JOURNAL: September 30, 2006

Life usually runs pretty smoothly for me, but the last two days have been especially so. Yesterday, after giving myself a pep talk about some shortcomings in my teaching, I had four classes filled with ease and gracefulness. I was a more mindful teacher than the previous day, staying more aware of what was happening each moment, and as a result there was an unforced feel to the classes. I can’t imagine a stream in a forest flowing more naturally than my classes did yesterday. The effortless feeling continued today, starting with my morning visit to Jess, Jaimie, and little Noah. The drive up through the late summer countryside was as peaceful as it always is, with the early light slowly brightening the skies as I moved north on the highway. We enjoyed a quiet breakfast together, during which Noah demonstrated how his family begins a family meeting. He simply sat in his chair, folded his arms, leaned his head to one side, and said, “So”. Later in the day, I relaxed at home and read a few chapters in Dickens’ Dombey and Son. It was some of the most effortless reading I’ve ever done. The words seemed to quietly pull me along, and the pages almost turned by themselves. It was the kind of comfortable, hassle-free reading that should be a much bigger part of my life.

ON TEACHING: Embarrassing a Student

Yesterday I reverted to one of my oldest and worst habits as a teacher: I embarrassed a student. A girl turned in a paragraph which seemed to have been carelessly done, and I immediately called her attention to it in front of her classmates. I didn’t speak disrespectfully or angrily, but I’m sure it was clear to the other students that I was displeased with her. I then asked her to come out into the hall with me, embarrassing her further, where I firmly (and perhaps too strongly) lectured her about her work habits. I’m sure she was totally mortified as she walked back into the classroom under the gaze of her friends. I realized almost immediately that I had made a significant mistake, and as soon as I could I looked up the word “embarrass” in a dictionary. Interestingly, I found that it derives from the Latin word imbarrare, which means “to block” – and that is precisely what I did by embarrassing my student. Instead of opening the door to learning for her (which is my job as a teacher), I closed it. Instead of removing obstacles that stand in the way of her education, I set up another one. The only reason I can find for my asinine behavior is simple mindlessness. I just wasn’t thinking. I had drifted into an absentminded state during the class, and before I knew it, I had blurted out some foolish words and thoroughly embarrassed a student. May it never, ever happen again.

ON TEACHING: Dignity

My hope has always been that my classroom will be, above all, a place of dignity. The word has to do with the quality of being worthy of esteem and respect, and certainly that fits both my students and me. Each of us is an infinitely complex and beautiful creation of the universe, and therefore deserving of the highest kind of admiration. My students and I should have as much respect for each other as we would have for any person of great dignity – a king, a queen, or a President of the United States. Moreover, in my classroom we are engaged in activities that have inherent nobility and worth. We can accurately speak of the dignity of serious reading and writing. My students and I are taking part in activities that are limited to only a tiny percentage of people on earth. In a sense, we are the fortunate, distinguished few, and we should try to remember that each time we sit down to do the great work of writing an orderly paragraph or reading an eminent work of literature. I guess this is why I insist on an atmosphere of stateliness and formality in my classroom. Yes, we laugh, do skits, and act silly now and then, but for the most part my students and I conduct ourselves as if we are attending a formal gathering of scholarly, well-mannered adults. We wear respectable clothes, we speak in polite tones, and we are always civil and gracious toward each other. It’s only fitting that we behave in such a decorous manner, seeing as how we are engaged in two of the most majestic enterprises available to human beings -- learning and teaching.

JOURNAL: September 28, 2006

Yesterday was a very relaxing day, and it made me wonder if every day could actually be just as relaxing. Of course, a big part of the reason for the relative serenity of the day was the fact that I had no classes all day – just six parent conferences spread throughout the morning and afternoon. Since the conferences were amiable and enjoyable, the day passed in a perfectly tranquil manner. My classroom remained orderly and quiet, and the entire school seemed like a peaceful sanctuary, hour after hour. Yes, a significant reason for this tranquility was no doubt the absence of the children, who always bring with them their spirited (and noisy) approach to living, but, still, I wondered if it’s possible to find this kind of deep calm every day and in every situation. That thought kept coming back to me yesterday: All my days could be like this – and, more and more, it seemed like a true statement. It seemed to me that inside any day, no matter how many problems it appears to contain, resides a basic quietness, and that I could discover it. It wouldn’t take any big effort on my part – just an alertness to what lies beneath the sometimes tumultuous surface of life. Even wild, scary, days are buoyed up by an all-powerful peacefulness, and I could experience this in the future. That was my recurring thought yesterday as the hours passed so gently and quietly.

ON TEACHING: Serious Readers

I was astonished by the performance of my students yesterday, especially during our literary discussions. The 9th graders are reading a dense and challenging book -- Dickens' Great Expectations -- and, based on yesterday's discussions, they are rising to the challenge beautifully. I was particularly impressed by their ability to recall details from the previous night's reading, which they did far better than I could have when I was their age (or, perhaps, even now ). I threw out some random questions covering minute, precise, and often obscure details, and many of the students were prepared to answer all of them. A similar thing happened in the 8th grade classes. Granted, To Kill a Mockingbird is nowhere near as difficult as Dickens' novel, but still, it is loaded with minutiae, and many of the students were able to quickly answer my fussy questions. I praised them effusively and saw many proud smiles on their faces throughout the class. Of course, their strong performance does cause me to worry that some of them might be spending an inordinate amount of time on their reading, just so they can recall small details in class. I'm hoping to teach them how to read efficiently, which means quickly but carefully, and I don't want them spending more than 30 minutes per night on their English assignments. This is material for a few formal class lessons in the next few weeks.

JOURNAL: September 26, 2006

Yesterday I started the day with an efficient hike up and down the long hill near my house, and from then on things seemed to move along in an unusually well- organized way. My morning classes were quiet and controlled. The kids, as is customary on a Monday morning, were not especially talkative, but they were attentive and respectful, and we moved through the lessons in a resourceful manner. In fact, in some ways I felt like I was teaching in a more structured way than I ever had. After a quiet lunch with my advisees, during which we discussed some goals they had for the week, my afternoon classes (9th grade) seemed even more efficient than the morning ones. We had a visitor during one of the classes, and he may have made the kids even more attentive than usual. They sat up straight, listened carefully, made thoughtful comments, and we quietly thanked each other at the end of class. My college classes were similarly proficient. Everything seemed to proceed in a spick-and-span way. I covered the material I had planned to cover, and the students, for the most part, seemed satisfied with what they were learning. It was a day of systematic, shipshape occurrences, one after another, and I felt lucky to be a part of it.

JOURNAL: September 25, 2006

Yesterday morning, while I was enjoying my work in the classroom preparing for the upcoming week, I began to wonder if I was feeling sort of what an airline mechanic might feel as he readies a plane for a long flight. I pictured the mechanic going through his checklist, making absolutely sure that everything was in proper order for a successful flight. He wouldn’t rush, I’m sure. No doubt he would take his time to carefully and painstakingly cover every item so the flight would be as smooth as possible. As I thought more about it (while I slowly went about my classroom preparations), it seemed to me that care and thoroughness would be even more essential because his plane would be carrying passengers. These people would be entrusted to his care, and his duty would be to make sure they get where they’re going in a safe manner. He would probably feel a heavy weight of responsibility as he prepares the airplane. As the hours passed yesterday morning, I felt more and more kinship with the airline mechanic. I, too, was preparing for a long journey – an expedition through a full week of classes in the company of 40 young students. I, too, had a grave responsibility to make sure the journey was orderly, smooth, safe, and rewarding, especially for the people in my care. As I went through my checklist in the classroom on the cloudy, cool morning, I felt good that I was doing my very important job in such a meticulous manner. The flight through the week would be lengthy and arduous, but I would definitely be ready.

POEM: Fun on Sunday Afternoon

First there was a glass of water
at four-forty-two, then a few steps
across the carpet at four-forty-three,
followed by his hand
flowing across his soft beard
at four-fifty-six. There were cheers
from the Seattle football fans
at five-oh-five, and a girl’s voice
outside saying, “Oh, this
is so much fun!” He wondered
what she was doing,
but at five-oh-six
he was too busy
appreciating the look of the lamplight
lying on his brown desk.

ON TEACHING: On Not Personalizing Teaching and Learning

To me, one of the greatest dangers in my work is personalizing teaching and learning – making it an enterprise involving 40 separate students and one individual teacher. When I personalize the situation in my classroom, I turn it into a sort of competition to see which “person” can perform best. I see the teaching and learning as proceeding from the energies of individual persons, and since these persons have definite limitations, I see the teaching and learning as being narrow, partial, restricted, and imperfect. Looked at from a personalized standpoint, the process of education becomes a contest among flawed, deficient people to see how much less flawed and deficient they can become. On the other hand, if I maintain a de-personalized mindset about my work, I can see it as the unfolding, not so much of separate, individual minds, but of the vast universe itself. After all, my students and I are not separate from the whole, magnificent universe. We are part of the same force that makes the rivers run and spins the planets along, and it’s that immense force that’s at work in my classroom. I can pretend that my students and I are doing this educational work by ourselves, but the truth is that all of creation is doing it right along with us. The stars are speeding along, leaves are falling, and teaching and learning is occurring in Room 2 at 89 Barnes Road – all part of the endless and harmonious work of the universe. There's nothing "personal" about it.

JOURNAL: September 23, 2006

I spent most of yesterday in a completely unhurried mood. In the morning I drove up to see Jaimie, Jess, and Noah, and I don’t think I’ve ever driven in a more relaxed manner. I constantly cruised along at or below the speed limit, just sort of allowing the car to drive me instead of me driving the car. I had the strong feeling that there was no reason to hurry, no place I had to be at a certain time, no deadline I must meet. The seconds and minutes were moving slowly along, and so was I. Actually, the entire day was like that: at Jaimie’s, as we ate breakfast and talked and laughed; at Luke and Krissy’s, as we shared the news of the week and admired little Josh (4 months old); and at home, as I graded papers and watched a football game on TV. The whole day moved along like a sail boat in the hands of soft winds, with me stretched out languidly on deck. I felt hardly a ripple all day; everything proceeded along in a completely leisurely way. Looking back on it, I wonder what it was that made that Saturday in late September of 2006 so easygoing and peaceful. If I could answer that question, I could perhaps make other days pass in a similar manner. Then again, I guess you can’t make those days happen, just as you can’t make the wind blow in a light and graceful manner. I’ll just have to lie back and wait, and hope today’s as laid back as yesterday.

ON TEACHING: Each

I find it helpful to remember that the word “each” is embedded inside the word “teach”, for I often – usually – pay more attention to the “class” I’m teaching than to each individual member of the class. It’s so easy to do, just as easy as not noticing specific, distinct things when I’m driving back and forth to school. As I go down Route 1, the landscape passes me in a blur, and I only pay attention to the big, important things: stoplights, other cars, the road ahead. Of course, it’s necessary that I stay focused on the process of operating the car, but I could certainly also work at noticing some of the unique scenes I pass – an especially beautiful tree, an unusual house, the look of the sky in the distance. There are miracles along the road – separate, individual marvels – that I could spend the rest of my life noticing and enjoying. A similar situation is present in my classroom each day. I am engaged in teaching, not classes, but 40 individual phenomena called students. Each one is a complete wonder, created by the universe in mysterious ways and for inexplicable reasons. When I’m teaching, it’s as if I’m face-to-face with a group of spectacular mountains. What I want to do, this year, is appreciate the beauty of each of the mountains – each of these exceptional human beings I teach. Their magnificence is lost if I see them only as a group, a class. I need to open my eyes, turn away from the minutiae of my lesson plans, and become aware of the splendor of each and every one of these teenagers seated around me at the table.

POEM: A Minute

He wonders
how far the earth
speeds through space
in one minute,
or how many leaves
fall from the oak tree
in the park,
or how many thoughts
the human race thinks.
Once he watched a second hand turn
for a full minute. Another time
he focused on a single shining idea
for a minute, and the idea
didn’t stop shining,
and still doesn’t.

JOURNAL: September 21, 2006

Yesterday at school, we held our annual Field Day, and I loved all of it. Yes, it was tiring, and yes, there were some glitches, some unexpected problems, some uncertainty as the games proceeded along – but the big picture was one of happiness and a job-well-done. I saw little else but smiles on the faces of the children and adults. The kids raced in sacks, balanced balls on spoons, and ran around cones holding hands in lone lines, and, from where I was observing, everyone seemed glad to be participating. I heard very few complaints and a great amount of laughter. I recall a few special scenes: a 7th-grade boy patiently helping a teary six-year-old feel more at ease; a small round-faced boy, poised at the starting line with a ball balanced on a spoon, breaking into a big smile as soon as I said “Go!”; and a 9th grade girl approaching my race area while carrying a first-grader in her arms. I saw scenes like that continuously for nearly two hours. To me, it was an afternoon of remarkable camaraderie and kindness. At the end, as the crowd was dispersing, some heading home and others moving down to the area set aside for the evening picnic, I talked with some 9th graders who had earlier expressed concern about having Field Day after school on a day of heavy homework assignments. Now, though, they were smiling and relaxed as they hung around outside the library. Several of them said it was one of the best Field Days they could remember. When I asked about the concerns about homework, they smiled and looked perplexed, as if they weren’t sure what I was talking about. I, too, smiled as I watched them walk with some third-graders toward the picnic area under the spectacular late-summer sky.

POEM: Work Before Dawn

He let everything do its work.
The keyboard keys rose and fell,
and words appeared on the screen,
working hard to become a poem.
He knew daring work
was being performed by forests on hillsides,
and whole families were awakening
and working hard
to push open the doors of their lives.
He sat still
and let his lungs willingly labor
as the earth worked its systematic way
through space.

JOURNAL: September 20, 2006

Patience seemed to be the strongest force in my day yesterday. Nothing seemed to be rushing or running or dashing or pushing ahead. Whatever happened happened in a slow and purposeful manner. Whether it was me turning the pages of my lesson plan book, my students coming down the hall toward my class room, or the trees beyond the soccer fields swaying in the wind, everything was done with neither haste nor carelessness. That’s strange, because it might have seemed, to an observer, that there was much urgency at school yesterday. Kids could occasionally be seen running down the walkway, and probably a few of us teachers rushed to get through a lesson now and then. But, still, there seemed to be a sense of serenity at the heart of everything. Inside any rushing was an essential, all-pervasive peacefulness. Things sometimes happened quickly, but always carefully and perfectly and calmly. A wonderful symbol of this was something I saw at the end of the day, when kids were boarding buses and others were racing around on the athletic fields. I saw a Volvo parked in front of the main entrance to school, and inside it, reclining in absolute stillness behind the steering wheel, a woman was peacefully sleeping. Games were getting started on the fields and I’m sure cars were, as usual, speeding along the nearby interstate, but inside that car there was utter stillness. In a seemingly chaotic world, perfect patience reigned there. I passed by on the way to my car, wishing the woman a refreshing rest.

ON TEACHING: Uncertainty and Tolerance

I got to talking with a friend today about uncertainty (how, as teachers, it seems impossible to be certain that we know what we are doing), and he brought up the idea of “tolerance”. In engineering, he said, there’s always a “degree of tolerance” allowed to account for the impossibility of complete certainty. Engineers can never be certain their measurements are perfect, so some allowance must be made for surprise deviations. Because of this, engineers must constantly recalculate and reevaluate their measurements; nothing is ever absolutely set in stone. This led me back to teaching – to the fact that I increasingly feel uncertain about what I’m doing in the classroom, or what I’m supposed to be doing. This teaching enterprise seems, more and more, like true “rocket science” – like trying to navigate through outer space with a blindfold on. I pretend that I know what I’m doing, but I’m afraid that’s just a role I play. The truth is I’m lost in a mystifying maze. What’s wonderful, though, is that it’s a rather magnificent maze. Because I’ve accepted the fact that I ultimately have no clue as to what teaching adolescents is really all about, I’m able to relax, so to speak, and enjoy the ride. I guess I’ve learned, like the engineers, to allow for “a degree of tolerance”. My “measurements” (learning theories, lesson plans, objectives, etc) could be slightly off or way off, and I need to be always ready to make adjustments and change plans. I need to be tolerant of my ignorance. In humility, I need to bear, endure, stand, abide, suffer, and tolerate the uncertainty that is part of all of our lives.

POEM: Gladness

Once he saw gladness
in the face of a man
gathering bottles
beside the sidewalk.
One spirited September day
he saw gladness in leaves
lingering on the limb of an oak.
Sometimes he lifts up a fear
and finds gladness beneath it.
He graciously receives gladness
into his house each morning,
and each day
he welcomes it to his classroom
with his students.

JOURNAL: September 19, 2006

Yesterday everything seemed especially peaceful, almost as though life was quietly poised in a state of complete perfection. I don’t mean that everything happened exactly the way I wanted it to happen – just that whatever happened, whatever I heard or saw, whatever I felt or thought, seemed to be correct and good. The universe seemed to be very satisfied with itself yesterday. The billions and trillions of years of existence had rolled round to yesterday and produced a day that could be nothing else but what it was. I saw this most especially in the look and feel of the air outside. Partly because of the constant, undisturbed music of the September insects, there was a sense of peace in the air. It was as if an orchestra was playing one of Debussy’s softest melodies, right outside my classroom or wherever I happened to be. Whatever concerns or worries I had disappeared as soon as I turned my attention to the serenade of the insects. But it was more than just the softness in the air that made the day seemed so flawless. Somehow, all things seemed to be working together for good throughout the day. Every word I spoke to my students seemed to be the right one for that moment, and every word they spoke to me seemed full of a top secret kind of wisdom. Even commonplace things appeared to carry great significance – a falling leaf, a scrap of paper by the side of the road, a book left behind on my table by a student. An unspoiled light was shining from everything, and I was lucky to be there, yesterday, to see it.

POEM: Praise in the Meadow (Walking with Jaimie and Noah)

He praised the seeds
and their wings and burrs.
He praised the stream
that strayed along beside them.
He praised his arms
that have hung at his sides
in faithfulness for years.
He praised the pockets in his pants
for safely storing seventy cents
as he walked with his son and grandson.
He praised the powerful earth
that proudly bears
so much upon its shoulders.

JOURNAL: September 18, 2006

One dictionary defines profusion as “abundance; lavish or unrestrained expense”, a definition that would definitely apply to a walk in a meadow that my son, Jaimie, and grandson, Noah, took yesterday. First of all, there was a bountiful supply of seeds on every side of us, as far as we could see. The meadow was teeming with them – seeds with sticky burrs, seeds with silky wings, and seeds that were simply spilling out and falling to the ground. We stopped now and then to examine them, and little Noah especially enjoyed blowing the winged seeds away on the wind. Even more abundant than the seeds, though, was Noah’s energy. From our first moment on the trail, he was dashing, twisting, talking, and laughing. His cheeks grew red and his body was soon wet with perspiration as we made our way through the meadow. He was obviously in a boy’s paradise, and the joy he exhibited was a miracle to behold. His happiness was as plentiful as the seeds in the meadow and the energy in his body. He smiled almost constantly, and his squealing laughs came from the purest kind of gladness. Watching and listening to him, I felt fortunate to be part of this generous phenomenon called life.

JOURNAL: September 16, 2006

Yesterday was a day of friendship. (I think all my days are, in one way or another, but yesterday the camaraderie seemed extra special.) One example was the friendship I felt in my classroom throughout the day. There was an ease and sociability that was pleasant to be a part of. Even though there is a fitting and proper distance between us, my students and I are usually able to come together in class with a friendly simplicity – and yesterday was no exception. We accomplished a lot, and we did it in a gracious way. Then, after school, I met a friend at Starbucks for some easygoing conversation. It was actually one of the best after-school hours I’ve had in some time. Instead of grading papers in the classroom – my usual way of spending the afternoon – I enjoyed good companionship and an excellent latte. After dinner, I was treated to another friendly few hours at a poetry reading in Mystic. I met some friends there, and we, in turn, renewed friendships with many old acquaintances. The poetry was splendid, but the atmosphere of cordiality was far better.
It was a day that was truly “from the heart”.

POEM: Thoughts

Long ago he discovered
that thoughts unfolded by themselves.
It wasn’t up to him
to help them. They simply
unwrapped themselves
and lay before him,
ready to be of use.
Some thoughts opened
like paper packages
enclosing a secret,
while others spread out
like sheets he could sleep under.
His favorites
were the thoughts that slowly separated
like parts of a moist orange
all by themselves.

JOURNAL: September 13, 2006

The satisfyingly mild weather continued yesterday – weather that sometimes makes we want to skip and run. My students were composed and quiet, as they almost always are, but I’m sure they felt the same impulse I was feeling – to cut loose and race around the fields with abandon. During my classes, we sat at my round table and participated in fairly intelligent and orderly conversations, but I’ll bet we would all rather have been out in the pleasant September air. Actually, it almost grew hot toward the late afternoon. I walked outside around 4:00, felt the warm winds eddying around, and immediately went back into my room, threw off my cotton sweater, rolled up my sleeves, and opened every window. I sat for another hour or so grading papers, beside a window so I could feel the breeze blowing in. Later, around 6:00, I loaded my backpack with 20 pound weights and hiked the hills in the park for 30 minutes. I sweated profusely as I climbed, as though it was July instead of almost autumn. The sun in the western sky was a soft and cool color but was still sending down plenty of heat.

ON TEACHING: Glory

It may seem implausible to think of my students as being “glorious”, and my classroom as “full of glory”, but nonetheless, that’s been my line of thinking recently. (Sometimes I think I’m implausible.) Noah Webster’s 1828 dictionary gives this as the definition of “glory”: "brightness, luster, splendor, magnificence", and when I think of my students the way they truly are, the definition surely fits. Every moment, each of my students is thinking a totally new thought -- a thought that has come to them unbidden, in a completely magical and mysterious way. It’s as if each student has a sun inside them that is newly rising each moment as they sit in English class. The class may be boring, but the thought that is being born inside them at 9:23 am or 1:09 pm is as fresh and fascinating as a new star in the sky. Yes, if I see my students as merely physical presences in my room, then certainly they can seem the opposite of glorious. They can seem to be simply bundles of clothes sitting before me onto which I’m trying to dump bundles of information. Regrettably that is, in fact, the way I see them during most of my classes, day after day. However, it is simply not the truth of who they are. A physicist would tell me my students are infinitely complex systems of energy spinning at super speeds, and, as a spiritually-minded person, I would alter that somewhat and say they are infinitely complex systems of constantly unfolding thoughts. As such, there’s never anything old about my students. They are always new as they sit before me. They shine with a glorious splendor that I hope I can open my eyes and actually see today.

POEM: Ready

Everything was standing by.
His heart was stable
at 60 beats per minute,
his ten fingers twisted and turned
just as he wished,
his eyes swiveled
with ease and elegance,
the desk where he was sitting
was prepared to be a perfect desk,
his school, he knew,
was waiting
where he and his students
had left it yesterday,
and the darkness outside
was rising like a curtain.

JOURNAL: September 12, 2006

Yesterday moved like a graceful machine. Everything happened in a smooth and useful way, even though I didn’t always recognize the benefits of what was happening. Even now, looking back, I am not able to understand all the good that came out of yesterday, but I can intuitively sense that it was there. Each little thing, from talking to a student at my desk about her essay to walking down the walkway to a meeting, had a special and positive significance. It’s true that, at times, things didn’t seem to be going well. There were moments when I was confused about what I was supposed to do next, moments of boredom, moments of mindless daydreaming. However, even at those times, I know the engine of the infinite universe was running smoothly and working out the harmony of all things, including Hamilton Salsich. A good example is my evening college class yesterday. I felt exhausted earlier in the day, and the thought came to me that perhaps the evening class would be a disaster, due to my tiredness. However, another thought came to me a little later, that I might be tired, but the universe certainly wasn’t. The amazing apparatus called the universe has been working energetically and efficiently for billions of years, and it will continue to do so while I’m teaching the college class. Carrying that thought with me, the class turned out to be one of my best ever.

POEM: Early One Morning

He saw a stone in the grass,
and he knew it was the best stone
it could possibly be.
He heard a song by a small bird,
the greatest song it could sing.
He touched his right hand
with his left
in the finest way possible,
and he smelled the September air
precisely the way a person should.
He then headed for home
to taste a flawless piece of toast
for breakfast.

JOURNAL: September 11, 2006

Yesterday was a perfectly beautiful late-summer day, ideal for any kind of exercising. In the morning, I enjoyed a fine “workout” at school – though I did mental, rather than physical, “calisthenics”. I spent a few hours permitting good ideas for teaching come to me as softly as a September breeze. Actually, perhaps I shouldn’t call it exercise, because it really wasn’t hard labor of any sort. The thoughts simply swept through me and I effortlessly put them into my plans for the coming week. In the afternoon I did another kind of training on the kills of the park. I loaded my backpack with 20 pounds of weights and climbed the stone steps for about 30 minutes, huffing and puffing all the way. The brilliant sun made the park an especially beautiful place to be, which rendered the exercise almost as enjoyable as the mental workout in the morning at school. I had a final “training session” at some friends’ house last night, and it was the easiest and most productive of all. All we did was eat appetizing food and share some excellent conversation, but in the process we exercised our abilities as good friends. If you want to be a friend to someone, you have to work hard to keep the relationship “fit”, and last’s night dinner gathering was as productive as a few hours at the gym.

JOURNAL: September 10, 2006

Yesterday was a great day for me. (I usually advise my students to avoid using the over-worked “great” in their writing, but I’m going to ignore that advice here. The day was indeed "great".) As I usually do on Saturday during the school year, I worked in my classroom for a few hours in the morning, putting things in order for the coming week of classes. I love that time each week. It’s my “hobby time” – the hours I spend each Saturday morning in my “workshop”, polishing my plans, pondering new ways to teach, tidying up the room, laying my plans to make next week a little better than last week. While countless other men and women are involved in their own leisure pursuits on Saturday morning, I’m pursuing my special type of ease and relaxation. On the weekend, my little classroom seems as magnificent a place to be as a beach or a thoroughly equipped basement workshop. Later in the day, I experienced a different kind of magnificence. It involved nothing more than sitting in a comfortable chair in my living room, reading the poetry of Tennyson and watching Notre Dame demolish Penn State on the gridiron. It was a soft, late-summer day, the perfect kind for doing nothing more than reading beautiful poems (“The Brook” is exceptional) and watching young men collide on green grass. It was an outstanding time in a great day: my team won, and the poems I read were first-rate.

POEM: Soft Voices

He hears the pages in books
whisper as he turns them,
and the words whisper, also.
He sometimes listens
to the voices
of his lungs, rising and falling,
or to the hum of his heart.
The whole earth often sighs
as it spins along,
and he listens
and sighs.

MEDITATION: Thanks to a Little Light

I was driving home this morning when I noticed the “check engine” light glowing on my dashboard, and immediately started to fret. “Oh god, what could it be?”, I thought. “This old car is probably falling apart. It will probably cost me a fortune to fix it.” However, before I had gone too far down this nightmare road of worrying, I suddenly remembered an old truth that I love to ponder: Every present moment is perfect – exactly what it must be. This small light shining beside my steering wheel was doing exactly what it should do at that particular moment. It was the perfect thing for the light to do, and therefore that moment, right then and there as I drove past an elementary school on Broad Street, was absolutely perfect. It couldn’t be anything else (or else it would become another moment) and therefore it was just right. This line of thinking helped me to take a few deep, relaxing breaths, and it led me to think more deeply about the perfection of the moment, and of that light. I thought about the people who helped make that little light in a factory somewhere, and how proud they probably were to create such a helpful gadget for my car. I also thought about what a good service the light performs – flashing on in cars all over the world the instant something goes amiss in the engine. All drivers, including me, should be grateful to have such a loyal signal light that’s always ready to help us avoid trouble. By the time I reached home, I was smiling and relaxed. Somehow it wasn’t a big deal anymore. I told myself I’d have it checked as soon as possible and see what new and interesting things I can learn about my car.

JOURNAL: September 9, 2006

This past week was a forceful one, but yet, in seeming contradiction, there was no “forcing” involved. All week I felt a wonderful energy in my teaching, an energy that kept me flowing along smoothly from class to class, lesson to lesson. I taught with a coolness and attention to detail that’s unusual for me. It was almost as if some enormous power was pushing me along, and I could do nothing but yield and allow it to happen. The best aspect of all this is that I didn’t seem to have to make anything happen. The good teaching and learning, the steady stream of successful present moments, happened without my help, without my customary forcing and pushing and shoving. Somehow the week became a beautiful one, day after day, and all I did was go along for the ride. This, surely, is one of the greatest mysteries in my life. Good happens to me moment by moment, hour after hour, and none of it is planned and organized and implemented by me. Yes, my thinking and planning appear to be part of the cause, but the big question is: What causes my thinking and planning? For the answer to that question I have to look to the infinite, universal force that provides all answers and all power. I certainly felt that force in my classroom throughout this first week of school.

ON TEACHING: Thoroughness

Today I was a thorough teacher, and it gave me great pleasure. Some time ago, I looked up the word "thorough" and found (as I expected) that it involves doing something completely, entirely, and fully, from start to finish -- and that's what I was able to do today. Somehow (perhaps by accident) I planned exactly the right amount of teaching so that I could get through each segment in a deliberate and complete manner. I taught my lessons step by step with care and concentration. Interestingly, the word "thorough" also derives from a word meaning "to pierce", which makes we wonder whether I might have "pierced" some of my students today with knowledge and understanding. Because I was teaching in a painstaking, measured way, and not rushing, the students may have been able to comprehend the lesson more deeply (more piercingly) than usual. There's actually a simple reason why this all happened today: I eliminated some of the daily activities I was accustomed to doing last year. I guess I finally realized (duh) that I can't possibly teach everything or do every activity. By cutting some less important steps in my lesson plan, I was able to cover the remaining steps in a much more thorough manner. I was proud of myself as a teacher today because I taught in a good way -- deliberately and comprehensively.

POEM: Walking on the Beach

He marvels
that it’s so easy.
His left leg steps ahead
and then his right.
His left arm smoothly swings,
and then his right.
It’s effortless,
like the way the surf
sweeps in and then sweeps out,
and the way sadness arrives
and then silently leaves.
Overhead
the sky is flawlessly blue,
and soon, he knows,
will be sparkling with stars
with no struggle whatsoever.

JOURNAL: September 8, 2006

There’s been a “country” feeling in the air recently. I live in a part of New England that is still relatively rural, and I was especially aware of that the last few days. Driving to school, I passed quiet pastures with horses grazing, and the woods along the road seemed, in my mind, to be those of old farms. I pictured the barns and the farm houses set back from view, hidden in valleys where cows grazed and hay was stacked. I continued to have a pastoral feeling while I was teaching at school. Whenever I walked outside, there was a sense of open space, especially when I walked around in back where the playing fields stretched back to the big pasture. Everything seemed utterly bucolic. I could picture the old days when farm animals, perhaps, pulled wagons and plows across these very same fields, probably over the very ground I was standing on. The sky was blue and full of light – perfect, I thought, for the growing of crops and the grazing of healthy cows.

POEM: Imprisoned

It’s a strange prison
he finds himself in,
and there’s no way to escape.
He can’t get away from goodness,
and kindness couldn’t have put up
stronger walls. The windows
are barred so he can’t break away
from harmony and support,
and wherever he looks
there’s love
quietly locking him in.
He tries his best
to devise ways to flee,
but it's a lost cause.
The locks
on the doors of satisfaction
are too strong.

JOURNAL: September 7, 2006

Yesterday was a fine day: the weather was absolutely first-rate, and what happened in my classrooms was as good as it gets for me.

I loved the feel of the air all day long. There was a coolness and lightness outside that spoke of school years starting and the parched and sultry days of summer ending. It was a feeling that everything is exactly as it should be: breezes were blowing the way they must, and the sunlight on patches of grass was shining flawlessly. I loved walking outside now and then, feeling the stirring September air. There were good things stirring inside my classrooms, too – all day and evening. My young middle school students were (at least from my point of view) completely well-behaved. They sat in my class as though this is what they had been waiting for all day. (Surely a fantasy on my part, but it was fun to pretend!) The words we spoke and the activities we did seemed (to me) to be just the right ones for the occasion. My evening class at the Subase also seemed exceptional. I wasn’t a first-class teacher, by any means, but still the minutes of the class passed in a graceful and satisfying manner. We covered lots of material, and the students appeared to adequately understand what I was attempting to teach.

I guess every day is extraordinary in its own particular way, and yesterday, for me, was no exception.

ON TEACHING: Building in the Classroom, Part 2

I've been thinking about the verb "to build" as it relates to teaching, and today I came across another intriguing definition: "To develop in magnitude or extent", as in Clouds were building on the horizon. It's interesting to think of an ominous thunderstorm gradually growing in the distance, and then to compare that to the growing sense of apprehension students sometimes have when they know some huge project or event is looming ahead in class. Just as we experience a mixture of fear and exhilaration when we watch dark clouds gathering, so do students often feel both dread and excitement as they look ahead to a daunting academic challenge. They probably don't like the dread, but they would surely miss the excitement if we took it away, just as they would hate to have no more spellbinding thunderstorms. I, too, feel a mix of emotions as I look ahead to something huge in my own teaching. Perhaps I'm trying something brand new, or maybe the culmination of a huge project I've designed might be coming into view. It's scary, but at the same time totally gripping -- and I wouldn't have it any other way. What all this leads me to is the reminder not to avoid designing overwhelming challenges for my students, or for myself. We all need daunting trials now and again to raise both our fears and excitement to a high pitch. It's a way of stirring the air in our hearts and minds, of sweeping things clean the way a wicked thunderstorm often does.

POEM: Could

Each morning
he wonders what could happen.
Could a car depart from his driveway
with happiness bursting inside it?
Could the trees beside the road
stand extra straight
as he passes on the way to school?
Could the door to his classroom
decide to open by itself?
Could the students’ ideas
dance in the center of the classroom?
Could his lunch
leave him feeling like a king?
Could his last class
carry him away on wings?

JOURNAL: September 6, 2006

Yesterday, the first day of school, a countless number of things could have happened, but only a few did. As a case in point, I could have overslept and dashed to school at the last minute, but instead I awoke extra early and spent several fruitful hours preparing myself mentally and physically for the day ahead. I did some enlightening spiritual reading, wrote a few thoughtful paragraphs, and then had an efficient workout at the gym, all before 6:00 a.m.! My breakfast – delicious coffee and two of the best pieces of toast I have ever eaten – was enjoyed slowly and appreciatively, and then I was off to school to meet my students. Another example: I could have been disorganized in my teaching (as I sometimes have been), but instead I felt like I was a well-built, thoroughly oiled teaching machine. Each of my classes happened pretty much the way I had hope they would – the kids smiling and sitting up straight, me talking quietly and purposefully, and the time passing in as pleasant a way as it could in a middle school classroom. Dare I say that the classes seemed almost perfect to me? Finally, I could have felt tired and somewhat bewildered after a long first day of school, but instead I felt utterly inspired. I think, if I’d needed to, I could have taught several more classes of teenagers in the late afternoon. I recall feeling first-rate ideas about teaching pouring into my mind around 5:00 pm, as I prepared to go home for the evening.

ON TEACHING: Building in the Classroom, Part 1

Rummaging around in my favorite dictionary (looking for insights into the mystifying art of teaching), I came upon this definition of the word build : "to form by combining materials or parts", and I instantly realized that this is something my students and I do every day in English class. For instance, in order to read thoughtfully and thoroughly, we must "build" an interpretation of what we're reading by combining ideas together into a unified whole. It's hard work, not unlike the work that real-world house builders do -- putting piece together with piece to create a solid and attractive structure. My students and I also do this kind of building when we write paragraphs and essays. The materials we use are ideas, words, sentences, and paragraphs, and, like any good builder, we try to bring these elements together in a harmonious way. No builder, least of all people involved in writing, can afford to just toss things together. There must be a careful process to the combining as the sentences are hammered into paragraphs and the paragraphs bolted into essays. There must also, of course, be a careful process in my planning and supervising of English class, which relates to another definition of build : "to order, finance, or supervise the construction of, as in The administration built several new housing projects." Each year I actually build an English class, but not in the sense that I do all the labor myself. As the teacher, I "order and supervise" the construction of a year-long class involving the study of English, and then my students and I set out to do the actual assembling and raising. As the year progresses, the building called English class slowly rises -- a building we can occasionally stand back and admire. It's slow, taxing labor, but by June, we should be able to see the entire building in its complexity and harmony.

POEM: Building Projects

He knows things
are being built all day.
Sunlight is being assembled in special ways
so people can flourish
inside it. Here and there
a breeze is being silently constructed,
swirling increasingly among the houses.
He knows
thoughts are constantly assembling themselves
in happiness, and feelings
are being mysteriously manufactured
while he creates a castle called a day
and the skillful universe
continues to raise
its everlasting roof above him.

JOURNAL: September 5, 2006

This past weekend I flew to St. Louis for one short, final, restful summer vacation. It turned out to be a wonderful holiday, full of the kind of relaxation that one associates with summertime. I felt totally calm and at peace throughout the weekend, even though I was kept quite busy with family gatherings. The visit was full of activity, but each one seemed to be utterly tranquil and quiet. It was just the kind of family break I needed right before the beginning of the new school year. I enjoyed a lively lunch with my brothers and sisters, several wonderful visits with my cheerful, full-of-life 90-year-old mother, a stirring family soccer game on Saturday morning (featuring all-stars from 8 to 40-something), and a lovely evening cookout at my sister’s home. I packed many activities into the brief weekend, but they all seemed calming and reinvigorating. Interestingly, when I returned home to New England on Sunday afternoon, the weather seemed every bit as peaceful as my entire trip had been. A mild late-summer feeling was in the air. There was a tenderness in the breezes that made me think of the kindness of my students and the many peaceable classroom days that lie ahead. I smiled and quietly sang as I drove down the highway toward home.

POEM: September

When September comes,
he sings every chance he gets.
It’s because of the flowers
that enliven the roads,
and the leaning sunlight,
and the school doors standing open,
and the way winds
encircle him as he sits
in the park. He sings
as the crickets sing beside him
in the grass, and as the leaves sing
and celebrate and start
to loosen their bonds above him.