FLOWING

She had flowing silver hair,

so one morning she decided

to see what else was flowing.

She saw the streets

surging with people,

and a person standing by the bank

with brightness streaming all around.

She said some words

and they spilled out into the air.

As she drove to school,

she felt a river

running beneath her

all the way to the sea.

I realized this morning that I want my students to feel “stretched” during my classes. I came to this conclusion after checking the etymology of the word “intense”, and finding that it derives from the Latin word for “stretch”. I’ve always hoped to have “intensity” in my classes, where the students are deeply involved and even filled with fervor for the work at hand, and now I know a little more about what that actually implies. In order to help them be truly intense in their English work, I must encourage – perhaps force – my students to stretch themselves to the farthest limits. “Extreme” is another word that would apply here. My students, if they want to be really fine readers and writers, must be attentive during class to an extreme degree. They must use extreme effort in concentrating on their assignments. They must feel the emotions in a poem or story in an extreme way. This is being a truly intense student – a student who goes “the extra mile” to reach the farthest and most extreme achievements possible. It’s possible for all my students to develop this kind of intensity, but only if I encourage it, push them toward it, and absolutely insist upon it. I guess that means I have to be as intense – as stretched – as I want them to be.

I saw a tiny miracle yesterday. She was resting in her mother’s arms in a small hospital in Putnam, CT, and her name is Ava Elizabeth Salsich. I had driven up in the early morning through the foggy countryside to see this little girl who had taken her first breath of air on Friday evening. When I walked into the neat and spacious hospital room, I guess I wasn’t prepared for what I was going to see – this utterly perfect 8-pound person who even seemed to be smiling. I stayed for only a few minutes, because Jess was tired and needed some rest – but those moments were more than enough. When you see a miracle, the notion of time seems beside the point. A few minutes are a few wonderful years when you’re in the presence of something that’s beautiful beyond belief. I only saw Ava for a short time, but her flawlessness remained with me all day. Back home, reading or writing or exercising at the gym, I often saw the small, stunning, brand new girl in my mind.

A passage from Paradise Lost, Book 11, lines 315-354.
Adam and the archangel Michael talk, after Adam has
been told that he and Eve must leave Eden.

Adam:
"This most afflicts me, that, departing hence,
As from his face I shall be hid, deprived
His blessed countenance: Here I could frequent
With worship place by place where he vouchsafed
Presence Divine; and to my sons relate,
'On this mount he appeared; under this tree
'Stood visible; among these pines his voice
'I heard; here with him at this fountain talked:
So many grateful altars I would rear
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone
Of lustre from the brook, in memory,
Or monument to ages; and theron
Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers:
In yonder nether world where shall I seek
His bright appearances, or foot-step trace?
For though I fled him angry, yet recalled
To life prolonged and promised race, I now
Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts
Of glory; and far off his steps adore."

To whom thus Michael with regard benign.
"Adam, thou knowest Heaven his, and all the Earth;
Not this rock only; his Omnipresence fills
Land, sea, and air, and every kind that lives,
Fomented by his virtual power and warmed:
All the earth he gave thee to possess and rule,
No despicable gift; surmise not then
His presence to these narrow bounds confined
Of Paradise, or Eden: this had been
Perhaps thy capital seat, from whence had spread
All generations; and had hither come
From all the ends of the earth, to celebrate
And reverence thee, their great progenitor.
But this pre-eminence thou hast lost, brought down
To dwell on even ground now with thy sons:
Yet doubt not but in valley, and in plain,
God is, as here; and will be found alike
Present; and of his presence many a sign
Still following thee, still compassing thee round
With goodness and paternal love, his face
Express, and of his steps the track divine."

THE UNIVERSE TOOK A TURN

Ava Elizabeth

was born yesterday.

It was a young day,

a childlike time

of cheer and daylight,

and the universe

took some turns in its travels.

Somewhere there were streams

taking pleasure in their early days,

and there must have been stars

just starting out in the heavens.

In the silence of hearts

there surely were feelings

finding their way into life

for the first time,

and pencils placing spanking new words

on pieces of paper.

In Putnam, a small present

was given

just as the sun was giving way

to the stars assembling

above the hospital.

Quotes from Middlemarch:

“It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long
a speech, but his happiness had the effect of
mountain air: his eyes were bright, and the
words came without effort.”

* * * * *

“Mr. Farebrother left the house soon after, and
seeing Mary in the orchard with Letty, went to
say good-by to her. They made a pretty picture
in the western light which brought out the bright-
ness of the apples on the old scant-leaved
boughs--Mary in her lavender gingham and
black ribbons holding a basket, while Letty in
her well-worn nankin picked up the fallen apples.
If you want to know more particularly how Mary
looked, ten to one you will see a face like hers in
the crowded street to-morrow, if you are there oil
the watch: she will not be among those daugh-
ters of Zion who are haughty, and walk with
stretched-out necks and wanton eyes, mincing as
they go: let all those pass, and fix your eyes
on some small, plump, brownish person of firm
but quiet carriage, who looks about her, but does
not suppose that any body is looking at her. If
she has a broad face and square brow, well-
marked eyebrows and curly dark hair, a certain
expression of amusement in her glance which her
mouth keeps the secret of, and for the rest feat-
ures entirely insignificant--take that ordinary but
not disagreeable person for a portrait of Mary
Garth. If you made her smile, she would show
you perfect little teeth; if you made her angry,
she would not raise her voice, but would proba-
bly say one of the bitterest things you have ever
tasted the flavor of; if you did her a kindness,
she would never forget it.”

* * * * *

“A human being in this aged nation of
ours is a very wonderful whole, the slow creation
of long interchanging influences.”

* * * * *

“He did not speak, but she replied to some
change in his expression. "I mean, for myself.
Except that I should like not to have so much
more than my share without doing any thing for
others. But I have a belief of my own, and it
comforts me."

"What is that?" said Will, rather jealous of
the belief.

"That by desiring what is perfectly good, even
when we don't quite know what it is and can not
do what we would, we are part of the divine pow-
er against evil--widening the skirts of light and
making the struggle with darkness narrower."

"That is a beautiful mysticism--it is a--"

"Please not to call it by any name," said
Dorothea, putting out her hands entreatingly.
"You will say it is Persian, or something else
geographical. It is my life. I have found it
out, and can not part with it. I have always
been finding out my religion since I was a little
girl. I used to pray so much--now I hardly
ever pray. I try not to have desires merely for
myself, because they may not be good for others,
and I have too much already. I only told you
that you might know quite well how my days go
at Lowick."

"God bless you for telling me!" said Will,
ardently, and rather wondering at himself. They
were looking at each other like two fond children
who were talking confidentially of birds.”

A FLOOD

One day

he was driving to school

when he suddenly started laughing.

He couldn't have told you

why he was laughing.

The daylight along the lovely fields

wasn't especially amusing,

nor was the wind

that was running

among the limbs of the trees.

True, he had been talking to himself --

small, positive sentences

that might become parts of poems,

but the sentences

weren't even worth smiling about.

Still, there he was,

coasting along Main Street

in a car filling up with laughter.

Oddly, it filled so full

that the laughter finally

flowed out the window

and followed a wind over a field

far from his school.

I was moping around my apartment this morning, harassing myself because I didn’t seem to be accomplishing much, when this thought came to me: The universe is accomplishing quite a lot, thank you very much. It was undeniably true. While I was living in a personal dream-world where “I” have to plan, bring about, and complete all necessary tasks, the grand, infinite Universe was harmoniously going about its innumerable duties. While I was sulking in the middle of my living room because I hadn’t achieved anything this morning, the Universe was actually quite pleased that I was sulking in my living room, since that is precisely what it had planned. I was sulking as perfectly as the sun was rising outside at that moment. My brooding and pining were as important to the Universe as any accomplishment by the president of a huge corporation, as important as the shining of the stars. The Universe was functioning perfectly this morning, and I was flawlessly playing my important part.

After thinking this way for a few moments, I actually began to enjoy my moping. It was, in fact, some of the best moping I had ever witnessed.

HIS THOUGHTS

One day he realized

that all his thoughts are young.

They sometimes seem old,

but they are actually

as youthful as the puffs of air

that unfold in the morning.

They make merry in his mind

as they make their way through.

They are mellow

and light-hearted and hard

to discourage. They dance

rather than slog,

these living things

that pass through his mind

like the playful youth

of the universe.

It’s amazing how comfortable I feel in my college class. As I go about teaching them what I know about literature and writing, I feel completely at ease, as if I’m hanging out with friends rather than teaching adults I had never met before the start of the course. We do a lot of serious talking about the course materials, but we also do a great amount of laughing and kidding. We enjoy each other’s company, which adds to the relaxed atmosphere of the class. Last night was a good example. As I looked around the room during class, I saw smiles on almost every face. Was this really an evening college English class, this class in which everyone seems to be having a rather enjoyable time? I’m not sure how much the students are learning in the class, but it’s clear that most of them feel fairly free from anxiety during class. They seem as comfortable as I am. And here's a question: Is this called work? Is this what I get paid for doing – spending time with good people who are actually becoming my friends? It seems like robbery to take money for doing a job that brings me such a sense of comfort and wellbeing.

PRECIOUS

His name is Precious.

His mother was presented

with a sunny spring day

on the morning of his birth,

so she said he was precious,

and he’s been so ever since.

The sunshine sits on his shoulders

as if he’s a prince,

and raindrops race

to be the first to feel his skin.

A day becomes a dance

when he’s around,

and coffee feels its way

softly down your throat

if he’s beside you.

If you’re sad,

Precious can present you

with something simple

worth smiling about.

I'm sure my students don’t feel like English class is a “celebration” of any sort, but I wonder if I could, or should. After all, a celebration is an occasion for special festivities to mark some happy event, and surely, for me, every English class should be a happy event. In each class I have the pleasure of being the teacher for approximately 12 bright and caring young people – kids whose parents have sent them to me because they trust me to suitably guide and instruct their children. I've been given the honor of teaching these students, and that is definitely worth celebrating. A celebration can also be thought of as a public performance of a solemn ceremony, and this, too, applies to my English classes. The students certainly don’t think of class as a “ceremony” of any sort, but I often do. We perform many of the same routines, or rituals, each day, and I maintain a sense of dignity and seriousness throughout each class. In addition, I have a sign on my door welcoming all visitors – the “public” – into my classroom. I love to have guests join us for our daily “celebrations” in English class.

SECURITY

She almost never felt secure.

Security stayed away from her

like sunlight stays away in a storm.

All her days were storms,

streaks of lightning

that lit up the sorrows in her life.

She sometimes let her cat

come to her lap

and listen to her sad story.

The cat understood everything.

The cat never stopped purring

in its perfect way,

perfectly sure that the lap

it was lying in

was a dependable one,

that the lamp in the room

would stay lit.

One of my hopes as a teacher is that my students will perform their various academic duties with aplomb. I’ve always loved that word (perhaps as much for the wonderful sound of it as anything), and I recently discovered, interestingly enough, that it derives from the Latin word “plumbum”, meaning a lead weight. We get the word “plumb line” from this – a line from which a weight is suspended to determine verticality or depth. Only when the lead weight at the end of the line hangs utterly motionless is the measurement taken. I think of my students as they labor away at their English tasks, and I hope they can remain, in a sense, as motionless, calm, tranquil, and composed as the lead weight on a plumb line seems to be. The weight and its line are totally at rest as they hang in space, and I’m hopeful that my students can learn to practice a similar kind of restfulness as they go about their work as students. That is true aplomb – the ability to, at the same time, work hard and rest easily, the ability to simultaneously labor and relax. These have always been the kind of people I have most admired – those who accomplish much but do so in a serene and almost blithe manner. The plumb line performs a vital task for engineers, builders, and others, and it does this by remaining totally still. Perhaps I can help my young students practice the same kind of stillness in the midst of the demanding whirlwinds of school.

This past weekend was our first truly warm once since last autumn, and it seemed to enliven everyone and everything. Life seemed to be springing up with passion wherever I happened to be. It was as if the warmth was a wonderful guest whom we were excited to see. We all appeared to be rushing to be the first to greet him. In the park, the trees seemed to be blossoming right before my eyes. I sat for awhile near a magnolia tree with its great white blossoms bending this way and that in the breeze. As I was walking, I also noticed the small buds all set to burst on the smaller trees. Even in the grocery store, the balmy weather was producing exhilaration. There was a louder chatter than usual among the patrons, a greater sense of rushing, a feeling that something marvelous was happening. I’ve seen that kind of excitement in stores when a winter storm is approaching, and now I was seeing it on the first weekend of warm weather. One lady seemed to be gasping to get her groceries speedily packed so she could dart out into the sunshine again.

WRITER’S BLOCK

He couldn’t think of anything

to write about, so he bought

a big hat and went to the beach.

The waves were bending over each other

like friends, and the clouds

were carrying soft-looking loads.

It was perfect.

The sand let everyone feel fine,

and the breezes followed

and found each other.

His hat held his head

in its soft hands.

Intersting thoughts swam

with easy strokes

through his mind.

PERFECTION

He found perfection today

at four-fifteen in the afternoon.

There was dust on his desk

precisely where it should have been,

and the pictures on the wall

were hanging

in an impeccably crooked way.

Outside, the SLOW sign

on the telephone pole

was being a proper SLOW sign,

and an old blue car

was old in a wonderful way.

A woman walked by

with a woeful look on her face,

as sad as she could possibly be.

As I was scanning the internet the other day, I came upon a page devoted to “The Magic Eye”, and before long I was thinking about how it applied to teaching. “The Magic Eye” requires you to stare carefully at a picture, after which you can magically see a previously hidden, three-dimensional image inside the picture. Where there was formerly just a jumble of colors and shapes, a clear portrayal now appears. It’s almost as if the shapes and colors are transformed into something totally new right before your eyes. I wondered: Couldn’t something like this happen in my classroom? To be honest, what I often see before me as I’m teaching is a jumble of colors and shapes – a collection of shirts and pants and faces that sometimes doesn’t seem all that special. In the daily routine of teaching, I often fall into the habit of seeing just a blurry image of my students – the same fuzzy picture day after day. What would happen, though, if I stared at my students like I do at the “Magic Eye” pictures? What if I really focused on my students with all my powers of concentration, as “up close” as I could get? If I did that, would I gradually see the class transformed into something I had never seen before – into an image that was astonishingly new? Would something beautiful and thrilling emerge out of the hodgepodge of youthful faces in front of me?

WINGS

He heard the rustle of wings,

but that made no sense at all.

It was just a spring morning

made from sunlight

and wafts of wind,

just a day doing

what it’s supposed to do.

It made no sense.

His was a simple existence,

a small, softly-lit life

in this universe of moments

that modestly present themselves.

Why would invisible wings

be whispering everywhere?

Odd as it may sound, I hope to become a more defenseless teacher. I hope to totally give up the need to defend my point of view in the classroom, or protect my position as the students’ guide, or guard my self-image in any way. I want to throw down all protective devices that I have used in the past to defend my position as a separate, well-educated, forceful person. I want to give up all distrustful and self-protective attitudes. I guess I want to be more open in the classroom, more ready to accept whatever happens, whatever opinion is expressed, whatever strange road the class seems to be traveling. I don’t mean that I will give up carefully planning each lesson, but just that I will give up seeing it as my personal lesson that must be defended and protected. Any lesson I devise actually arises out of an infinite store of ideas the universe provides me with, and I want to stay open to all of those wonderful ideas, even while I’m in the act of teaching. I guess I’ve grown weary of the defensive way of teaching – the way that requires me to always be on the alert to defend my position as the wise leader of the class. I’m just one part of the vast and mysterious process called “education”, and I don’t need to defend anything any more that one wave needs to “defend” the ocean. The wave needs to relax, do its job, and see what happens – and so do I.

THOUGHTS

In the morning his thoughts

are as light as feathers.

He feels them floating

just above him

as he sits at his desk.

Each thought that comes to him

floats effortlessly up

to join the others.

He keeps typing,

and the thoughts continue

to ascend

and drift near the ceiling.

They stay with him

all day long,

these hovering thoughts,

every so often

lifting him

just off the classroom floor

as he’s teaching.

The unruly spring storm has finally blown itself away, but we’re still dealing with unseasonably chilly temperatures. Yesterday felt like a day in mid-November. Students and teachers hustled from one building to another through the frosty air, and at recess I noticed many of the children simply huddled in corners to hold the warmth in. Many of the kids were wearing “flip flops” (the shoe of choice in April and May), and I’m sure their exposed feet were feeling the touch of the wintry air.

My college class is going well. I have, as usual, a group of polite, ambitious, and intelligent students. I feel sorry for them as I look out at their tired faces. After a full day of work, and after tending to the needs of their children at home, they come to the college to be instructed in the complexities of literature from 6:30 to 9:00. It’s not a simple task to stay alert in an overly warm room when the professor does most of the talking and the literature is enigmatic and seemingly inaccessible. Their heads droop now and then, but they do a brave job of staying attentive most of the time.

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

One way or another,

something will happen.

Perhaps the wind will roar

around someone’s windows,

or an orange fall open

in a person’s hands.

Maybe a voice of fulfillment

will sing a song for a friend,

or lamplight will land on a desk.

A car could carry

a promising life past someone’s house,

or a man might make a pancake

for the person he loves.

One way or another.

Sunshine may simplify this day,

or a storm could cause the trees

to talk and clap.

It occurred to me recently that what happens in my classroom, and in every classroom anywhere, is utterly transformative. In any class on any given day in any school, teachers and students change the way they think, and this transforms them literally into new persons. Even in a class that might be termed “dull”, the transforming process of thinking is continually at work, recreating mental frameworks and generating brand new outlooks on life. Inside the lives of all students and teachers, an astonishing development is constantly occurring: new ideas are making new people. Unfortunately, we teachers are not always alert to this on-going, miraculous activity. To us, it often appears that the classroom is filled with fairly inert and static people (including us). Standing in a classroom is sometimes like standing on the shore of a calm sea: everything appears steady, stable, and – truthfully -- pretty uninteresting. What we need to keep in mind, though, is what’s under the surface. Just as the sea teems with infinite kinds of power and activity, so all students and teachers abound with life-changing thoughts. What seems to be a quiet student sitting in the middle row is actually a highly-charged dynamo of ideas, and what appears to be a tired, tedious teacher is really a part of a universe of constantly evolving systems of inspirations. Today in my classroom, all of us will be remade each moment, whether we realize it or not. The universe of ideas will be ceaselessly revolutionizing itself, and my students and I have no choice but to do the same.

Ah, the storm seems to be finally over! The winds and rains have ceased, and signs of clear skies coming are everywhere. It’s still chilly and damp, but hints of warmer spring days are showing themselves. Right now, before dawn, I hear some sweet-sounding birds singing outside. Perhaps they’re constructing their new nests and whistling while they work.

COMPANIONS

Two books open on a desk,

two pens resting side by side,

two hands fastened together

in friendship, two clouds

carrying fresh loads of rain,

two streets he can follow

to find coffee and a paper,

two days of dreams-come-true,

two hours when help

is all around him,

two moments of mighty power.

This morning I was reading the gospel parable of the Pharisee and the publican, and it started me thinking, once again, about the importance of humility – of absolute selflessness – in teaching. If we can imagine the men as two types of teachers, they are at opposite ends of the spectrum. The one considers himself to be the all-important center, hub, heart, and axis of the classroom, from which every thought and activity emanates and around which all learning circulates. The other type of teacher, represented by the publican, thinks of himself (his “self”) in the exact opposite way -- as utterly unimportant, as merely a part of an infinite and incomprehensible force called “learning”. The first teacher “prayed thus with himself” because the self was all he cared about, was what he actually “worshipped”. The second teacher, in contrast, didn’t even lift his eyes up, realizing that he was in the presence of an overwhelming power. I hope I can always be like the publican when I’m teaching. More and more each day, I realize that the “self” is the biggest obstacle to good teaching. It’s the grandest of all delusions, this notion that a distinct, separate person called a “teacher” creates the learning. The first teacher in the parable believed that fantasy, which is exactly why he would be a disaster in the classroom. Conversely, the teacher represented by the humble publican is the one whose classroom might be totally energized by learning, precisely because he knows that he is not the energizer. He knows an immense power runs everything in the universe, including his classroom, and all he can do is step back and allow the power to do its work. As one Bible translation has it, this teacher “stands afar off”, away from the spotlight, and in doing so helps to create extraordinary teaching and learning.

One day not long ago, looking for inspiration, I took a short walk through the school where I teach, and, as usual, I found what I was looking for:

* A small group of pre-K children were rehearsing a song about spring with Laurie. They were in her office/classroom next to the teachers' room, so I stopped in for a moment. The room was buzzing with excitement, and Laurie was enjoying it as much as the children. I guess I was their first official "audience", and they performed the song with gusto. I was pleased to see young Tyler Flynn (the soon of John, my former student) singing and cavorting around, and I noticed Hunter and Erica were among the lead dancers and singers. What I noticed most was the excitement and joy in the children's faces, and I left the room hoping I could bring a little more of that to English class.

* I then walked down to the Mitchell Building, where I noticed the art work on the bulletin boards -- some intricate drawings of rooms at home. I admired the care with which they were obviously done, as if the artists were thoroughly invested in their work. They were unlike any student drawings I had ever seen -- sort of like architectural drawings or designs. I noticed a sign at the beginning of the display, advertising the work as "liner perspectives in contrast with flat color and the picture plane". That sounded very sophisticated to me, and it fit perfectly with the sophisticated drawings I had seen. I'm now renewed in my interest in giving my English students sophisticated assignments as well.

Finally, I want to share some excerpts from 6th grade poems which I found on the bulletin board outside Carol's room -- wonderful tributes to National Poetry Month:

"The owl and I

Always alert and careful about things

Buzzing by…

Quick with thinking

The owl and I."

--Billy

"I am a buttercup

Tiny, sweet, and bright…"

--Julie

I am a tree…

On rainy, wet days, I blow, and bang my branches…"

--Sophie

Today my goal as a teacher is to look more carefully for the harmony in my classroom. I deliberately didn’t say “create” harmony, because harmony’s already there, always. By the very fact that my students and I part of the infinite, harmonious universe, we must always demonstrate that harmony, in the classroom and out. We have no choice. Just as sunshine must harmonize with shadows, and winds with other winds, my students and I are always in accord with one another, though I’m sure we rarely realize it. Indeed, that’s the strangest fact I know of – that unity and agreement is all around us, but we almost never notice it. Our lives are created out of, and saturated with, harmony. Everything in the universe, from the tiniest atom to the largest star, moves in strict accordance with everything else, and yet we are nearly always blind to this beautiful harmony. We’re like people surrounded by blissful, spring-like weather, but who think a wild winter storm is raging around them. Today, I don’t want to be one of those people. I want to keep my eyes open for the friendly concord that always exists in my classroom. Everything that happens will be part of a seamless, unified plan created by the universe. Each spoken word will blend with every other spoken word, and each action will flow into all the other actions. It will be beautiful, and I just hope I’m not too blind to see it.

Stacey and Matt joined me for tea yesterday afternoon in my apartment. A wild nor’easter was raging outside, but we were quite comfortable as we sipped our Bigelow decaf tea (with a hint of lemon). While the spring storm blustered against the windows, we talked and laughed together. The dark afternoon seemed to make my lamps glow around us in an especially kindly manner.

* * * * *

I’ve set aside my audio tapes of Middlemarch (at least temporarily), and have gone back to reading the old-fashioned way. Yesterday I read a chapter without listening to the tape – just reading slowly and marking passages with my highlighter pen. Somehow, I enjoyed it more. Perhaps it was because I could read at my own pace, stopping occasionally to re-read and mark passages. I seemed to be more involved in the reading, as though reading the words without the help of the audio tape’s voice forced me to focus more carefully. Here are a few quotes from my reading:

“To ask her to be less simple and direct would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light through.”

“Our tongues are little triggers that have usually been pulled before general intentions can be brought to bear.”

“Each looked at the other as if they had been two flowers which had opened then and there.”

Today we're having a "nor'easter" Sunday. A big storm swept in this morning (see view from my apartment), bringing winds, rain, and even heavy snow just north of us. A fine day for reading George Eliot, riding a bike at the warm, well-lighted gym, having tea with Matt and Stacey (this afternoon), writing, or just peacefully thinking.

Today the weather warmed up to the low 50s, and somehow, for me, this helped the day seem unusally harmonious. Everything seemed to work together for good. Nothing extraordinary happened, just a great number of small experiences that blended together in perfect concord. With the spring-like weather came a tranquility that was more than welcome after a very eventful week. I graded papers in the morning at my desk, and the work went as smoothly as it ever has. I had my lamp directly over the papers, giving me an ideal light for reading and writing comments. My written words to the students came easily -- almost, it seemed, without effort. Later, I went to school and prepared for the coming week. There was a look of spring outside my windows, with birds floating back and forth and the trees swaying slightly in the breezes. There seemed to be a sense of peacefulness out there, and I felt the same feeling in my room as I listened to Mozart and assembled materials for another good week ahead.

For me, every day at school is a special one. Each class I teach surpasses what is common or usual, simply because it’s new and different. In fact, it’s impossible for me (or any teacher, actually) to teach an “ordinary” class, even if I wanted to. Each moment of my life and my students’ lives is brand new, and therefore each moment of class is fresh and original, no matter how "well" or "poorly" I teach. Every day in the history of the universe is exceptional and consequently every English class in Room 2 at Pine Point School is exceptional. Using another sense of the word "special", it’s also possible to say that each school day is distinct among others. Just as we have special types of paint and special medications for different illnesses, each day at school is a special type of day – the exact kind my students and I need at that time of our lives. As I awaken each day, I can confidently say that this day will be the special one that is perfect for me. I can also confidently say that each day of my teaching has a special and specific function. Every person on a space shuttle flight has a particular role in the mission, and every day in my classroom has a particular part to play in the overall education of my students and me. I can greet each school day the way I would greet a special expert who can perform an exclusive and vital function. On our long journey through the universe of education, each special day (which is every day) has a singular job to perform for my students and me, which is precisely why I should be so glad to see each new day arrive.

I felt relaxed today in the classroom. I felt like I was not in charge, like some other, higher power was running the show, and everything that needed to get done would get done in the best possible way. It was a wonderful feeling, like being chauffeured around in a beautiful limo. I had a carefully planned lesson, yes, and I did my best to follow it and be an efficient teacher, but somehow I knew all along that “I” wasn’t the driver of the car. A power that knew way more about teaching than I did was the driver, and this power was taking my students and me exactly where we needed to go. So I relaxed, let go, gave in, yielded, surrendered, and lay down my weapons – and had one of the best teaching days in recent memory.

ASSUAGING

For some reason, I began thinking about the word “assuage” today, and before long I realized it could help me understand something about teaching. When we “assuage”, we make something burdensome or painful less intense or severe, and surely that’s part of my work as an English teacher. Severely burdened with their school work, the students often walk into my classroom with a somber look, and it’s my task to help ease their load somewhat. Rather than adding to their pain by encumbering them with more work, I need to assuage the ache by showing them how to make their school work easier. Instead of giving them additional challenges (which is how I often thought of my job in the past), I should show them techniques for overcoming the many academic challenges they already have. As opposed to simply intensifying the pressure of their school work, I need to show them how to relieve it. Fortunately, as an English teacher, I have tailor-made techniques for this. If I can show them how to make writing school papers easier and more fulfilling, and how to read complicated books in an intelligent and efficient manner, I will surely take some of the weight off their shoulders. If I can provide them with tools that can make them more sophisticated writer and readers, then any writing and reading assignment from other classes will become less troublesome. In this way, I can assuage rather than intensify, alleviate rather than “pile on”. If there’s such a word as “assuager”, that’s precisely what I should be in my classroom.

I love my comfortable, inspiring classroom. I also love the view through the woods these early spring days as the sun falls toward the west .

I realized this morning that, for all these years of teaching, I have been much more concerned with what the students do in the classroom than how they do it, whereas my focus should be just the opposite. The truth is that there are a countless number of activities that I can plan for English class, anyone of which is probably potentially effective. What is truly important is how the kids do the activity -- what their attitude is, how good their concentration is, and what their thoughts are as they are doing the activity. Perhaps in the future I need to spend more time thinking about how than what. Perhaps I can take less time deciding on the specific lessons I want to teach, thus leaving more time to ponder the attitudes I want the students to have as they work through the steps of the lesson. If I spend just fifteen minutes selecting the specific lesson, then I can spend thirty minutes thinking carefully about what's significantly more important – the mental outlook I want to establish in the room before and during the lesson.

I took this picture a bit early, because a few minutes later the sunset in Watch Hill was spectacular -- a lovely end to a lovely Easter Sunday. I spent a quiet early morning at home, reading and writing and thinking (my favorite pastimes), and then joined the family at Jan's for a splendid brunch. (She's the queen of brunches; no one I know does it better.) We talked, laughed, ate, and celebrated. We have much to be grateful for -- the lovable younger generation (Kaylee, Noah, and Josh), our good health, and just the steady family friendship. I felt extremely appreciative as I drove back home.

Yesterday Jaimie, Luke, Matt, and I enjoyed a “sweaty” but marvelous afternoon and evening with a few friends up at Jaimie’s house in the woods. (See photos, above.) Earlier, Jaimie and little Noah (almost 4 years old) had constructed the frame of a “sweat lodge”, and, when Matt and I arrived around 4:00, we helped them tie the last few poles on and get the bonfire going. We set stones among the kindling and logs and then lit the paper and stood back and watched the flames flare up. Luke and two old friends, Bill and Tim, arrived around 6:00, and there was good conversation as we watched the fire settle down on the reddening rocks. We took a break for some delicious chili, after which some of the guys carried the almost molten stones on a pitchfork into the pit inside the sweat lodge. We then stripped down and filed into the lodge, crawling in a circle around the pit of stones until we were all seated. Jaimie then sprinkled water on the stones to start the steam rising. Before long, the little lodge in the dark woods was filled with the hottest steam I’ve ever felt, and the sweat was streaming from my face and chest. We sat mostly in silence for nearly an hour, occasionally tossing water on the stones and saying a few words or breaking into songs and chants. I especially enjoyed the silence. It was wonderful to be with good friends in such a hushed and contemplative atmosphere. After about an hour, we filed back out into the frosty darkness, sprayed ourselves with water from the hose, got dressed, and stood for a long time around the glowing coals of the fire. Every so often a plane would pass over high up above the trees, and occasionally I looked up at the shining stars as we quietly talked.

As I was watching a soccer match today, I began thinking about teaching, and whether my English classes could be thought of as similar to playing soccer. One point of comparison would be the patience that is obviously required of both soccer players and my students. In the game I was watching, you might say “nothing much happened” for a great part of the contest, just as, from one point of view, nothing much happens during my English classes. The players spent much of the time passing the ball back and forth, with very few goals scored, and similarly, my students and I spend a good deal of our time doing seemingly dry things like discussing passages in a book or reviewing writing techniques. To non-soccer fans and people who are unfamiliar with English teaching, the game and my classes could seem fairly monotonous. That’s where patience comes in. The soccer players realize that every goal comes only after many minutes of careful teamwork – of setting up plays, passing from side to side, watching vigilantly for openings, and working together somewhat like dancers. This is what has made soccer “the beautiful game”, as it’s known in parts of the world – a game of patience, persistence, staying power, and even elegance and serenity. The players go about their graceful work while patiently waiting for the chance to score. My students, too, must put in long minutes of careful work during my classes -- talking, listening, responding, and thinking. Occasionally we have a breakthrough –a “goal”: we all may realize an important truth about the book we’re studying, or a whole set of essays may turn out to be brilliant. That happens only now and then, however. The greater part of the time in class is spent doing the tedious (but often graceful and inspiring) work that leads to such satisfying culminations. We don’t score many “goals”, and when we do, we don’t cheer and high five each other, but the feeling is something like winning soccer teams must have.

LOOKING FOR LIFE

One morning he listened

to a sonata for cello and piano

and then went out looking

for the kind of life he loved

in that music. He met

a man at Dunkin Donuts

who said he drove a car

that carried kindness inside it.

Then he saw two women

walking like light

was inside their legs.

He turned a corner

and two trees were

stretching to touch each other,

and then a car passed

with several precious passengers.

I guess I've always hoped my students would be "happy" in my class, but until recently I never really considered what that means. As I often do, I went to my favorite dictionary for help, and found that there are two definitions for "happy" that could apply to my students. First, the dictionary defines the word as "characterized by luck or good fortune; prosperous", and surely this is what I want for my students. I want them to feel lucky and prosperous --lucky that they're learning so much about writing and literature, and prosperous because they're growing rich with wisdom and understanding. I hope what any teacher hopes -- that my students will feel fortunate, and therefore happy, that they're taking part in my class this year. Another definition for "happy" is "having or demonstrating pleasure or satisfaction; gratified", and this, too, is something I hope my students feel. I hope they feel satisfied when they leave my class each day -- satisfied in the sense that they have been adequately filled up with helpful information and skills. After a satisfying meal, they feel content and gratified, and I hope they feel the same after each of my classes. That would be a fine kind of happiness for my students.

I wonder why I so often lose sight of the fact that this universe that I am part of is a perfectly astonishing place. All of reality is an utter miracle. The fact that I exist at all, breathing and typing here at my desk surrounded by infinite miles of the teeming cosmos extending everlastingly into space, is a miracle. The fact that each second of existence is entirely new, created afresh moment by moment, is a miracle. The fact that an endless number of original and powerful thoughts are available to me and to all of us each moment is a miracle. The fact that there is never any death, only alteration and transformation of the eternal substance of the universe, is an absolute miracle.
Given all this, I should be rejoicing constantly. I should act like I’ve just won the best lottery of all – because I have.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store, but not to shop -- just to walk very slowly. I sometimes love walking as unhurriedly as possible, almost barely moving, because it forces me to slow my mind down, and I find that a grocery store is a perfect place to do this. The other busy shoppers don't any pay attention to an older man slowly pushing a cart along, and so I can do my quiet meditation in peace and privacy. My feet move very slowly, and so does my mind, enabling me to better appreciate each present moment as it arrives and unfolds itself. Yesterday I went up and down the aisles many times, little by little, lifting my feet and putting them down and moving the cart along. I was attentive to the small phenomena that I've never really noticed before -- the squeak of the turning wheels, the jiggling of my hands on the cart as it bumped along the floor, the fluorescent lights overhead, and the smiles on the faces passing shoppers. I didn't shop, or think about things I had to do today, or worry about the future; I simply walked and experienced the walking. It was a wonderful event for me, one I plan to repeat often. I don't think the store owners would mind, or even notice, a bald, hoary-bearded old fellow puttering along behind his cart. Who knows, I may become a "fixture" there, a legendary personage -- the peculiar old geezer who walks almost without moving, and never buys a thing.

All of this reminds me of a favorite poem by Wordsworth:

A Sketch

The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought. -He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy what the Old Man hardly feels.

I just finished Book 9 of Paradise Lost, and I’m astonished at the dramatic power of the story. It’s more like a play, or a novel, than a poem. For the first time, I'm getting a sense of the lives and feelings of the individual characters, especially, in Book 9, Adam and Eve. I feel like I'm reading a Tolstoy novel rather than a 17th century epic poem.

I’m also about half way through a re-reading of Middlemarch, and I came upon this quote in yesterday’s reading of Chapter 29. The narrator is speaking about Mr. Casaubon:

" For my part I am very sorry for him. It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated from a small hungry shivering self -- never to be fully possessed by the glory we behold, never to have our consciousness rapturously transformed into the vividness of a thought, the ardour of a passion, the energy of an action, but always to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted. Becoming a dean or even a bishop would make little difference, I fear, to Mr Casaubon's uneasiness. Doubtless some ancient Greek has observed that behind the big mask and the speaking-trumpet, there must always be our poor little eyes peeping as usual and our timorous lips more or less under anxious control."

I’ve done a lot of reading and writing in my life, but not enough thinking. That may sound strange, because we usually associate reading and writing with thinking – but I’m beginning to realize that that’s not always true. I know for a fact that I can read and write without doing much thinking. I can sit with a book and read page after page without really engaging my mind, and I can write sentence after sentence in a completely unthinking manner. I guess it’s called “going through the motions” – doing an activity with almost no participation by the brain. As a refreshing change, lately I’ve spent more time just thinking. I’ve sat in my apartment with no book or pencil, just thinking, just working on one idea, just carefully following a thought wherever it leads me. It’s a refreshing and inspiring way to spend a few minutes – no reading, no writing, no multi-tasking, just thinking. And it hasn’t been easy! Actually, I’ve always found thinking to be hard work, maybe the hardest I’ve ever done. There’s something about pure, steadfast thinking that has made me resist it, avoid it, steer clear of it if at all possible. Over the years, I would do almost anything to evade the necessity for concentrated thinking. Recently, though, I’ve become as much a thinker as a doer, and I’m glad of it. Perhaps in the future I can put a deep, sturdy foundation of thinking under every action I perform.