Yesterday, at 5:30 am, heavy snow was falling. I went out to start the car and was surprised at how densely the snow was falling, how thoroughly covered my car was, and how really pretty every thing was. It was a white, silent, and lovely scene.

Two more days before three colleagues and I take off for London with our fourteen 9th grade students, and I still have a few things to do. My black “to-do” book has several pages full of little notes about jobs that must get done. With classes to teach and papers to grade and a snowstorm arriving to complicate things, my life may be a bit messy for the next few days.

Last night I woke around 2:00 am and couldn’t get back to sleep right away, but it turned out to be a wonderful occasion for gratitude. My back has been a little sore recently, but as I lay in bed last night waiting for sleep, I felt grateful that I felt no pain whatsoever. I lay in complete comfort and peace in my cozy bed, even though I knew I would probably feel some pain if I changed positions. I knew there were probably millions of people, right at that very moment, who were suffering extreme back pain, and so I breathed a sigh of thankfulness for my own relatively comfortable situation.

I had a cup of tea with Matt yesterday afternoon. We sat in my apartment in the pleasant early evening lamplight and talked about many things. The tea was tasty and comforting amid all the cold and snow, and our companionship, I knew, was a gift to be cherished.

I realize more and more that I have gradually lost touch with the natural world. This came home to me this week when I was working with some students in our library and I happened to notice a 6^th grade class working on bird research. They had big, beautiful picture books spread out before them, and they were talking rather breathlessly about the wonderful things they were learning about birds. I happened to peruse one of the pages, and was immediately caught up in the striking descriptions of the birds and their behaviors. As I walked back to my classroom, I felt a trace of sadness, almost as if I had been absent from an old and dear friend for a long time. For indeed, the natural world was my friend for most of the early years of my life. I always found great wisdom and solace when I was away from civilization and wandering in places where wildness ruled. I used to love nothing better than to spend hours, even whole days, roaming the trails in woods and meadows. Now, though, I experience nature mostly from a distance, somewhat the way we experience it when we watch a beautiful film. I’m not “in touch” with the natural world, in the sense that its power, mystery, and splendor don’t really "touch” me, don’t overwhelm me with beauty, don’t transform my life the way they used to. Nature has incalculable gifts for all of us, but lately I’ve been on the outside looking in. When I got back to my classroom, I stood by the window and watched the trees blowing in a warming wind, and wondered when I would get to know it all again.

I spent seven stirring hours yesterday watching formal presentations delivered by the 8th grade students. I actually couldn’t believe, as the hours passed, that these were 13-year-olds who were speaking to us with such poise and dignity. They talked as if they have been delivering orations to imposing groups of people for many years. They were nervous, of course, but that only added to the distinction of their performances, for it enabled them to demonstrate their ability to show grace in difficult circumstances. One of the truly rousing aspects of the performances were the nervous but happy smiles that flashed across the students’ faces now and then. I recall one girl who was visibly shaking with anxiety, and yet every so often a beatific smile would light up her face and her words would burn with passion. Then there was the boy who, despite being seriously challenged in some areas of social polish, thoroughly astonished us with his amiable deportment and friendly sophistication, constantly smiling as he smoothly moved through his presentation. These were hours of acute stress for these children, but, as so often happens, the intensity of the situation only served to magnify their achievement. A psychologist friend tells me that acute stress can be a productive element in our lives, and the magnificent performances by the 8th grade students served as proof of that truth. Diamonds are only made under great pressure, and these valiant students became diamonds yesterday. Perhaps that’s why the classroom seemed to be especially bright all day long.

I’m amazed at what I accomplished last night. Even though I was fighting a serious cold, and even though I am usually never able to do school work in the evening, and even though I so wanted to simply sip a glass of wine and go quietly to bed, I came home from school around six and graded twenty-three long essays. I took some cold medication and sat at my desk for three hours, reading and assessing one essay after another. Not only did I get through all the essays, I loved them even more that most of my students’ essays, and I seemed to get more alert and interested as the minutes passed. This is wonderful to consider, because it suggests a possible method of work in the future. Instead of spending the evening in dribs and drabs and going to bed before nine, perhaps I could make some of my nights happily productive work sessions. Instead of using much of my weekends for school work, maybe I could turn the evenings into profitable and satisfying hours. After all, I certainly did enjoy sitting under the lamplight last night and reading my students’ skillful writing. I could even prepare a pot of healthy tea to take in sips as I work through papers. It might well be a very pleasing way to bring a school day to a close – strong writing, pleasurable tea, and a little Mozart to add a sense of leisure to the hours.

LAUGHING

One morning at nine past five,

a funny memory came to him

in his apartment on Main Street,

and he suddenly laughed out loud.

It led him to wonder

how many people across the earth

were also laughing

at that precise moment.

Could it maybe be millions?

And could that be true

of almost any moment?

When he’s making his morning coffee,

are millions of people

powerless to stop laughing?

When he’s taking his to-do list

so seriously, are millions

laughing because at that moment

life seems as light as the sunlight

that’s landing on his lawn

just then at nineteen past five?

I just finished a long four-day weekend, which was delightful except for the fact that a key word to describe it would be “cold”. For one thing, a serious cold front came and clamped itself on us for the entire weekend. On several mornings the temperature registered 10˚ and didn’t rise much above that during the day. I ventured out only occasionally, and not without bundles of clothes wrapped snuggly around me. Coincidentally, I came down with a chest cold at about the same time the cold front arrived. It was as if the idea of “cold” decided to grip both the outdoors and me at the same time. For the entire four days, the town of Westerly had a serious case of cold, and so did I. However, thanks in part to a soft woolen overcoat I had purchased on Thursday, I moved through the frigid four days rather nicely. Whenever I went out to run an errand, I wrapped myself in the heavy coziness of the coat, tucked a scarf around my neck, settled my wool cap on my head, and drove around in absolute comfort. I was almost grateful that I had a chest cold, because it enabled to me to prove just how warm and snug my new overcoat was. I even wore it indoors now and then as I sat and read in my comfortable apartment.

For some reason, I’ve been noticing the color white this morning. The screen on my computer as I type is white, and there’s a thin white strip along the edges of the keyboard. The lampshade on my desk is white, as is the February page of the calendar on the wall. The pages of my small notebook beside me are white, and there’s a stack of white paper in the printer. The walls of the room I’m sitting in are white, and through the white Venetian blinds I can see parts of a white house across the street shining in the morning sunlight.

* * * * *

I think it’s astonishing that I will be awake for thousands of brand new moments today, and that thousands of new thoughts will come to me, and that I will have thousands of new experiences, and that thousands of people in my little town will be awake for thousands of brand new moments today, and have thousands of new thoughts come to them, and have thousands of new experiences, and that millions and billions of people on our new little planet will be awake for thousands of brand new moments today, and have thousands of new thoughts come to them, and have thousands of new experiences.

* * * * *

Although it’s 10˚F outside today, it’s 98.6 inside me, so I’m utterly warm and comfortable.

I don’t watch television much, but today I was watching an episode from a BBC mystery series, and I began to realize that watching shows like this could be an inspiring and enlightening experience. What started this line of thinking was a scene in which one of the actors was sobbing in fear 0f something that seemed about to happen. As I watched, I started to smile, and then laugh, simply because I knew she was an actor and it was all just part of the show. Neither the threatening circumstance nor her fear was real. I was watching a drama that, while interesting and at times absorbing, was totally unreal – and my laughter was at the utter unreality of it all. I found this uplifting and instructive because, in a way, this is my situation at all times and in every circumstance. While the “story” of my life – my personal struggles as a separate, vulnerable individual in a world fraught with dangers -- may seem intensely dramatic and vivid, it is actually no more real than the drama on the BBC show. If I sit back and look at “my” life from a vantage point outside of the “story” (as I do when I’m watching television), it all seems like an interesting but totally illusory and harmless show. This is the vantage point from which the Universe (my word for the infinite force that some people call God) always sees me. From the point of view of the measureless Universe, instead of a separate, frail life called “me”, there is always just the single, unending Life of which everything is an equally vital part. From this much larger perspective, what happens to the supposedly separate entity called Hamilton Salsich, Granite Street, Westerly, RI, USA, Planet Earth, Milky Way, etc. etc., is no more or less important than what happens to a diminutive moth making its way through a rain forest in Ecuador. In the endless Cosmos, nothing is more or less significant than any other thing, and therefore, in a sense, everything is both incredibly significant and incredibly insignificant. Whatever happens with my so-called “personal struggles”, the grand Universe (God, Allah, the Tao, etc.) will continue dancing its spectacular dance. Indeed, the drama of “my” life (which really isn’t “mine”, but the Universe’s) is worth chuckling about just as much as the trifling BBC story I was watching today on television. I felt sorry for the actor who was sobbing, but at the same time I could smile and be at peace because it was all just a marvelous show, as is this risk-free and wonderful life I’m a part of.

Some quotes from George Eliot's Middlemarch:

"...her presence was enough, like that of the evening light."

Note: As a teacher, my dream is that my students might think of me this way. I don't need to be always talking, lecturing, instructing, pontificating, or show-boating. Perhaps my calm and gentle presence in the classroom is sometimes, like evening light, enough.


"[He was greeted by her] with the usual quietude which seemed to him beautiful as clear depths of water."


"Strange, that some of us, with quick alternate vision, see beyond our infatuations, and even while we rave on the heights, behold the wide plain where our persistent self pauses and awaits us."

I discovered this morning that the word “listen”, if we trace it back far enough, derives from the ancient Greek word kleiein, which meant “to praise”. I find this interesting, because it suggests that when I listen to someone, meaning really make an effort to hear what the person is saying, I’m actually praising the person. I’m saying, in effect, “You are a good and intelligent person, and therefore I want to be completely attentive when you speak.” I don’t need to literally praise the person in spoken words; my praise will be clearly felt if I simply and genuinely listen. This, of course, can apply to my teaching. Much has been written lately about the effect on young people of too much verbal praise, but surely I can never overdo non-verbal praise – the kind of praise I give when I lean forward, look squarely at the student who is speaking, and listen with all my heart. This kind of silent praise can’t help but make a student feel respected and cherished. The wonderful thing is that every student deserves to be listened to with attentiveness; they don’t have to earn it. Therefore, I can give this kind of praise all day long without ever running the risk of appearing to be giving tribute that is undeserved or fake. By listening with care and concentration, I can clearly communicate to my students that I consider each of them to be worthy of praise.

THE BOX

There once was a box of words
that sat on a poet’s desk.
It was a simple box
with simple words inside it,
as plain as bashful boys
at a dance. The words
wouldn’t make anyone
miserable or fascinated,
wouldn’t cause a person
to scream or smile. They
were simple and straightforward.
They spoke shyly among themselves,
wishing they could be chosen
to start a poem.
Whenever the box was opened,
they shone like youthful faces,
and one was usually selected
to stand on a piece of paper
as the very first word.

They knew they would each be chosen
someday, so they smiled
in their simple clothes
and passed the time pleasantly,

these words in the box
on the poet's desk.

I’ve been thinking lately that, as a teacher, I would like to be like the wind. The wind does wonderful things, exerts its power in myriad marvelous ways, and yet no ever sees it. We see the effects of the wind (waving branches, rippling flags, a wild surf) but never the wind itself. We could say that the wind, in a sense, is humble. It stays invisible while its ever-changing efforts continue to alter the landscape. As a teacher, I guess I’d like to become more and more invisible. I’d like to have what I do become less showy and front-and-center, and more reserved and out-of-sight. Like the wind, I’d like my presence to be almost invisible, so that the effects of my lessons (the students’ growth as readers and writers) can be the focus of attention. The wind doesn’t need to be seen to have an impact, and neither do I.

THE PUNISHMENT

The judge said
she couldn’t drive anymore,
so she jumped rope,
and made miracles in her poems,
and pranced along the sidewalks,
and paraded with the minutes
as they passed. She praised
the judge for his gift to her.
She was able now
to know the way each moment
released its powers, the way
the wind unfurled its flags,
the way a fallen snowflake
sat silently on the grass.
She called the judge
a kind friend.

Today I again got down on myself as a teacher, blaming myself for doing too much of this and not enough of that, beating myself up for forgetting to do certain things and doing other things the wrong way. At the end of the day, I really felt like a mediocre teacher, at best. In the climb up the steep hill of excellent teaching, I felt like I had slipped quite far behind. On the drive home, though, I noticed something that helped to change my thinking. The sides of the roads were strewn with slush and mud, and I was just about to say it was “ugly” or “depressing”, when something stopped me. An ancient truth, one that I have often loved to meditate on, had come back to me –- that only the present moment exists, and that therefore the present moment must always be accepted for what it is. The sides of the roads were the sides of the roads, the slush was the slush, the mud was the mud. They were neither good nor bad, beautiful nor ugly; they just were. They were precisely what they had to be at the precise moment I passed them. Perhaps next week the slush will be gone and the street will be “cleaner”, but that doesn’t mean it will be better or more beautiful – just different. Because it’s all there is or can be, each present moment can be said to be absolutely perfect – including one with slush and mud. As I drove on, I recalled how I had beaten myself up about my teaching. That, I realized, was like calling the slush “ugly” or a certain passing wind a “bad wind”. I was what I was today – not good or bad, but simply a teacher living in each present moment. Like the wind, I was something new each moment (as were my students) – not a better or worse teacher, just a new and different one. My teaching today was like a single tree in a forest in the Rocky Mountains. Would we say it was a good tree or a bad one, a beautiful tree or an ugly one? Wouldn’t we just try to appreciate it for what it is? And shouldn’t I try, each day, to appreciate the teaching and learning that happens in my classroom without constantly labeling, making judgments, and coming down on myself?

Yesterday a snowstorm allowed me to lighten up my life a little with a day off from teaching. It was, however, not an especially soothing or tranquil storm. In the early morning, it had already changed to driving sleet, and by 10:00 it was simply slushy rain. I never once thought about taking a walk in the park, as I often do during the more beautiful winter storms. However, I did have a refreshing day, one of those wonderful gifts that are occasionally dropped into teachers’ laps. I spent a few hours at school, all by myself in the stormbound building, and I accomplished much. I listened to flute music, prepared some promising lessons, and just generally “put my feet up” and felt the pleasure of having a surprise holiday. Later, at home, I read a few chapters in Middlemarch, did some light writing, and enjoyed the candlelit glow of my apartment. The rain was constantly swishing up against the windows and a bitter-sounding wind was blowing, but I felt perfectly comfortable. I felt fortunate to be in out of the storm with my books, my computer, and – best of all – my thoughts.

A wonderful quote from Thoreau about reading:

"Most men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they have learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little or nothing; yet this only is reading in a high sense, not that which lulls us as a luxury and suffers the nobler faculties to sleep the while, but what we have to stand on tip-toe to read and devote our most alert and wakeful hours to."
--from Walden: or, Life in the Woods"

SNOW DAY FOR A TEACHER

(5:55 A.M.)

There was nothing to do.

The snow was taking care

of covering the streets,

a few cars were carrying their passengers

in careful ways, the stars

were still on fire

all over the far-flung universe.

His fingers seemed to be working fine

by themselves, and his blood

was bringing gifts to his cells

without any special help from him.

Also, the lamp on his desk

was doing a fine job of filling

the little room with light,

and he noticed that his mind

was filling up with thoughts

till it overflowed like a fountain.

Plus, the snow was still successfully

spreading out across the town.

Oh well.

He leaned back and let his coffee

come to his mouth.

I’ve had some wonderful classes the past few days, and, for some reason, it has called to mind something my dad used to tell me when I was using a handsaw. When he saw that I was struggling, he would often say, “Put your weight behind it. Let your weight and the weight of the saw do the work.” What he wanted me to do, I realized, was quit struggling, quit fighting the task, and just allow my body and the saw to exert the energy. He knew that once I gave up trying to do the job with my hands and arms, I would understand how much untapped power is available to me. This memory came back to me because I think the recent success of my teaching has a lot to do with what I learned from my father. More and more, I’m becoming aware that the very best kind of teaching is not typically done by ambitious, single-minded teachers who want to prove they are masters at their craft. Rather, it’s usually done by humble, modest ones who understand that any success in the classroom is due to the work of infinite forces that are way, way beyond their control. They know that every thought they think and word they speak is born out of the endless workings of the measureless universe – a universe that has enough power to do all the teaching for all eternity. These good teachers literally feel this power doing the work as they go through their days at school. I guess what I was sensing this past week was strangely similar to what I felt as a boy when I “let go” of my struggling and allowed my weight and the saw to do the work. This week I felt liberated in the classroom. I felt an enormous power at work in my teaching, and I realized that all I had to do was relax and let this power do the work. Once I did that, wonderful things happened in the classroom, far more beautiful than a handsaw slicing effortlessly through a two-by-four.

PERFECTION

Each morning he carefully made his bed.

Nothing was ever out of place.

The red blanket was spread evenly

at the end of the bed,

and throughout the day the things

that happened happened

in precisely the proper way:

a pair of headlights lit up the road

behind him beautifully,

a walker waved her arms

the way they had to be waved,

the stain on his coffee cup

couldn’t have been any better,

two pens sat on his table

where he had placed them,

his students were flawless teenagers,

while his bed sat in his bedroom

with utter correctness.

A THOUGHT

A thought appeared to him one morning
like an amazing miracle.
He was making his breakfast
when it broke through the door
of his mind with this announcement:
“The saucepan on the stove is beautiful.”
The thought was plain and simple,
dressed in common clothes.
It spoke its words
and then quietly left.
He looked at the old saucepan
sitting precisely where he had placed it,
and holding water as well
as any saucepan in the world.

Yesterday was a day for my family. In the early morning (a frigid one), I drove up to Brooklyn, CT to see Jaimie, Jess, and Noah. Noah was watching for me at the window, and I heard him laughing as I walked up to the door. I could see him desperately working to unlock the door, and when he finally managed to open it, he smiled magnificently at me and then ran away squealing with pleasure. We all had a marvelous visit together, including egg sandwiches from the local coffee shop (a favorite breakfast of Noah’s) and lots of talk and laughter. When I left, Noah gave me two gifts for my students: a small sea shell from Florida with a quarter in it (for tossing when we need to make a “scission”) and a round, smooth rock. Later in the day, I walked over to pay a brief visit to Matt and Stacey. They were preparing dinner in their toasty-warm apartment, and we chatted together in the kitchen while Stacey swirled some chicken in a pan. I stayed only a few minutes, but it was a wonderful visit, nonetheless. I then went back to my apartment and called brother Joe down in Arlington, VA. They just happened to be celebrating Julia’s 24^th birthday, so I got to talk to the entire family. It was a long and heart-warming phone call. I truly felt like I was right there with them in their new house, making merry among friends.

HUGS

He was looking at a picture
of his son hugging his grandson,
and soon he picked up a pencil
and held it with care.
He turned it in his fingers
and examined the beautiful black lead
at the tip. He touched a piece of paper
with the lead and led it softly across
the page to the edge
and then started again at the left side.
The pencil left words
resting on the paper.
They seemed happy to be there,
smiling and clasping each other
in close companionship.

I came across this wonderful passage from Nietzsche that perfectly describes my beliefs about how the reading of literature should be taught. Perhaps I am a philologist at heart!
("Lento" means "slowly"...and the bold printing is mine.)

"I have not been a philologist in vain -- perhaps I am one yet: a teacher of slow reading. I even come to write slowly. At present it is not only my habit, but even my taste -- a perverted taste, maybe -- to write nothing but what will drive to despair every one who is "in a hurry." For philology is that venerable art which exacts from its followers one thing above all -- to step to one side, to leave themselves spare moments, to grow silent, to become slow -- the leisurely art of the goldsmith applied to language: an art which must carry out slow, fine work, and attains nothing if not lento. For this very reason philology is now more desirable than ever before; for this very reason it is the highest attraction and incitement in an age of "work": that is to say, of haste, of unseemly and immoderate hurry-skurry, which is intent upon "getting things done "at once, even every book, whether old or new. Philology itself, perhaps, will not "get things done" so hurriedly: it teaches how to read well: i.e. slowly, profoundly, attentively, prudently, with inner thoughts, with the mental doors ajar, with delicate fingers and eyes . . . my patient friends, this book appeals only to perfect readers and philologists: learn to read me well!"

--from Daybreak, 1881

DAWN

Things disappear
as she sits at her window.
The fears she felt yesterday
flow away and vanish
like swirls in a stream.
Every single worry
wanders past her house,
silently waves, grows fainter,
and fades away.
Tasks she felt responsible for
lift off from the branches of trees,
soar into the sky,
and disappear.
Jobs she absolutely must do
drift above her house
like insubstantial clouds,
and then are gone.

She feels the planet quietly rolling
as she readies her coffee.

Yesterday I had a wonderful day of teaching, and I have no idea why. In fact, when I told a friend about my good day and he asked what caused the success, I was at a complete loss for a reply. “Just good luck?” he asked, and I smiled and nodded. Somehow, some way, the forces of the Universe swirled around yesterday in such a manner as to cause exceptional waves of good teaching and learning to roll through Room 2 at Pine Point School. It’s a marvelous (and somewhat intimidating ) truth to ponder – that I have no understanding whatsoever of exactly how effective teaching comes about. Yes, it surely has something to do with careful planning and skilled execution, but that’s like saying a gorgeous rainbow has something to do with a rain shower. Of course it does, but what caused the shower? And what caused the innumerable conditions that interacted with the rain to form the rainbow? And what caused the causes of those conditions? If you go back far enough in the search for causes, you come, eventually, to the vastness of infinity – the endless and mighty Universe which causes everything. (And what causes the Universe?!) The truth about yesterday is that awe-inspiring things happened in my classroom in the same way that stupendous sunsets occasionally happen. When I’m enjoying a sunset, can I say that I caused it? Of course not, and no more can I say I caused the good learning that happened in Room 2. It just happened, the way sunsets, storms, rainbows, and beautiful days happen. I’m just happy I was, by sheer good fortune, there to be a part of it all.

FOOD

She found food everywhere.
Wherever she was,
there were always tasty morsels of ideas
ready to be savored,
succulent thoughts she could relish.
All words were food for her.
She sometimes sat by herself
and spoke some special words,
just to appreciate their sweetness.
Sitting on the library steps,
she might consume several sugary words
as she watched the sunshine
strengthen her small town.

This morning, I discovered in the dictionary that the word “listen” means “to make an effort to hear something.” I must admit that I’ve never given much thought to the “effort” part of listening. I’ve heard trillions of sounds in my lifetime, but I don’t think I’ve very often made an effort to hear. My ears are always open and sounds enter, but, according to the dictionary, that’s not actually listening. Authentic listening is work – very demanding work – and, like any arduous and exacting labor, it requires dedication and concentration. If I truly want to listen to someone, I need to put on my imaginary work clothes and hard hat and get down to the difficult business.

This is somewhat disheartening for me, because it brings to mind how seldom I have done the hard work of listening in my classroom. As a teacher, I’m afraid I’ve been a fairly indolent listener. I’ve shirked my job. I’ve hardly broken a sweat as far as genuine listening goes. If I was part of a “listening crew”, I’m afraid I would have been fired long ago.

I better get to work.

I’ve noticed recently that whenever I seem to be having a “problem”, it always involves, and stems from, the use of the word “my”, as though I am a separate, vulnerable being who “owns things”, and these things – “my” things – are being threatened. Just yesterday, a student behaved in such a way that “my” reputation as a strong and respected teacher seemed endangered. As I often do, I was thinking of myself as a single, separate, and susceptible entity that had been assailed and harmed. I felt like she had attacked “my” authority as a teacher, and it disturbed and saddened me. Later in the day, I found the time to do some quiet thinking, and I got back in touch with some fundamental truths. Most importantly, I recalled that this infinite universe is not “many”, but always “one”. The entity that I call “me”, and that seems to own things that it calls “mine”, is in truth an indivisible part of a seamless whole called the universe, a whole that has no beginning and no end (at least none that astronomers and physicists have yet discovered). Saying there’s a separate “me” that “owns things” (like a reputation) is as unreasonable as saying some air in one part of the park near my house “owns” the air that passes through it. Similarly, feeling like “I” was hurt by the student yesterday is as silly as feeling that the ocean can be hurt by punching the water with a fist. When this 9th grader said the words that supposedly hurt me, those words were sounds made up of atoms moving across the air and then mingling with the atoms in my ears and my brain. All of these atoms, along with the countless other atoms that now exist, were created billions of years ago at the time of the “big bang”, and they have been mixing and mingling harmoniously ever since. What happened yesterday between this girl and “me” was simply a further mixing of these eternal atoms, a continuation of the endless dance of the Universe (which is the name I use in place of the Judaeo-Christian “God”). It’s impossible that anyone got hurt in the process, because there is no “separate one” anywhere. There’s only the single, unified Universe that has been beautifully swirling along since time began. The girl and I were just part of this continuous and astonishing swirl.

The cold weather has settled in for a long stay, it seems. Perhaps it likes our small town on the seacoast. It’s wrapped its frigid fingers around us and doesn’t seem to want to let go. Each day is colder than the next. Wherever I am seems colder than where I was before. I wear the warmest clothes in my closet, and still I shiver. I even wear my hat and scarf in my classroom while I’m teaching. This morning, with the thermometer at 14 degrees, spring seems as far distant as the sun.

This morning I was coming down the hall toward my classroom, about fifteen minutes before my next class was due to begin, when I heard a gentle adult voice coming from the 6th Grade room. I eavesdropped for a moment, decided there was some inspiration to be had here, went to my room for my notebook, and quietly slipped into Steve's room.

The students were sitting at tables taking notes while Steve was quietly talking at the front of the room. He had made a careful diagram of his main points on the board, and I could see that the students had just as carefully copied the diagram into their notebooks. I asked one student if I could examine her notebook and was impressed by the neatness and thoroughness of it -- and all the notebooks seemed to be of a similar quality. Steve was engaging the students in a conversation about the topics on the board -- a conversation that I would describe as totally cordial. He kept a slight and friendly smile on his face, looked attentively at each student as he or she spoke, and occasionally put out his hand toward a student in a gesture of appreciation or congratulation. He presented a comforting and accepting appearance to the students, which made for a comforting and accepting atmosphere in the room.

I then slipped into Carol's room and sat for just a few minutes with a group of four students who were discussing a book among themselves. (Carol was sitting with another group.) I was instantly impressed (as I have been in the past by her small groups). The students conducted their discussion in a more proper and polite manner than many adult groups I've been in. They looked at the person speaking, gave helpful feedback, and stayed on the topic. A few times, when they began drifting from the topic, one or other of them said, "We're off topic", and they instantly got back on track. I was impressed by the fact that they paid no attention whatsoever to me. They were engrossed in their discussion -- looking, listening, pondering, talking. I wanted to stay and be inspired some more ...but I could see my students arriving for my next class.

It's amazing what just fifteen minutes with good teachers can do for me.

I am continuing to enjoy my rewarding, and somewhat unusual, weekend hobby. While some guys are happily working on their cars for hours on a Saturday morning, I’m grading essays in my classroom with a smile. While some guys are laboring with great satisfaction on their latest model train setup, I’m having a wonderful time carefully laying out my plans for the coming week’s teaching. While some men spend a good part of the weekend re-plastering the spare bedroom and admiring the results, I’m mounting a new display on my classroom bulletin board and stepping back to appreciate it. We all have our own ways of relaxing on the weekend, and mine is to spend hours in my comfortable, good-looking classroom. On this bitter winter weekend, I had my small space heater humming and filling the room with pleasant warmth. As I graded papers and prepared things for the week ahead, I enjoyed the cheering coziness and brightness of the classroom. Lots of men build things as a hobby – model airplanes, car engines, home additions. I guess you could say my hobby is building a good year of English class, and, like any hobbyist, I enjoy spending as much time as possible at it. When I think of relaxing, I think of going to my classroom, listening to Mozart, and preparing for excellent teaching in the coming days. On a weekend, if someone asks where Ham is, the answer might be, “Oh he’s over at school, relaxing with his hobby.”

WHAT HE NEEDED

He didn’t need much.
He didn’t need to know
the latest news,
or what the bestseller lists said.
He didn’t need a day
to be the finest one ever,
nor did he need night
to place a bedspread of stars
over him.
He didn’t need to notice
every single thing.
He didn’t even need happiness.

All he needed was
whatever was there,
a door closing,
the light of a computer screen,
a black pencil
that’s right where it should be,
the earth doing its circles
through space.

Today I re-discovered a wonderfully simple way to teach Shakespeare: go slowly, read each word, use all the footnotes, and understand as much as possible. That’s what my students and I did today. Rather than using special, exotic “hooks” to keep the kids’ interest, I just took them through a scene line by line, word by word. We read every footnote (they were extremely helpful), discussed almost every line, and made certain that we genuinely understood a page before we went to the next one. It reminded me of something I’ve intuitively known for a long, long time – that good teaching can be much simpler than I usually realize. I sometimes fall into the trap of thinking that my teaching needs to be complex, flamboyant, and glitzy, but today I kept it simple, modest, and restrained. I simply dealt with the words Shakespeare had written, and that, I found, was more than enough. Perhaps what actually happened is that I focused less on myself and more on the content of what I was teaching. Instead of being a showy, center-stage teacher (which is an old habit of mine), I stayed somewhat in the background and let the words of the play (The Tempest) have the spotlight. All I did was lead the students from page to page; the words did the tricks and put on the show. It was a stunningly simple and rewarding way to teach, and thank goodness I discovered it once again.

SNOWFALL

The flakes followed one another
as they fell. He knew
that’s the finest way to find
where you belong,
by following a friend.
He saw a small flake land in a bush,
and then a brother brought a sister
to the same bush. The sky was broken
and friends were falling everywhere
in closeness and companionship.
He saw a tree
where millions of snowflakes
sat on the branches
like families who found each other
again.

Today I once again had to remind myself that "it's not about me". At the end of one of my classes, I was feeling discouraged, but (as I realize now) all my thoughts were about me : "I" was not a good teacher, and "my" teaching was amateurish, and "my" students deserve better. The focus was entirely on me, not on the students. I was upset, not because the kids seemingly didn't learn much, but because “I” couldn't award myself an "outstanding teacher" badge. It's frustrating how often and easily I forget that teaching is about infinitely more than just "me". The students and I are a tiny part of an endlessly complex and wondrous universe, in which teaching and learning are happening constantly in countless ways. As a teacher, I am like a wave in a never-ending sea. I can no more think of myself as a separate, independent entity in the teaching-learning process than a wave can separate itself from the sea. Today, when things seemed to be going badly in the classroom, instead of pitying myself and bemoaning my imagined failures, I needed to step back, way back, and see life, again, as what it is -- an immeasurable and harmonious dance. I'm sure much good came out of my classes today, just like much good comes out of every circumstance, but because of my self-absorption, I was not able to see it. While I was feeling sorry for my little "self", I missed the many wonderful things that were surely happening in my classes, right before me eyes.