Quotes from George Eliot's "Middlemarch"

Chapter 10:
"Genius...may confidently await those messages from the universe which summon it to its peculiar work, only placing itself in an attitude of receptivity towards all sublime chances."

"We know what a masquerade all development is, and what effective shapes may be disguised in helpless embryos. In fact, the world is full of ... handsome dubious eggs called possibilities."

REFLECTION: Pondering

It occurred to me today that teaching and learning have much to do with “pondering”. The word derives from an old Latin word that meant “weighing”, and there’s no doubt that my students and I spend a good deal of time weighing ideas. We’re thinking about academic topics throughout the day, and we often do it as if we are holding ideas in our hands to estimate how much they weigh. When I see a student bent over a book or a writing project, I often picture an old-fashioned balance scale. The meditative student is carefully placing a thought in one of the pans of the scale, then placing weights, or other thoughts, in the opposite pan, and then checking the relative heaviness. It’s a precise, exact business, this process called pondering, and – like weighing things in a laboratory – it requires the utmost attentiveness. Careless thinking, like careless weighing, always leads to flawed results. One thought might be just a milligram heavier than another, but that could be the difference between a life-changing idea and a dud. I guess my classroom should be, in a sense, like a meticulously-run laboratory. If my students and I are going to be weighing ideas all day long, there needs to be an atmosphere of exactness and precision in the room. We need to keep in mind that we’re engaged in scientific work of a high order – considering and evaluating ideas. Perhaps we should put on our lab coats and protective glasses when we enter my classroom to begin another session of pondering.

JOURNAL

To me, yesterday was a perfect autumn day, made even more perfect by the few hours I spent with my grandson, Noah. The colors of the leaves were a bit past their peak, but there was still enough gold and red in the trees to make the day spectacular – and a wild pre-Halloween wind made it even more special. Noah and I often looked up at the tall trees in his yard as they flashed their remaining colors in the wind. There seemed to be a low crying sound all around us as the wind rushed through the branches. I drove up early in the morning to have breakfast with Jaimie, Jess, and Noah, and it was an even more wonderful drive than usual. The bright trees were swaying along the roads as I passed, and the wind was swirling leaves in a riotous display. There was a wildness all around me that seemed perfectly fitting for this spooky season. We enjoyed a hearty breakfast of bagel sandwiches (one of Noah’s favorites), and then we went out into the blowing yard and raked some leaves. Noah was bundled up tightly so that only his red cheeks and shining eyes could be seen, and he worked energetically beside us in the nippy air. We three men made a strong team as we piled the leaves on a tarp and then heaved them over a stone wall into the woods.

Quotes from George Eliot's "Middlemarch"

"The mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it."

"Mr. Cadwallader was a large man, with a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his exterior, but with that solid imperturbable ease and good-humour which is infectious, and like great grassy hills in the sunshine, quiets even an irritated egoism, and makes it rather ashamed of itself."

JOURNAL: October 29, 2006

During the last two days, the weather has been full of turbulence. Yesterday a soaking rain swept down over southern New England, accompanied by a noisy wind. All morning I sat comfortably in my apartment, grading student papers and listening to the rain and wind whip around outside. Now and then I walked to the window and looked out on a scene of driving rain and general bedlam. What was most impressive, throughout the day, was the force of the wind. Strong gusts raged around my neighborhood from morning to nightfall, sometimes seeming to shake the entire house. As I worked at my desk, I occasionally heard squalls gust past the window with a swoosh and a shout. When darkness came on, the rain settled down to an occasional sprinkle, and the winds faded away. I awoke from sleep now and then to a puff of wind passing by the window and rustling the blinds, but for the most part it was a tranquil night. Now this morning, as I type this, I hear the wind once again roaring around the house. We may be in for another day of turmoil and disorder.

ON TEACHING: Poise

Lately it’s become clear to me that the concept of “poise” is very important in my teaching. To be poised is, literally, to carry oneself in a state of perfect balance, and that’s truly what I ask of my students. Whether they are reading, writing, or speaking, I expect them to be well-balanced enough that their thoughts are communicated in an adequately controlled and composed manner. Their feelings, thoughts, and words should be in the kind of equilibrium that allows them to express themselves articulately and convincingly. This also suggests that they must gradually free themselves from affectation and embarrassment. If everything in the students’ arsenal of English skills gradually becomes nicely balanced, the students will progressively feel more poised, and if poised, then confident, ready, geared up, and eager. There will be no need to put on airs, and certainly no need to feel embarrassed. They will read, write, and speak with confidence and courage. The wonderful result of all this for my students is that they will be able to “carry” themselves with a greater sense of dignity. Their demeanor will gradually grow calmer and more dignified. People will remark on their self-assurance, their buoyant deportment, their overall appearance of distinction. They’ll be perched on the brink of a very bright future, partly because their English teacher demanded, above all, that they be poised.

ON TEACHING: Teaching by Allowing

Yesterday I didn’t actually “teach”, but I was still very much a teacher. All day long my students wrote essays in my class, so I didn’t actually teach any lessons. I gave the instructions for the essays and then sat at my desk while the students labored over their assignment. I sometimes felt a little guilty, as if I was earning my paycheck a little too easily, just sitting in a corner of the classroom grading papers while my students toiled away. However, as the hours passed, it gradually became clear to me that, even though I wasn’t front and center, even though I wasn’t constantly conducting my students as if they were an orchestra, I was still being a teacher. After all, under my guidance and supervision, the 40 students in my care each spent 45 minutes developing complicated ideas and presenting them on paper in a clear and coherent manner. Because I required them to, they worked silently, steadily, and efficiently to produce essays which exhibited their best thinking and writing skills. What this has helped me remember is the old truth that good teaching can have as much to do with sitting back and allowing as with holding forth and pushing. Yesterday I allowed my students to demonstrate their talents. I kept myself out of the way and made it possible for my students to show me, and themselves, just how much they could accomplish in 45 minutes. I was a teacher yesterday, though a quiet one just sitting at my desk in a corner.

JOURNAL: October 26, 2006

We have been experiencing exceptionally clear weather lately. Just now, as I type, I can look out at the garden beside my classroom and see perfectly clear sunshine on the grass and bushes, and just above the roofs of the nearby building is a brilliant blue sky. There seems to be no haze whatsoever in the air, as if I could see great distances. Looking down at the grass in the garden, I seem to see the individual blades as though I am bending over them, just inches away. These are the kinds of days I love -- days when nothing interferes with your ability to see the gorgeous world in its glory. The colors of the trees flash from morning to dusk, and everything -- cars, buildings, road signs -- shines with unusual brightness. Even my students' faces seem to carry a glow on these cloudless autumn days.

ON TEACHING: An Eternal River

This afternoon, after the students had gone home and my classroom was empty and quiet, I got to thinking that everything that happened in the room today was gone. The words we spoke, the activities we did together, the smiles and frowns we shared – all of these seem to have disappeared like smoke. Twelve thousand teaching and learning moments appeared to be gone forever. I felt like I had been floating on a strong river all day long, through all my classes, and now, at 3:45, the river had vanished, never to return. Another river would flow tomorrow, but today’s was nowhere to be found. It made me somewhat sad to realize this, but before long, luckily, I had another, opposite realization – that, in a sense, nothing that happened today in my classroom would ever disappear. All the ideas that flowed along through my room from first period to last would never vanish, because they are not made of a substance that can vanish. Ideas and words are not material things that can fade away and die out. Once created, they begin their magical work of altering lives, and this work never ends, no matter how concealed it becomes. The river that ran through my room today may appear to be gone, but it’s only slipped into a hidden realm where it will continue to run its miraculous operations. Without realizing it, my students and I will be quietly affected, in thousands of small ways, by every thought and word that was shared in Room 2 today. The briefest comment by the quietest student will ripple through all of our lives in ways we can never imagine. And the same marvelous thing will happen again tomorrow.

Lucky me.

ON TEACHING: Humility

Last night, I received my student evaluations from my last college course, and I was surprised by the relatively mediocre grades (a B+/A- average). For a few hours, I moped around in a semi-depressed manner, moaning to myself about my lack of ability as a teacher, thinking of myself as at least a partial failure at the work I love so much. It was not a happy time for me. Luckily, though, this morning I read in the Bible the story of the Pharisee and the publican, and that few minutes of reading completely changed my way of thinking. I saw that I had been acting like the Pharisee – full of my “self”, building my self up in my own eyes, thinking of my self as a separate, powerful, accomplished, and praiseworthy person. I had been exalting myself (as the King James version puts it) – probably for many years – and now, with the receipt of these mediocre evaluations, I had been humbled. What I had to remember – and I did this morning – is that no separate “self” does the teaching in my classroom. The power that does all the work is an infinite spiritual power that has nothing to do with a so-called individual, physical person named Hamilton Salsich. I needed to “humble” my self and become receptive to this vast force that rules all times and all things. The fact that “Mr. Salsich” received some specific suggestions about his teaching is irrelevant. What’s important is that the immense enterprise called teaching and learning will continue to expand and improve, no matter what “I” decide to do. The universe (God) will lift me up in its enormous hands and the great process called education will inexorably continue.

JOURNAL: October 24, 2006

Over the weekend, I realized something wonderful – that I can get great enjoyment from doing every action, big or small, important or trivial, in a thoughtful and careful manner. This was most apparent when I was grading student essays. I’ve graded thousands of essays over the years, and sometimes I have done it – to be honest – in a fairly casual manner, just hoping to get the job done as quickly as possible. This weekend, however, I wrote my comments slowly and precisely, with as beautiful handwriting as possible. I took pleasure in forming the letters and words in a graceful manner, and I made sure that my entire comment had an elegant and orderly appearance. It was almost as though I was constructing a small work of art with each comment, a little piece of shipshape writing I could stand back and admire. It was great fun. I pictured my students receiving their papers, reading my conscientiously composed comments, and feeling grateful – even happy – that I took the time to write in such a painstaking way. They might, I thought, have a little greater appreciation (as I do) for the joy that performing actions in a tidy and precise way can bring. They might even have a greater admiration (as I do) for the meticulous way in which nature operates. When they’re reading my comments on their essays, they might look out the window and notice a tree with its perfectly-presented autumn colors, or a breeze blowing precisely the way it must through the garden beside my classroom.

MEDITATION: October 23, 2006

It’s a well-accepted axiom that people who lack judgment are to be pitied, but I’m not so sure. It may well be that I should actually foster a lack of judgment in myself – a lack of the habit of forming an opinion about things. Perhaps that habit – one that has been tightening its grip on mefor decades – causes more problems than it solves. If I could stop passing judgment on everything in my life, perhaps I could relax and simply accept whatever comes my way. Of course, this will be a difficult change for me to make, for I have been trained since my earliest days to judge every small and large moment of my life. All of society wants me to live by constantly handing down rulings: Is this right or wrong, good or bad, helpful or harmful? It now seems perfectly natural to live that way because everyone apparently does it, and there seems to be no other way. However, there definitely is another way, and it’s a way that’s been followed by all happily peaceful people since time began. It’s the way of acceptance, non-resistance, resignation, acquiescence, and surrender. People follow that path when they realize that they are part of a force that’s immense and harmonious, and that judging the goodness or badness of any aspect of this force is utter insanity. It’s like a breeze judging the vast patterns of the winds. Instead of giving opinions about each moment in life, I should settle back and observe the wonderful show. I should lack judgment and be rich with contentment.

JOURNAL: October 21, 2006

The weather these last three days has ranged from warm to stormy to very windy and – now – cool and colorful. The middle of the week was more like summer than autumn. When I walked outside at school now and then, it felt almost hot – more like beach-walking weather than pre-winter weather. I think I actually wiped perspiration from my forehead a few times in the later afternoon. However, yesterday an intense, saturating rainstorm descended on us and soaked the school campus all day long. I gave an in-class writing assignment to my students, and I hope they weren’t distracted by the sound of the pounding rain coming through the open door to my classroom. Actually, it was a rather soothing sound, so perhaps the kids were comforted and somehow aided by it. Another weather change happened as the storm passed off in the afternoon. Soon breezes began to blow in a cool, blustery way, and by nightfall a wicked wind was tossing the trees every which way. I drove back to school for an evening performance and the landscape had a look of turbulence and hurly-burly. A cold front had come in with a passion, leading to today, one of the clearest and most multicolored autumn days I can recall.

JOURNAL: October 19, 2006

Tonight, as I look back on the day, the idea of readiness comes to mind. I think of the very early morning, when I arose from bed at 3:30 (my usual time) to begin my preparations for the day. At that very early hour, I was completely ready to awaken and get down to work. In fact, I was anxious to start the day because I knew that interesting things were in store for me. I also noticed a sense of readiness at school, on the part of at least some of my students. A few of them, I think, were actually looking forward to English class. I don’t think I could say they were dying to get to my class, but I think there was a keen interest in some of them to hustle down to my room and see how well they could perform. As a final point, I, too, felt a buzz of spirited eagerness today. I always enjoy teaching, but today I felt unusually ardent about my work. When one class ended, I was impatient for the next one to start. The day seemed always ready for action, and I was thrilled to be there to take part.

JOURNAL: October 18, 2006

Today I felt like my classes got a little away from me, as though activities were sort of happening by themselves and I was just following along. I had carefully planned the lessons, as I always do, but, nevertheless, on many occasions I felt like the lessons were running me instead of the opposite. It wasn’t a good feeling. I felt like things were out of my control, and I most definitely felt like a failure as a teacher. Later, I thought to myself, “I have to get control of things tomorrow!” – but then another thought came to me, an opposite one. Maybe, I thought, I need to willingly give up control of things instead of struggling to regain control. Perhaps the learning that occurred in my classroom today was deep and powerful, only I didn’t notice it because I was too engrossed in my own personal issues concerning control. While I was worrying about keeping track of all the pieces of my lesson plan, maybe the students were quietly benefiting from the lesson. Sometimes, when I’m flustered and frustrated in my teaching, I see myself as someone standing in a meadow trying to control the winds. He’s wildly waving his arms and racing here and there, and, of course, the winds constantly elude his grasp. That was me in my classroom today. Perhaps I need to stop all the nonsense about control and just relax and enjoy whatever’s happening in my classroom. I always make a meticulous lesson plan, and maybe I just need to let the plan do its systematic work. We trust the wind to blow where it must, and maybe I need to trust my lesson plans, too.

JOURNAL: October 18, 2006

I’m learning, a little each day, how to let go of life and allow it to be what it has to be, and yesterday afternoon I took some great steps forward in this educational process. It was a frustrating day in school for me, and by 3:00, I was feeling fairly discouraged about my abilities as a teacher. In my thinking, I was using a lot of “I” phrases: “I” was not a good teacher that day, “I” rushed through my lessons, “I” needed to read some books or go to a workshop to improve my teaching. It was as though “I” was the main source of labor and creativity in teaching, and “I” was carrying a load that had grown way too heavy. At one point, however, the thought came to me that I could simply release this burden because “I “ didn’t need to do any carrying. It became clear to me (and I’ve had this revelation countless times) that a far more powerful force was available to do all the carrying that needs to be done. In fact, this force (which some people call God) always does the carrying, even though it may seem like a separate entity called “me” is doing it. This realization gave me a wonderful sense of release and freedom. I saw that I no longer needed to carry the heavy weight of responsibility for what happens in my classroom. It was obvious that my students and I are floating on an irresistible and limitless river, and all I need to do is relax and let the river do its work. I can dump my entire teaching load on this all-powerful river because I know it can easily carry the weight.

JOURNAL: October 15, 2006

Today was another clear, brisk, and colorful autumn day. The clarity was something I noticed all day long - the dazzling blue sky, the crispy white clouds passing along, and the perfectly transparent air. It looked as if everything had just been thoroughly washed. I don't remember a more unsoiled-looking fall day. There was also a zesty quality to the air, a bracing, revitalizing feature that made me feel a little more awake each time I went outside. It wasn't exactly cold ~ just brisk enough to let you know it's definitely October. I saw people bundled up with warm jackets, gloves, and even scarves, as if winter is just around the corner (which it is). No matter how bundled people were, I hope they noticed the beautiful colors of the trees. This might well be the final weekend of colors in this part of New England, and today was a real dazzler. The brisk wind made the colors seem especially vivid as leaves blew across the streets and yards.

ON TEACHING: Looking Around

Today, at least on one occasion, I fell back into a bad habit of mine: speaking without carefully considering what I was going to say. In that sense, I failed to be a circumspect teacher, something I always aim for in my work. The word suggests an ability to "look around" at the circumstances and the possible ramifications before speaking or acting, and I did little or none of that in this situation. Some students had moved a few lounge chairs around in the library, and, with no forethought whatsoever, I chastised them in a rather unfriendly manner. I didn’t think; I simply spoke. I’m afraid I behaved more like a machine than a person. That kind of thing happens to me more often than I usually realize. I spend a good portion of the school day reacting – talking and behaving in a hasty, unthinking manner. In a sense, you could say I’m a classic example of the absent-minded “professor”, since a clear-thinking, observant mind seems absent during much of my day. I do a lot more thoughtless drifting than mindful steering. This could be a project for me to work on this year. I could try, each day, each hour, to put thought before words and actions. I could let attentiveness control my life instead of impulsivity. I could look around before I jump ahead.

ON TEACHING: Emulation

I have often thought that imitation is an effective way for students to learn to write and read, but perhaps emulation is the better word. Imitation carries with it a negative connotation suggesting a slavish, almost fake replication of a model, which is certainly not what I want to encourage in my students. I don’t want them to think they can be successful writers and readers simply by mindlessly doing exactly what I do. I want them to create, not mimic – which is where the idea of emulation comes in. When we emulate someone, we don’t merely imitate; we strive to equal or surpass. There’s a hint of competitiveness in the word. To emulate is to follow in someone’s footsteps only in the hope of eventually passing him or her. I would hope I can engender that kind of spirit in my students – the spirit that makes them assiduously study my model essays and reading journals so that they can ultimately do even better. In that sense, I want to foster a vigorous atmosphere of competition in my classroom -- not the kind that defeats and disheartens others, but the kind that lifts the students to their highest possible levels of achievement. At all times I want them to have one eye on me and one eye on goals that are far beyond me. I want them to say, “Mr. Salsich is good, but I can do even better.”

JOURNAL: October 14, 2006

There was great richness of color everywhere today. As far as leaves go, the autumn season seems to be at its peak in this part of New England, and the colorful trees were flashing their brilliance all around. As I drove up the highway to have breakfast with Luke, the trees were dazzling in the morning light. Quite often, I caught a glimpse of an especially bright tree shaking its leaves in the sunshine, and now and then the wind blew a cluster of vivid leaves across the road. Luke and I drove over to a small cafe on the main road in Millbury, and as we drove we both remarked on the beautiful colors of the trees. The little town seemed to be positively glowing. Of course, the bright sunshine helped. It was a brilliantly sunny day, which made the streets seem lit up for a carnival. Later, back in Westerly, I walked down to the park and enjoyed the autumn colors again. The wind was swirling around, which made the exotic colors seem to burn more brightly. As the trees swayed, the leaves flashed and flickered in the afternoon light.

ON TEACHING: Sound Teaching

It would be wonderful if a visitor to my classroom said there was “sound teaching” going on, because that’s the kind of teaching I’ve been working toward for many years. Above all, I want my teaching to be sound – built upon a firm, unshakable foundation. My goal is for every word I say and every activity I plan to be as solidly based as a well-constructed building. I want my students (and any visitors) to clearly sense that there’s a dependable base, a sound support, under every lesson I teach. In addition, I would hope that everything I say in class could be called “sound”, in the sense that it is based on valid reasoning. When I make a comment, I hope my students say to themselves something like, “That was a sound observation by Mr. Salsich”. I’d like them to see me as someone whose words come from a place of consideration and logic, not caprice and speciousness. Finally, I would hope a visitor would see, after observing one of my lessons, that it was a thorough and complete lesson. Hopefully the lesson would have a clear beginning, middle, and end, each part of which would be covered in a meticulous manner. The visitor, in my ideal fantasy, would walk out of the room saying, “That was a sound lesson, indeed."

I would like my teaching to function the way a gyroscope does. In a gyroscope, the wheel spinning on its axle tends to resist any outside changes; it keeps spinning in its same orientation, no matter what the outer frames do. It’s a fascinating device to watch. You can turn the outer frames in any direction as quickly as you wish, and the spinning rotor will continue to maintain its same axis direction. I would like to teach that way. As with the gyroscope, there are countless outside forces that twirl around me as I go about my daily work in the classroom, and my hope is that I can maintain my orientation no matter what. As its outer frames shift and alter, the wheel in the gyroscope keeps spinning fluidly on the same axis, and I hope I can keep steadily on the right path no matter what turmoil seems to be occurring around me. In a way, my classroom is like a ship far out at sea, heading for a definite destination on the horizon. The ship needs to stay stable no matter how strong the storms or how high the waves, and I need to maintain the equilibrium of English class so we remain safely on course. If things go wrong one day, my teaching needs to be able to even itself out so that the curriculum can continue on course. Of course, my students also need to operate like gyroscopes. In their bustling, sometimes volatile lives, it would be easy for them to go spinning off in a destructive direction. My hope is that I can teach them how to maintain their balance in the midst of the pressures of reading puzzling stories and writing intricate essays. Together, perhaps the scholars and I can keep the gyroscopic wheel of Room 2 smoothly spinning.

JOURNAL: October 13, 2006

My youngest son has had his life turned just about upside-down (in a good way) in the last two months. For one thing, he’s off to a wonderful start in his new teaching career. He’s teaching a third grade class at a local public school, and he seems to be doing a good job and enjoying it immensely. He talks enthusiastically about his work – about the school, about his lessons, and, most of all, about the students. I visited his classroom several weeks ago, and was totally impressed with the orderliness, confidence, and affection with which he carried out his duties. He obviously loves his work and the children obviously love him. However, he has another love in his life, and she just arrived this week to live with him and be married to him. They met several years ago in Belize, gradually fell in love, and have been dating in a long-distance way ever since. She finally received her fiancée visa a short time ago, and all of a sudden, here she is, living in his snug apartment and enjoying her new life in America. I must admit that my son has a somewhat stunned look on his face these days – and why wouldn’t he? In the last few months he has been given both the privilege of teaching 22 wonderful children and the gift of his future wife’s presence by his side. Life is good for him these days. The road lies wide open ahead.

JOURNAL: October 11, 2006

We’re enjoying a stretch of Indian summer days here in southern New England. Yesterday, once again, it became quite warm as the hours passed. There was a stillness and torpor in the air that I associate more with mid-August than mid-October. Teaching was extra-difficult in these sultry conditions. The kids’ heads must have seemed especially heavy, because almost all of them were drooping down toward the tables, often held up only by their arms. Around 2:00, my room was muggy and oppressive, and my English lessons, I’m afraid, brought no relief whatsoever. Luckily for both me and the students, the school day came to an end, and many of us were able to get outside to enjoy the sunshine and pleasant breezes. The soccer and field hockey players raced up and down the field in their games, and I went to the park for a restful stroll and some reading. I sat on a bench enjoying a chapter in To Kill a Mockingbird as the sun drifted down among the trees.

ON TEACHING: Caprice

Today I fell into an old habit of capricious behavior in class, and I’m not happy about it. One dictionary defines “caprice” as a sudden, unpredictable action, change, or series of actions or changes, as in “A hailstorm in July is a caprice of nature” –and I guess you could say I caused a small hailstorm in my classroom today. A girl simply tried to tell another girl about a teaching award I had recently received, and, without warning, I barked at her and asked her to be quiet. It was totally unlike me, and I think both girls were stunned by it. It was capricious conduct of the most brainless kind – the kind of conduct that I find embarrassing and disappointing. As a teacher, I have tried, above all, to be a calm, stable, predictable, and composed person when I’m with my students. Young people need to be in the presence of adults who have the quiet strength of a relentless but smooth-flowing river. They don’t need to be around sudden, unpredictable people whose behavior is as whimsical as the wind. Today, for a few moments with those girls, I was an erratic, impulsive teacher, and I’m not pleased about it. As I’m typing this paragraph, I’m wishing I could get back to the classroom right now and behave in a more self-possessed manner. I’ll have to wait, though, for tomorrow’s classes, when I hope my students will see a steadier, more tranquil Mr. Salsich.

ON TEACHING:Spotlights Coming On

Yesterday, I walked into the gym at school when all was dark, and suddenly the lights started switching on. As I proceeded across the floor, each light came on when I passed beneath it, almost as though I was a celebrity, someone very special, and the lights were following me. This odd experience turned my thoughts to teaching, and I began to wonder whether something analogous to this could happen in my classroom. Could my students feel, as the days and weeks pass, that the lights of success are constantly switching on and growing brighter? Could they feel like they are slowly walking into the "arena" of knowledge, with spotlights gradually coming on? Some might dismiss this as merely a pollyanna hope, a dream that couldn't possibly come true, but I'm not so sure. In any case, no matter how unrealistic it may seem, it is certainly a goal worth aiming for. I do want my students to feel, each and every day, that the light of success is shining a little brighter on them. In a gradual but steady way, I hope they will feel like they are walking a little prouder and straighter as they learn and grow. This is a goal I must keep always in mind. In the daily busywork of teaching, I must never lose sight of the fact that these kids are special and need to feel that way. They need to believe they are singular and extraordinary, deserving of renown. Like in the gym, it's my task to make them sense that the spotlights of achievement are slowly coming on all around them.

WHITE MOUNTAIN JOURNAL: October 3-6

In New Hampshire with 8th Graders, on Carter Notch, Carter Dome, and Mt. Height
October 3-6, 2006

October 3
1:25 p.m. There was a wonderful softness in the morning hours of the trip. The seats on the bus, the fresh donut I ate, the puffy clouds floating above us, the thoughts I was thinking as the miles passed – all seemed utterly soothing. Even the sentences in the Dickens’ novel I had brought along seemed pleasingly fluffy as I read them.

3:45 p.m. A strong breeze sprang up this afternoon. It blew leaves, butterflies, students’ hair, seeds, and small bugs. I felt happy as I sat on a stone, imagining that this fresh autumn wind had blown us up to the mountains all the way from Stonington.

5:40 p.m. The kids are full of exuberance – some in a noisy, physical way, others in a quiet, more cerebral way. A few moments ago, there was some banging of doors, some shouts, and soon a group of students tumbled out of doors with a teacher for a football game. Meanwhile, in the comfortable living room of the lodge where we’re staying tonight, a small group is huddled around a chess board, talking quietly but excitedly as the pieces are moved around the board.

7:45 p.m. I’m in the equipment room with a group of boys (getting ready for tomorrow’s hike), and we’re doing a bit of silent writing at the moment. I’m writing, but I’m also listening – to the hum of the lights in the room, to pages in notebooks turning, to the sounds of clothes rustling as we shift positions, to some hushed movements from the adjoining room. In some ways, it’s been a noisy day, and so it’s nice to listen to sounds that are almost silence.


October 4
10:35 a.m. We’re taking a break in the forest about a half-hour up the trail. Everything around us, in fact, seems to be taking a break. The trees appear to be relaxing in the light winds, swaying easily back and forth, and the stream below us is making restful music. Meanwhile, the boys are enjoying their break by playing a simple, happy game.

11:45 a.m. A few moments ago, when I stripped down to my short-sleeved shirt, it struck me that the forest is stripping down, too. The trees are releasing their leaves to face the winter with bare limbs, and animals, I suspect, are cleaning out their homes in preparation for the cold season ahead. Even these sentences, completely free of unnecessary words (I hope), are stripped down to speak their meaning as directly as possible.

12:40 p.m. The stream beside us has been scouring these rocks for eons, just as endlessly as clouds have been passing overhead. Humans have come and gone; the stream, rocks, and clouds remain without end. People live for years; nature lives forever.

1:40 p.m. Strange, how climbing a steep trail slowly and deliberately can make the work seem almost easy. The path is still steep and my muscles are still laboring long and hard, but somehow the climb seems almost like a casual stroll when you’re doing it patiently and thoughtfully. It’s a precipitous mountain trail, but for the last hour, climbing it in a laid-back way, it felt like a quiet walk in the park.

2:12 p.m. I’m not sure I’ve ever spent an afternoon and night in a cloud, as I’m doing now. The students and I are surrounded by a storm system that’s settled on the high peaks, and the feeling is one of being both lost and cozy. We are in a haven of silence and serenity as the cloud softly swirls around us.

5:10 p.m. After a full day of hiking on steep trails, some of the kids are throwing a hacky-sack back and forth among the evergreens. Others are relaxing by talking and laughing down on the steps of the girls’ cabin. Earlier, a rousing game of Eagle Eye was played – another way of chilling out after a long day of hiking under 30 pound packs.

9:10 p.m. A gentle rain is falling as we prepare for a night’s rest. I have a feeling the sleep of we students and teachers will be deep and rewarding. The soft rain will allow us to wake with a willing spirit, ready to undertake another arduous climb. (Wrong! The gentle rain soon became a nasty, night-long storm of 45 mph winds, robbing most of us of a truly comfortable sleep.)


October 5
6:30 a.m. When it’s only October 5, and when it was 60 degrees yesterday, and when it’s still almost summer-like at the beach back home, and when you didn’t bring winter gloves – when all this is true, you don’t expect to wake up to a wind chill of below 20 degrees! I’m writing this while shivering on my bunk in our unheated, un-insulated cabin. I’m astonished by the wintry feel of things, and even more astonished by the fact that I’m sitting here quietly writing with my frozen left hand.

9:25 a.m. In the morning mist, we’re quietly preparing for our ascent up to Carter Dome – a high summit with a steep, tough trail leading up to it. We’re packing lunches, checking equipment, and giving final instructions. Hopefully the sun is preparing to shine on us.

11:10 a.m. Our AMC guide, Christine, just explained how a “nurse log” helps new things grow, and I began thinking that maybe I’m a kind of “nurse log” in my role as a teacher. I’m growing old, and perhaps, like the decaying log, I’m giving my life now to “nursing” my students into new and higher lives. The log nurses lichens and moss and even young trees, while I "nurse" students. Eventually, like the log, I will decay and become other things, while my students will grow and thrive where I used to be.

2:19 p.m. Christine asked us to find and study a “tiny” thing along the trail, and I chose a three-leaf clover with a small bead of moisture on it. As I looked closely, I noticed something wonderful. In the moisture, I could see the white clouds and blue sky reflected – something vast reflected in something tiny.

5:35 p.m. We could see no stars in the sky last night, but there were plenty of stars today as we worked our way up the precipitous trail to Carter Dome. I hiked with the girls and was totally impressed with their quiet courage. They never complained. Like hiking all-stars, they just put one foot in front of another all the way to the top.

6:45 p.m. The cold is biting. It’s been hovering around 30 degrees all day, and now, as darkness descends, it must be down in the 20’s. I can’t seem to get warm. Starting with the freezing wind on top of Carter Dome around lunch time, I have felt chilled through and through. Even sitting here in the fairly cozy hut dining room, surrounded by 24 vibrant teenagers, and with hot food steaming out from the kitchen, the mountain cold has me in its grip.



October 6
7:15 a.m. As I write, everyone is getting organized for the hike out of the mountains and back to our bus which will take us home. The AMC instructors are packing unused food, the kids are cleaning the bunk houses, and I’m doing the quiet work of organizing my thoughts in written sentences. It’s been an amazing expedition for us, filled with an immense variety of experiences, and I’m sitting here in the hut carefully sorting them out in my mind, and on paper, while others are sorting out equipment for the trip home.

12:00 noon. After four days of moving slowly and carefully, I’m back now at the boundary of the rushing, careening civilized world. I’m sitting against a boulder on Rte. 16, waiting for the last of the hikers to arrive back at the trailhead. Since Tuesday, we’ve been hiking watchfully and thoughtfully, step by step, and now we’re preparing to re-enter a world that rarely seems to do anything watchfully or thoughtfully.

JOURNAL: October 9, 2006

The last few days have been typical for me, in that nothing out of the ordinary happened – just the normal round of joys and comforts. Yesterday, a day of perfectly placid weather, I joined Luke, Krissy, and young Josh for a brief get-together at Jan’s. I was only there abut an hour, but it was enough time to experience the satisfaction that has become customary for me. Seeing my son and his wife and sharing their happiness in their five-month old son brought more of the kind of happiness I’ve become habituated to. Later I spent the Sunday afternoon in autumn in my customarily pleasant manner – watching football games and reading. I relaxed in my comfortable chair and watched two closely-contested games and read some chapters in George Eliot’s Middlemarch. Football and classic British literature may seem to have little to do with each other, but, as I usually do, I was able to make each of them enhance my enjoyment of the other. To finish this rather commonplace paragraph, I will mention today, which was, weather-wise, a classic example of Indian summer. The morning was frosty, but by early afternoon people were walking in the park in t-shirts in the warming sun. I set up my beach chair in the shade of some evergreens and spent a comfortable hour reading a book of poems that I found, as usual, to be illuminating and inspiring.

JOURNAL: October 8, 2006

Yesterday, my first day back from the four day hike in the White Mountains, was a wonderful day of stretching. I spent some time at school in the morning working on preparations for the coming week, and while I worked I enjoyed the wonderful feeling that comes from stretching muscles. I often put my legs out in front of me and extended the muscles as much as possible, feeling both their strength and softness as I did. Occasionally I stretched my arms behind me and took pleasure in the comfortable feeling of my body relaxing and regaining its strength. I also did another kind of stretching yesterday, one that involved my mind more than my body. A good friend called to share a problem he was having, and as we talked, I felt my thoughts stretching and enlarging to take in and deal with the problem he was explaining. It was as if his difficulty was a storm and I was broadening the sky of my understanding so the storm could be what it was and blow itself out. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and I think he and I both felt the storm of his problem gradually growing smaller and starting to fade away. He called me a few hours later to say that things were better. I hung up the phone and sat down in a soft chair in my living room. The autumn sunshine outside seemed to have grown larger. I stretched out my legs and felt the muscles that had carried me up and down mountains relaxing and regaining their strength.

ON TEACHNG: Feeling Full

I realized this morning that I hope my students feel “full” when they leave my class each day – not stuffed, or crammed, or over-loaded, but pleasingly filled up with exactly what they need. I might compare it to the kind of feeling you would have on leaving a home you’ve been visiting, and where you have been treated with the utmost kindness, respect, and generosity. You would feel, at least temporarily, that life was good. For as long as you enjoyed the glow of your friendly visit, you would probably feel quite pleased with life. I would like my students to feel that way when they leave my classroom, and I believe I can provide some things that would give them that feeling. For instance, I can make my room a place of true comfort – not couch-potato kind of comfort, but the comfort that comes from knowing they’re in a safe place. I can offer them the assurance that no one will attack, ridicule, or reject them while they’re in my classroom, so that when they leave my class, they can feel a little stronger and more resolute. I can also provide my students with a sense of the seriousness of their work in English class – a sense of their own importance and value as students of reading and writing. They may not always walk out of my room packed full of new knowledge, but I hope they always feel more significant, more distinguished, than when they walked in. Perhaps they can leave my English class each day filled up full with the awareness that they are earnest students engaged in a momentous enterprise. That would be a wonderful kind of satisfaction to take away from Room 2.