I calculated today that if I live for another 20 years (a reasonable expectation) I will have approximately 470 billion additional experiences -- one every second. That's an astonishing fact to consider, but even more astounding is the realization that each one of those experiences could be important, significant, crucial, critical, decisive, even "earth-shattering". I emphasize "could be", because it all depends on my attitude. Each and every one of my remaining moments of life could be truly momentous, if only I keep my awareness open to the glory inherent in them. Something as simple as typing on this computer keyboard is a major miracle, consisting of countless muscles, nerves, cells, molecules, and atoms interacting in an infinitely complex way. It's a grand and astonishing show, and the same kind of thing happens each moment, and will continue to happen for the next 470 billion moments of my life! Problem is, I could see most of the moments as boring, tedious, uninteresting, and dull. It all depends on my viewpoint.

I had some wonderful classes lately, and I think it's because I was more patient than usual. I was more capable of waiting -- of allowing an outcome or result to happen of its own accord and in a natural way. I wasn't hasty or impulsive (as I often am). I allowed the learning to unfold instead of forcing it. In a way, I was like a gardener among his flowers. The good gardener prunes and waters his flowers, and carefully removes any sprouting weeds, but he knows that's all he can do. He can't compel the flowers to grow and bloom. All he can do is provide the right atmosphere for growth, and then wait. In the last few days, my classroom was a very productive garden. The students quietly produced beautiful ideas, and I sat among them, marveling. Every so often, I offered encouragement or praise, but for the most part I was the grateful gardener, quietly sitting back and enjoying the impressive harvest.

Oh, what a peaceful weekend I had! On Saturday, I worked quietly and competently at school for a few hours, just allowing the various tasks to easily fall into place. There was no stress involved, no rushing or worrying or forcing things to happen. I felt as relaxed as the silent winter day looked. Then yesterday I drove up to Jaimie’s for a celebration of Jan’s birthday. As usual, the drive over the country roads was a peaceful one, and the gathering in Brooklyn was perfectly relaxed and relaxing. The whole family was there, including joyous Noah and newly crawling Josh (who sped along the carpet with a happy smile). I could only stay for a short time, then said my goodbyes and drove back to Westerly through the dozing Sunday countryside.

Today I checked out some DVDs from the library, and, as I was walking out, I suddenly realized how grateful I am that the library is there for me, and for all of us. Think of it: a building that holds countless (in the tens of thousands, I’m sure) books, magazines, newspapers, and discs, all available for borrowing – free of charge! It’s a remarkable gift to all the people in Rhode Island, an openhanded endowment that provides bountiful rewards each day and will continue doing so into perpetuity. In the library, I’m like a child in a toy store, and all the items are free. How did I get this lucky?

I also realized today (as I often have) how fortunate I am to have both a police and fire department in my town. There are innumerable places in the world where neither exist, and consequently the people live in unvarying fear. I know, with no doubt whatsoever, that when danger threatens our community, the valiant men and women of the police and fire departments will come to our aid. I know they’re on 24-hour watch, waiting for the slightest threatening sign. It’s easy to sleep peacefully in a town like ours, and I’m enormously thankful for that.

On this bitterly cold morning, I’m feeling grateful to the people who designed, built, and maintain my little gray Kia Spectra. I bundled up and went out at 4:45 a.m. to (hopefully) start the car and warm it up, and, lo, the engine instantly sprang to life. When I went back out again a few minutes later to drive to the gym, the car felt satisfyingly warm and the motor hummed pleasantly. I said a quiet word of thanks as I drove along the frigid streets in the darkness. I knew there are millions of people living in areas of severe cold who would marvel at the kind of instant and warm transportation that’s available to me. For every lucky person like me who can turn a key and get immediate results, there are thousands who must labor unremittingly in order to stay warm and get where they have to go. As I drove along in my comfortable Kia, simple thankfulness was the strongest feeling I had.

It occurred to me this morning how odd it is that I am always doing something. I can’t recall many instances recently when I wasn’t making something, going somewhere, or somehow being busy. If someone took random snapshots of me over a period of days, the pictures would reveal a man who is constantly active, on-the-go, up and about, on the move. There certainly wouldn’t be many photos of me doing nothing. This morning before daylight, as I sat quietly in my apartment with just a few candles for light, I thought how strange my perpetual "busy-ness" is. How weird that I never simply be – never simply exist in the present moment just for the sake of existing. It seemed unbelievably peculiar that I am always rushing around to every place except the only place that actually exists – the here and now. It’s doubly bizarre because I apparently think the here and now contains something dangerous and scary that must be avoided at all costs, and yet it actually is the most non-threatening and peaceful place to be. Only in the present moment is the complete truth revealed, the truth that says all power is utterly serene and is right here, right now. The present reveals the totally peaceful non-activity of real power. True power, which always exists in the present moment, doesn’t have to do anything, because it’s already perfect. It just has to be. It was clear to me this morning that I need to stop surrendering to my mania for doing things, and start simply being. If I want to find a lasting peace, that is the only path.

It’s interesting that the most beautiful things in the world don’t do much of anything at all. In fact, they’re beautiful precisely because they don’t do anything. Their quiet, do-nothing approach to existence – their utter serenity – is what makes them so appealing. Think of a beautiful mountain lake. What does it do all day? What does it accomplish ? At the end of a day, could we make a list of all the jobs a lake had carried out? No, the lake just pretty much sits there all day and all night, and that’s what gives rise to its irresistible loveliness.

In my teaching, I feel more frantic than serene these days, more stressed than peaceful. I don’t feel as well–prepared each day as I would like to feel. I’m working just as hard as always, spending just as much time planning my daily lessons, but I guess I don’t feel like I’m in complete control of things. I don’t feel like I know exactly where each day is supposed to go, and how each day, each lesson, fits into an overall plan. It’s like I’m driving a heavy-laden truck called English Class, but it’s loaded in a somewhat disorganized way and I’m not at all sure where I’m supposed to be taking all this cargo. I don’t mean to suggest that I’m not enjoying my teaching, or that I’m not having some wonderful classes now and then. Just today I had a thrilling class with one of the 9th grade sections – a class that came to an end on the kind of high note that any teacher would be grateful to experience. We were discussing a chapter in Dickens’ Great Expectations, and I was repeatedly astonished by the brilliance of the students’ interpretations. When they had left, I stood in a happy daze for a moment or two, taking delight in what had just happened. So, yes, there are days when I feel very positive about my teaching, but overall, I still have this feeling of anxiety, restlessness, and dissatisfaction – as if something essential is missing from my teaching.
Even as I typed that last sentence, it came to me what might be missing. I might simply not be teaching mindfully enough. I might not be focusing sufficiently on each moment of class, relishing just what’s happening right here, right now in Room 2. Perhaps in my desire to run a methodical and structured classroom, I have been consistently looking away from the good things that are happening in each present moment. In fact, my anxiety about plans and long-term goals might be the precise cause of this mindless inattention on my part. I may be focusing so much on the forest that I’m failing to see the beauty and uniqueness of each and every tree. For it is true – I know this for sure – that each moment of life, including the life in my classroom, is a rare and perfect and astounding miracle. Even when, from my limited perspective, my classes don’t seem to be all that exciting and I seem to be a less-than-successful teacher – even then, every moment in my classroom is a mind-boggling marvel. Throughout every class, epiphanies are constantly happening, inside every student and inside me. They may not be epiphanies that I have carefully planned and can take credit for, but they are wonderful epiphanies nonetheless. And I’m afraid I’m missing a lot – or most – of them, due to my obsession with the forest.
I guess I’ll try a simple cure: I’ll plan each lesson carefully, as I always do, but then I’ll take a deep breath before each class, remind myself to just enjoy the miracles that will be happening in the next 48 minutes, and then relax and enjoy the journey.

Continuing my meditations on mountains, I reflected this morning on the fact that a mountain is also durable. It persists, continues, and perseveres no matter what happens. The mountains in England where I hiked last summer have endured millions of years of adversities. Storms of the wildest sort have come and gone, and still the mountains continue. Today I can live like a mountain. I can quietly persist, no matter what kind of "weather" passes over me.

In my morning meditation today, I focused on the idea of “mountain”, and tried to allow some of a mountain’s qualities to reside in consciousness. A mountain is tall, just as I am, and just as every present moment is. Each moment of existence, like a mountain, reaches to a considerable height, and is substantial and demanding, like a mountain. A mountain is also massive. Like the present moment, a mountain is large in comparison with what is “typical” or “usual”. There is nothing typical about the size of a mountain, or about the size, the greatness, of any moment in life.

Strange as it may sound, one of my goals as a teacher is to help my students feel more like mountains. As they engage in the various activities in my English class, I would like them to feel that they have, like mountains, a solid base or foundation. Unlike the shakiness and insecurity that so many adolescents feel, I hope my students can gradually feel more solid, more steadfast, more durable. They have far more inner strength than they realize. Perhaps I can help them understand that they can be stable, like mountains, in the midst of the grimmest of circumstances. A mountain seems to sit in serenity through ferocious storms, and I would like to convince my students that they can do the same. If I suddenly announce a surprise in-class essay, I hope my students can react like a mountain in a storm. The snow and wind batter the mountain, but it stays just as it always is – strong and unflinching. Perhaps my students can react with a similar patience and fortitude in the face of academic shocks. Of course, if I want my students to be like mountains, then I must be also. If my classroom can be thought of as a mountain range, I must be a high peak among other peaks. Whatever happens during class, whatever disappointments, distresses, and frustrations come my way when I’m teaching, I must remain a long-lasting, unflappable, and rock-hard presence. We mountains in Room 2 must stand tall together.

One of my most important goals in teaching is to eliminate any sense of “urgency” in my class room. Unfortunately, it does seem to be a prevalent feeling among my students. Many of them seem to believe that there are always certain things that must be done immediately – a belief that causes them to have a tense and insistent expression on their faces. It’s almost as though they think their lives will take a major nosedive if particular tasks aren’t completed without delay. What I always hope to convince them of is that the universe has no sense of urgency, and therefore neither should they. It seems to me that this infinite cosmos that we are all part of goes about its infinite business in a totally non-urgent manner. Our feeling that urgency is essential is simply a delusion, because reality doesn’t work that way. Flowers don’t rush as they quietly proceed with their growing and blossoming; there’s no sense of exigency or pressure in our backyard gardens. Neither do the seasons struggle and push as the year progresses from month to month. Days arrive at their own sweet pace, and warm weather gives way to cold in uncertain and wavering ways. I guess I want to help my students learn to be more like the universe that they’re part of, the universe that creates a trillion things each moment in an utterly serene and almost indolent manner.

This week New England has been hit with sudden cold. I feel the change most powerfully in the early morning, when I awaken around 4:00. The rooms are frigid after a night of turned-down thermostats, and, after turning on the heat, I rush here and there to wash up and get dressed as fast as possible. As I’m reading and writing at my desk, I have the luxury of feeling the heat slowly spread through the room. At school, too, I feel fortunate on these wintry days, for I have my loyal little space heater to help me provide warm hospitality for the students. It hums quietly in the corner as we go through our lessons, keeping the room toasty and cheerful. In a way, I’m grateful for the abrupt arrival of winter weather, for it provides an opportunity to be a comforting host to my students. At the end of the day, I come home to a chilly apartment, but, like a faithful friend, it soon warms up nicely as the heat ascends from the floorboards. I putter around, settling in for a snug and pleasant evening as the apartment grows more comfortable. Within an hour, I’m as cozy as I could possibly be, safe from the bitter weather outside.

Yesterday I had a problem, and, as so often happens, something wonderful came out of it. The experience brought to mind again the idea of “compensation” – the notion that every occurrence is counter-balanced by another one. Think of a laboratory scale, the kind with two pans: when one pan is weighted with something, the goal is to make the other pan be a counter-balancing force. When the two pans are perfectly balanceded , the scale can then be accurately read. Yesterday, my computer was not working properly; you might say one pan on the scale was severely weighted down with inefficiency and frustration. I was upset about the situation and called the Dell support line, fully expecting to get even more aggravated. However, what I got was a kindhearted young man filled with expertise and patience, who uncomplainingly led me through a maze of steps until finally, after almost two hours, the computer was magically repaired and working beautifully. In the process, the technician and I had wonderful side-conversations about teaching, computers, and families. I not only gained a smoothly functioning computer, but, in a way, a new friend as well. When it was over and I was happily enjoying my computer, I realized that I felt glad the problem had arisen. After all, it had obviously been a marvelous experience for the young man from the Dell support team. He probably hung up from our lengthy conversation and gave a shout of elation, for he had successfully solved a customer’s problem. He had proven himself worthy of his job. He knew, then, that he was truly a master at helping frustrated computer users like me – and it was my computer problem that enabled him to prove that to himself. I smiled. As always eventually happens, the pans in the scale had once again come to a perfect balance. The law of compensation had made its universal power felt once again.

This past three-day weekend was absolutely wonderful, and today I’m feeling grateful. First of all, insignificant as it may sound, I’m thankful that I have instant heat available in my apartment. All I need to do is turn a small dial on the thermostat, and instantly I hear the exquisite “click” that indicates heat is starting to flow into my rooms. What’s gratifying to think about (and I often do) is how many unknown people worked long hours in factories somewhere to make the thermostat and furnace that enable me to enjoy the splendor of this instant and evenly-spread warmth. I’m also feeling very appreciative for the hot showers I took over the weekend. Around the world, billions of people would love to be able to take a hot shower even once a month, and I, lucky me, took one on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. To me, instant hot water is one of truly majestic blessings in my life. However, the best of all the gifts the weekend gave was simply the freedom to do whatever I pleased. Unlike so many people, nothing – no demand, duty, obligation, worry, need, plan, or desire – was pressing down on me during those long, tranquil days. At any moment, I felt like I could choose from an infinite number of pleasant activities. Indeed, I felt like I was being inundated, all weekend long, with marvelous blessings.

It’s astonishing to consider the immeasurable variety of thoughts that are active at any one moment across the world. Right now, as I type this at 5:41 a.m., billions of thoughts are working (or playing) from east to west. Even people who are sleeping are entertaining thoughts in their dreams. It’s a vast, incalculable field of mental energy, and it’s the most powerful force in the universe. After all, nothing is experienced except in our thoughts; no sadness, joy, sorrow, or delight exists except in thinking. No plans are made except through thought, and no plans are carried out unless a decision is made in our thinking. Neither the smallest step nor the largest war can happen unless a thinker thinks a thought. What’s even more astounding is the interconnectedness of these thoughts. No one “owns” any thoughts, because each of our thoughts is closely bound to thoughts created by others, expressed either visually or orally. Every thought I have ever entertained was created by countless other thoughts from outside sources. I guess we could say the world is over-spread with innumerable thoughts, all of them mingling, interacting, transforming, and creating. It’s a breathtaking mental world we live in!

A wonderful quote about education from William James:
"The faculty of voluntarily bringing back a wandering attention, over and over again, is the very root of judgment, character, and will. No one is compos sui [master of himself] if he have it not. An education which should improve this faculty would be the education par excellence."
-- in Principles of Psychology

This is exactly what I believe, and what I try to do in my teaching. Every thing we do in class is designed to help the students be more attentive, more truly aware of what they are doing at the moment they are doing it-- whether it's reading, writing, listening, or speaking. A truly attentive person is a truly successful -- and happy -- person.

The other day I was in the library at school, looking out the window, when an odd thing happened. I was watching some kids playing on the fields, when, out of the blue, I noticed the reflection of my face superimposed on the scene. It was as if I was looking at the fields, the kids, the trees, and the sky, but also at myself. I was mesmerized by this for a moment or two, and, later, it gave me food for thought. I realized that, indeed, I was a part of that scene. After all, consciousness is not separate from that which it is conscious of. What I was seeing through that window yesterday was occurring not “out there”, but in consciousness, and I am an element of that consciousness. In a very true sense, the fields, kids, trees, and sky are a piece of me and I am a piece of them. It’s all consciousness, awareness, mind -- what I and many other people call “God”. (Didn’t Jesus say something like, “I am in you and you are in me and we are all in the Father”?)

* * * * *

The writer of Ecclesiastes says, “Cast they bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it in many days.” This is a wonderful statement of the eternal law of compensation. Everything balances out. What goes around, comes around. Each action I perform, however seemingly trivial, eventually comes back to me and has a significant effect on my life. If I have something to give (and I always do), even if my gift seems to sink and disappear, as bread would in a river, I can rest in the assurance that the universe will somehow bring it back to me in a beneficial way. (This may be what is meant by "karma".)

Today I realized something amazing – that I have almost always been striving toward some goal or other. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a goal that existed somewhere beyond the present moment. All my life, I’ve been seeking, searching for, hunting, and trying to find something outside of what’s happening right here and now. Sadly, what this means is that I have consistently failed to notice the simple, astonishing, all-powerful present.

* * * * *

It occurs to me that life could be much more peaceful if personal pronouns were eliminated from vocabularies. The words “I”, “me”, “mine”, “you”, “yours”, “they”, and “theirs” only serve to reinforce the false notion that reality is composed of separate entities that compete with one another. The truth is that reality is all one. There is no “I” and “you”, no “mine” and “yours”. Everything is a single, harmonious whole, and therefore to use the personal pronouns is a complete and dangerous distortion of the truth.

Last night I felt overwhelmed, in a joyful sort of way, by the infinite complexity of my work as a teacher. For some reason, the idea again came to me (as it often has) that I am involved in a vocation that is boundless – one in which there are no starting points, no boundaries, and no guideposts. I felt like, as a teacher, I’m in the center of a vast region of endless plains and mountains, where there are a million trails to take, each of which leads to infinite discoveries and victories. I felt small and insignificant and even a little helpless as I thought about it – as though I was lost in a wilderness called “Education”. However, it wasn’t a sad or helpless or hopeless feeling; it never is. In fact, there’s an odd, ironic sense of ebullience and destiny in my thoughts about my role as a teacher. I feel like I’m footloose in a wilderness, yes, but it’s a majestic, magnificent universe, one that any sane person would be thrilled to be wandering through. I am participating in a grand adventure, an expedition with my students and colleagues that leads, each day, to astonishing discoveries. As happened last night, I often feel overwhelmed by my situation as a teacher, as if the mountains around me are utterly trackless and unbelievably high. However, I usually manage to calm myself down and see the bright and beautiful side of my situation. I may be lost, but it’s in a paradise many people would die to be lost in.

Winter swept into town yesterday, bringing squally winds, deadening cold, and the frozen truth that spring is far, far off. Luckily, I was able to stay in my cozy classroom most of the day, sitting as close to my trustworthy space-heater as I could. Whenever I had to walk outside to get to another building, I dashed along as fast as possible, and it often took many long minutes before I felt warm again. It made me wonder if I need to quickly purchase a snug wool sweater and the downiest down jacket available.

There are at least three ways in which harmony plays an important role in my classroom. First of all, from my point of view, there always seems to be a pleasing combination of elements in the room, all of which work together to make an agreeable whole. These elements are usually very different from each other (each student has specific strengths, weaknesses, and interests), but they always appear to intermingle in a harmonious manner. It could be compared to a lovely living room, which may artistically blend a bulky couch, a slim rocking chair, and wildly colorful curtains. In my classroom, thoughts, feelings, and people of thoroughly disparate kinds come together each day to make what always seems to be an artistic totality. It’s interesting to note, too, that a synonym for harmony is “accord”, which derives from the Latin word for heart. This helps me appreciate another aspect of harmony in my classroom – the fact that even though my students and I don’t always agree with each other, our “hearts” are still together in a genuine kind of friendship. We enjoy being with each other (most of the time), and that bond of fellowship is far stronger than any difference of opinion. In fact, there’s actually harmony within those very differences of opinion, the same kind of harmony we see, for example, when looking at parallel translations of a passage in the Bible. The translations each interpret the passage in different ways, and yet we can see a consonance among them, something that unites them together. It’s actually enjoyable to see these translations side by side, because it helps us appreciate both the differences and the similarities. Similarly, I have 40 students with me in my room each day, side by side, and there’s a beautiful harmony present right in the midst of all that astonishing variety and disparity.

My workouts at the gym each morning are going quite well. I arrive at 5:00 a.m, settle onto my favorite bike, adjust my iPod to some favorite songs or readings, and pump for about 25 minutes. I gradually raise the resistance until, by the end of the workout, sweat is pouring off my face. As I walk out to my car, I feel good, like my whole body (and mind) is now alive and alert and standing by for the adventures of the day ahead.

I’ve been enjoying reading George Eliot’s Middlemarch on my computer, from a favorite site called questia.com. What’s nice about the website is that I can hi-light passages in color, and also take notes on pages as I read. For instance, here are some wonderful sentences that I hi-lighted yesterday. The narrator is speaking of Dorothea Brooke’s generous and compassionate attitude toward her fiancée:
“All appeals to her taste she met gratefully, but saw nothing to alter. His efforts at exact courtesy and formal tenderness had no defect for her. She filled up all blanks with unmanifested perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted the works of Providence, and accounting for seeming discords by her own deafness to the higher harmonies.”

I was a happy person yesterday – happy to be back in my classroom with my good-natured and dedicated students. They may not always write perfect essays, but they have friendly and generous hearts, and, though they may sometimes fail to follow my directions exactly, I believe they genuinely want to be successful students. It’s a pleasure to work day after day with young people like these, and it’s an honor for me to be able to do so. I feel utterly grateful that I am given the privilege of teaching these kids. It’s as if I have been carefully chosen for a special and significant duty – as if the parents of my students have said, “We have searched everywhere, and we believe you are the best English teacher for our children. We entrust them into your hands.” I couldn’t feel more honored if I had been chosen to guard the President of the United States. I hold my head high at school, proud to be performing such a singular duty, proud to be part of such an elite profession.

I was thinking today about the enormous power of ramification, especially as it applies to teaching. A ramification occurs when an action, decision, judgment, or thought has a consequence, usually unintended, that may complicate the situation or make the intended result more difficult to achieve. This process happens continually in every aspect of life. Each of our actions, decisions, judgments, or thoughts has innumerable ramifications -- small and large deviations and swervings that cause other deviations and swervings, which cause others, and so on ad infinitum. In fact, the word “ramify” itself comes from the Latin word for root, suggesting a plant that sends off stems, twigs, and branches as it grows. What’s intriguing is that each of our experiences is like a plant in this sense, except that the ramifications of our experiences are without end. A plant eventually withers, dies, and its spreading comes to an end. In human life, this never happens. Even the smallest idea, word, or action causes a ceaseless – you might say eternal – series of effects. It’s like a pebble dropped into an ocean with no shores: the ripples never stop.

I often think of this as I am going about my work as a teacher of adolescents. Each word I speak to them, each gesture I make, each passing glance, is like that pebble. I may say a sentence to a class with a particular purpose in mind, but I can’t possibly know all the trillions of ramifications it will have. The consequences of that sentence will begin branching out as soon as the words are spoken, and they’ll still be branching hours, days, weeks, even years from now. Lives will alter because of that single sentence. The world will be a slightly changed place for all eternity because of those few spoken words. And of course, the same is true for every sentence, action, gesture, or glance, whether by me or by my students. In Room 2, we’re all continually remaking the world just by being alive and lively – by dropping pebbles into the borderless sea of life. The ripples of our actions cause other ripples which cause other ripples, and so on. The branches keep dividing and multiplying forever.

Some teachers might feel a bit overwhelmed, even discouraged, by this realization. After all, it seems to imply that we really have no control over what effects our teaching has. If the ramifications of our words and actions are random, uncontrollable , and endless, why even bother trying to organize lessons with specific goals? My answer is simple: Because the ramifications are precisely what make teaching such a thrilling enterprise. We and our students are, each moment, at the center of enormous power. Every one of our actions, however slight and seemingly trivial, starts an endless unfolding of effects, consequences, results, and outcomes. Each thought and action makes us unbelievably powerful creators. True, we can never know exactly (or even slightly) what we have created, but that’s part of the great pleasure this work holds for me.

I spent several happy hours yesterday reading some of Milton’s poems, and a bit of his biography. Oddly enough, I read on my laptop from an on-line edition while I was watching a football game. (I wonder if I’m the first person in the history of the universe to combine Paradise Lost with football.) At every commercial I muted the sound on the TV and read a few lines. Somehow, it seemed just right, as though the rhythms and wisdom of the poems somehow complemented the graceful hostility of the game.

Now, as I write at 4:38 a.m., I hear the rain quietly landing outside. It’s a soft, reticent rain, as thought it doesn’t want to disturb anyone on this Monday morning. “I’ll be very quiet,” it seems to say. “I’ll go about my business of meticulously watering your town and then I’ll silently slip away.”

A quote from Paradise Lost :
“...this Heaven which we behold
Distant so high, with moving fires adorned
Innumerable; and this which yields or fills
All space, the ambient Air, wide interfused,
Embracing round this florid Earth.”

And two quotes from George Eliot's Middlemarch:
“...a girl who would have been requiring you to see the stars by daylight.” (referring to Dorothea Brooke)

“[I]t was now time for him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was.” (spoken about Mr. Casaubon)

I spent some fine hours up in Millbury with Luke and young Joshy today. Luke wanted to look for some shoes at the mall, and he also wanted to give Krissy some time by herself, so we three guys (Josh in back in the car-seat) headed out for some quality time together. We first drove along the highway for a few minutes so the little fellow would fall asleep, which he almost instantly did. The hum and gentle roll of the car worked its magic, and by the time we reached the mall, Josh was in z-land. Luke gently transferred him (still in the car-seat) to the stroller, and we headed into the shoe store. Luke quickly found two pairs that he liked, and after browsing the aisles a bit, we made the purchases and checked out. By that time, Josh was awake again and smiling in his amiable way, so we drove over to Barnes and Noble and sat in the café and talked. Luke fed Josh some of his bottle, but Josh seemed way more interested in the sunshine coming through the window and in the many curious people passing through the store. He cooed and smiled and chuckled as he lightheartedly tugged at the nipple. Luke and I shared in his obvious happiness as we sat at the little table.

Yesterday, one of the final days of my winter vacation, was as relaxed a day as I can recall. It began, as my days nearly always do, with some quiet reading and writing in the early morning hours. As I sat at my desk in the silence of the apartment, my life seemed utterly serene . Nothing was pressing, nothing had to be done, no future situations were clamoring for my attention: all was perfectly centered in the page I was reading or the words I was writing. The serenity continued into the early afternoon, when I joined some good friends for lunch at a stylish but peaceful café in a nearby village. We had a wonderful time together, and we didn’t have to work hard to do it. Our laughter came as freely and easily as the rain outside. While we sat and talked for over two hours, I felt as restful as I’ve ever felt. In the late afternoon, I again experienced a magical kind of relaxation when I sat by the rainy window in my apartment and watched the end of a classy British mystery show on DVD. That situation is almost my favorite kind of peacefulness: a rainy day, a window from which to enjoy the storm, a good movie (or book), and a pot of steaming tea. I felt thoroughly grateful as I sat there enjoying my magnificent life.

It’s interesting to discover that the word “indolence” derives from the Latin “indolere”, meaning “not subject to stress”. I find this especially intriguing this morning because yesterday I spent three thoroughly indolent hours with my grandson -- hours when I felt utterly stress-free. While Noah and I were sitting on the floor playing with Noah’s Ark or a miniature parking garage or one of his other toys, not even a hurricane could have unnerved me. I was completely relaxed. During those idle hours, the most serious worry would have flowed through me like a harmless stream.

I have always taken my work as a teacher very seriously. There have been countless times, in fact, when I have felt that what I was doing in Room 2 at my little school was one of the most significant activities anyone could possibly do. I guess I’ve felt important as a teacher -- essential, crucial, indispensable. I’ve often considered it absolutely vital that I get a lesson taught thoroughly and efficiently, almost as if something bad will happen to the universe if I don’t. What I’m realizing more and more lately, however, is that the universe will do just beautifully no matter how I teach a lesson. I am an infinitesimally tiny part of a cosmos that has been admirably creating itself for many billions of years – and it doesn’t need any special help from me. The innumerable stars will continue to flash and spin whether or not my forty students learn what a participle is. What I may need to do, occasionally, is take a few steps back and have a good laugh at myself. I may need to take my teaching work a little less seriously and a little more playfully. After all, the universe plays a lot more than it works. I don’t think of the sun as “working hard” to provide light for the solar system, nor does the wind seem to make a big effort to blow. The entire grand universe seems to do so well precisely because no one part tries to be more important than another – i.e., takes itself too seriously. Each part knows that the universe will continue in its majestic and harmonious course no matter what. This doesn’t mean that I should not be the best teacher I can possibly be. On the contrary, by not taking myself so seriously in the classroom, I will allow the truly vast power of education to do its marvelous work. By getting my diminutive, self-important ego out of the way, the powerful river of teaching and learning will be able to flow a lot more freely.

Yesterday I started on a new path in my life, one that I hope I can stay on for at least the rest of today. What makes this path so new for me is that it’s a non-alcoholic one. I have been imbibing a little alcohol each and every day for as long as I can remember, but yesterday I didn’t. Yesterday I was dry, on the wagon, temperate, clear-headed , alcohol-free. Mind you, I have never been a heavy drinker – just a single glass of wine before dinner – but still, the alcohol has, in an odd, hidden way, sort of dominated my days for all these many years. I often started thinking about my evening glass of wine around lunchtime, or before. As the evening hour drew nearer, I day-dreamed about the tall glass of wine more and more, until it was probably my overriding thought just before dinner. Well, I guess I decided yesterday that I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like being controlled by a single, irresistible idea, and I definitely don’t like the feeling of slowly falling into a swoon and then into a soporific, sleep-inducing condition by 8:00 in the evening. So, I purchased some alcohol-free wine at a local package store, and started off on my new path. I enjoyed a glass at lunch (without feeling bleary for the next several hours), and then partook of a delicious glass before dinner. I enjoyed the meal immensely, and – wonder of wonders! – felt awake enough to do stay out of bed until almost 10:00! It appears to be an attractive and possibly rewarding path. We’ll see what today brings in my new one-day-at-a-time life.

I’ve been reading Milton lately, and enjoying it immensely. Yesterday I went through “L’allegro” and “Ill Penseroso” for the first time in many years, and once again experienced the pleasure of the smooth rhythms as well as the almost inexplicable beauty of the writing. While reading it, I had by my side the on-line edition of Cleanth Brooks’ classic Understanding Poetry, which was a great help in illuminating the inner machinery of the poem. I also got out my old Cambridge edition of Keats, which has wonderful introductions to nearly every poem, as well as abundant notes. I sat in my comfortable chair overlooking the quiet street and read with great contentment. Life felt fairly perfect with Milton in my lap.

The deluge of Monday came to a halt overnight and yesterday the sun was bright and the air often felt as warm as March. If it’s like that again today, I intend to spend some time in the park, lolling about and dreaming of temperate spring days.

I had a fine workout at the gym yesterday, hunched over the handlebars of the bike and spinning the wheels as I listened to rousing songs on my iPod. Both sweat and calories streamed off me.

The first day of 2007 has proven to be a wet one. The rain must have started during the night, because I noticed the glazed pavement when I looked out in the early hours. It was a light and silent shower then, so much so that I barely thought about it as I did my morning reading and writing. For all I knew in my lamp-lit apartment, it might have been dry and clear outside instead of cloudy and showery. However, as the hours passed, the rain grew stronger and noisier, to the point where it was a constant background sound as I read or worked on the computer. Cars splashed past the house as if they were passing through a deluge, and the rain drummed on the pavement in the parking lot beside my house. It seemed like the clouds had decided to unfasten all their moisture just above our small defenseless town. Now, as dusk draws on, the rain has slowed to a light shower. The splashes on the street have just about been silenced, and the evening promises to be dry and quiet. I may even go out for a walk at halftime of the Rose Bowl, just to feel the freshness of the air after a full day of soaking rain.

Many of us have a double standard when it comes to listening to music and reading. While no one thinks it odd for someone to listen to a favorite song hundreds of times in their lifetime, almost everyone considers it a bit peculiar that a person would read a favorite poem or novel that often. We understand the need to hear a song over and over, but we don’t give the same deference to a reader. Perhaps we feel there’s more substance in a song than in a piece of literature – more depth in a hit by The Eagles than in a chapter in Great Expectations. No one, for example, would be surprised to hear that a friend is listening to a 60’s song yet again, but wouldn’t we be slightly dumbfounded to find that the same person has read a sonnet of Shakespeare hundreds of times? If we asked the person why she keeps reading the same poem over and over, she might say, “Well, for the same reason that I listen to a song over and over.” If there’s endless magic in a song, why can’t we accept the fact that the same type of bottomless pleasure can exist in literature? I’ll likely spend the rest of my life re-reading things I’ve already read many times: Paradise Lost, Shakespeare’s plays, novels by Dickens and George Eliot, and poems by Keats and Wordsworth. Someone else may listen to the Beatles’ songs again and again, while I’ll be bopping along to the music of Milton. I fully understand the music lover’s passionate attachment to favorite songs, and I hope my friends will similarly understand my devotion to a handful of beloved authors.