our visit there quite enriching, since I knew nearly nothing about the man and was pleased to discover that he could be my intellectual twin. I loved the introductory film, and I purchased a copy of one of his lectures (“Sesame and Lilies”), a treatise on the art of reading which I immediately plunged into. After lunch at the Brantwood cafe, known as Jumping Jenny (after Ruskin’s boat), we motored to Beatrix Potter’s home, called “Hilltop”. The weather, once again, was intensely hot, so I decided to skip the house and sit in the shade with mycopy of the poems of William Wordsworth. (More on him later.)Perspiring tourists were coming and going as I enjoyed a few poems and wiped my brow. Later, back at the hotel, we sat outside again as darkness came on and the swallows swooped and sailed.


Friday, July 21
Yesterday’s temperature was refreshingly cooler, and therefore I think we all enjoyed the climbs much more. We started in the morning by climbing a steep, shady hill, going slowly but fairly steadily in the pleasant weather. At the top, as we enjoyed the wonderful views we heard a talk on Beatrix Potter, who, it turns out, was much more than merely a creator of whimsical children’s stories. For lunch, we met the van beside a pond where swans and ducks were gracefully paddling about. Then some of us followed Anne up a steep path across Holm Fell. We puffed and panted, but the impressive 360 degree view from the summit made it well worth while. From there, we descended through picturesque pastures and past charming cottages and farms, eventually arriving at the van, which was parked at the Three Shires Inn, where some of us were staying. The rest of us drove on to what was (in my opinion) the loveliest inn of the entire trip – the Elterwater Park Guest House, where I slept next to a window looking out at mountains and stars.


Saturday, July 22
Yesterday I began the day sitting outside at the guest house, watching the sunlight slowly come to the hills in the distance, and listening to the buzzing of bees in the lavender beside me. After breakfast (one poached egg, tomatoes, mushrooms, sausage, and superb coffee), we all set off in the van for a heart-stopping drive over Wrynose Pass and Hardknot Pass. I held my breath as Janet (our guide) piloted the van back and forth over the twisting switchbacks. We knew the trip was well worth it, though, when we reached the summit and were able to tour the ruins of an ancient Roman fort. From there we drove through the valley of the River Duddon (immortalized by William Wordsworth’s sequence of sonnets) to a pub and a traditionally heavy English lunch, which we all enjoyed amid much good conversation and laughter. We ended our excursion at Muncaster Castle (near Ravenglass by the Irish Sea), a medieval home of generations of lords and ladies. I enjoyed touring the castle, but I most enjoyed sitting in the shade of a 400-year-old Spanish chestnut tree, reading some of the poems of Wordsworth, who lived and wrote in the Lake District some 200 years ago.


Sunday, July 23
For me, yesterday, perhaps, was the highlight of the trip, for we did some of our best hiking and, in the course of it, stopped at the two homes of my favorite poet, William Wordsworth. We began in the morning at the Three Shires Inn, and the first hours of the walk were across fairly cool fields and down a shady forest footpath. We stopped briefly in the village of Elterwater to refresh ourselves with water and a short rest, and then headed up the hillside of Loughrigg Terrace toward the village of Grasmere, Wordsworth’s best-known home. It was an extremely difficult climb – almost vertical, it seemed, at times. The day was hot and the high bracken trapped the heat, making things more sultry than ever. We stopped on the summit on a grassy ledge with a full view of the beautiful Grasmere Lake, around and upon which Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, spent so much time in the first years of the 19th century. Our guide told us a bit about the poet’s life, but I’m not sure I was listening. I was too busy relishing the sight of this lovely lake that was so vital to one of the great poets of the English language. We descended the hill and climbed up another, where we met the van for lunch in the shade of some old trees. We then walked on to Wordsworth’s home, Dove Cottage, a small, shadowy dwelling where some of his best (and my favorite) poems were written. I enjoyed touring the cottage, but I loved even more the elegant museum next door. I appreciated the opportunity to look at the original manuscripts of his poems, and to listen, on headphones, to wonderful readers read his best-known poems. My group had to come and find me and pull me away when it was time to depart. From there, we went to Rydall Mount, just down the road, where Wordsworth and his family lived from about 1815 to the end of his life in 1850. This was a sunny, airy, and inspiring place, especially the elegant gardens surrounding it. I felt happy for Wordsworth, that he was able to spend so many years in this comfortable home. I pictured him sitting in the garden, carefully revising The Prelude, his long autobiographical poem, as the years passed. (It wasn’t published until after his death.)


Monday, July 24
Yesterday, with my friends gone, I decided to give my body a day off. I walked down the footpath from the guesthouse, easily finding my way through the pastures (without a guide!) by following the National Trust signposts. I loved, once again, the experience of walking in fields of browsing cows and sheep. In one cow pasture, a hand-lettered sign said, "BULL IN FIELD", so I walked more warily there, slowing down a little as I passed the massive animals lazily munching and moving along. I then walked along the level and lovely footpath leading to the village of Elterwater, a walk I was to take many times in the next few days. It's a beautiful panorama, something out of a Constable painting, with the placid stream and sheep peacefully grazing and the Langdale Pikes rising grandly in the distance. Occasionally I sat in the shade and read from Wordsworth, imagining him sitting and writing by that same stream some 200 years ago. I rested on the village green for a few moments, and then walked back to Skellwith Bridge and on up to the guest house for an indolent evening of reading and (like the cows) ruminating.


Tuesday, July 25
Yesterday I took a wonderful walk over Loughrigg Fell and down into the village of Grasmere. We had taken this walk on the tour, but this time I felt far more energetic. The climb was steep -- sometimes very steep -- but I loved all of it. I dropped down the hillside to Wordsworth's home village (for about 12 years) and quickly came upon a charming café that was serving tea, coffee, and scones directly beside Grasmere Lake. I sipped my delicious coffee and ate my scone in perfect happiness as I looked out on the body of water I had come so far to see. (I made it a point to stop there on my way back.) In the village, I visited the Wordsworth Museum again, wandering through the quiet, beautifully arranged rooms and soaking up the atmosphere of the poet and his times. Again, I listened to some of the poems read quite professionally by excellent actors, and I also spent an enjoyable amount of time in the rooms devoted to the pianter John Constable's visit to the Lake District in 1806. My hike back up over the fell to Elterwater and the guesthouse was every bit as enlivening and pleasing as the one in the morning.


Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Yesterday I completed two wonderful walks. In the morning (after the usual delicious breakfast at the Elterwater Guest House) I climbed a fairly steep footpath up to Loughrigg Tarn and Little Loughrigg Fell. I skirted a lovely mountain valley (what Wordsworth would have called a "vale") containing the silvery Loughrigg Tarn, near which a group of people were camping. I then passed a few hillside farm houses and reached the top of Little Loughrigg. To my joy, I was able to look across the valley and see the guesthouse where I was staying, perched high on a hilltop. I climbed down from the heights and walked along the stream called Elterwater to the village of the same name, where I purchased a few items for lunch, including two delicious-looking red apples. After a brief rest, I headed up toward Lingmoor Fell past Fletcher's Wood, and then down to Wilson Place Farm. I enjoyed a simple picnic lunch in the shade beside a bubbling beck, and then continued climbing up to Stang End Farm, where I was treated to breathtaking views of the Langdale Pikes. The remainder of the walk took me down into the Colwith Forest to what is known as Colwith Force (waterfall), where the River Brathway rushes down some forty feet to the streambed below. I was very happy, after my long, warm walk, to reach my home-away-from-home, remove my shoes from my exhausted feet, stand in a cold shower for many minutes, and, later, sip a glass of chilled white wine in the garden.


Thursday, July 27
Yesterday, my last in the Lake District, I relaxed a little and climbed a lot. For relaxation, I first rode a bus to the village of Ambleside and wandered among the tourists for a while. It was a sunny, inspiring kind of day, and there seemed to be a spirit of enthusiasm among many of the people I passed. I first withdrew some cash from an ATM (my main reason for going to Ambleside), but then I spent some time stopping into stores, buying nothing but taking pleasure in the pleasant atmosphere of excitement. I then rode the bus back to Skellwith Bridge, where I enjoyed a relaxing hour with some friends of a dear friend. I had never met these folks, but we struck a cordial friendship immediately as we lunched at a café overlooking the rushing River Brathway. I had a delicious plateful of grilled sardines and a tasty lemony salad as we talked about many things. It was an appropriately genial way to bring my charming trip to England to a end. After lunch, I climbed back up to Loughrigg Tarn and then headed up the steep path to the summit of Loughrigg Fell. I could have made it all the way to the top, but, when I paused and turned to take in the view, I was shocked by the steepness of the hillside I was on! It almost seemed sheer, like the face of a cliff instead of a hill. I tried reading some Wordsworth, but I actually became dizzy because of the height. I decided, judiciously, to hike carefully back down the path and try for the summit on another day. I finished my last walk by ambling along several appealing footpaths through forests and fields on my way back to Elterwater.

JOURNAL: August 2, 2006

We are in the midst of a serious heat-wave in southern New England. Temperatures these few days have been in the low 90’s, and may reach close to 100 today. People have been talking about it as though it’s a blizzard or a hurricane, and I guess, in some ways, it is a grave weather situation. The very young, the sick, and the elderly can suffer greatly in this kind of extreme heat. I’ve been doing fairly well, treating it mostly as a challenge similar to climbing a mountain. Rather than moping and complaining, I’ve been organizing ways of combating the heat: placing fans around the apartment, closing window shades during the middle of the day, wearing as little as possible, and drinking lots of liquids. I spend a good part of the day reading directly in front of a fan with a frosty glass of lemon water close at hand. Yesterday, in fact, I discovered a wonderful way to defeat the heat (at least when it’s breezy). I walked down to the park around 4:00 and sat on a shady hillside above the pond. While a pleasant breeze stirred the trees and cooled me nicely, I listened to an excellent lecture on my iPod and watched the branches sway back and forth. I’m not sure I’ve had a more relaxing hour all summer long – and the temperature must have been close to 95. I may try that again this afternoon.

JOURNAL: August 1, 2006

Yesterday I read several chapters in Dickens’ Dombey and Son, and was shocked by the fierce and unrelieved evil described in the book. Paul Dombey has to be one of the cruelest characters I’ve ever encountered in a novel – his cruelty made even more shocking by the absolute coldness of it. He seems to feel nothing at all, as though he’s a stone or a block of ice. On second thought, he does feel, but only the emotions related to pride and hatred. Even Edith Dombey, his wife, who appeared to have the ability to cherish other people, has now grown as icy as her husband, and has apparently run off with the frosty and hateful Mr. Carker. For many chapters I have held out hope that Edith would eventually bring some sunshine to the unremitting darkness of this story, but in the last chapter yesterday, she seemed to close the doors of her feelings forever. All that is left of sunshine now is young 17-year-old Florence, who continues to be a model of goodness in a world gone loony with evil. I feel so bad for this girl. She is good and deserves to be treated with goodness. My only hope, now, is that Captain Cuttle, old Sol Gills, and young Walter will come back to the story to save her.