Yesterday, after school, I rode my bike down to a restaurant in Stonington to have dinner with some friends. I took my time riding, mostly coasting along a lovely road embowered in shadows. I was in no hurry, felt no great need to get exercise, wasn’t out to prove how fit I was. I simply glided along in the late afternoon coolness, enjoying the sounds of bird songs and the softening colors of the landscape. After dinner, I rode back home (about five miles) along a fairly level stretch of road. I went at a brisk pace, feeling springy and poised. The evening light was lovely – the golden look that I can look forward to enjoying all summer long. I pumped hard up the hills and felt strong as I sailed across the summits and down into town. I thought of happy things: having a good glass of red wine, watching the red-hot Red Sox, and being a better teacher tomorrow.

Yesterday I taught in a fairly thoughtless manner. By “thoughtless” I mean without thinking too much about what I was doing – re-acting instead of acting, going through the motions instead of performing my duties in an alert and intelligent manner. The word “zombie” comes to mind – and I don’t think I’m being too harsh. Yes, I was alive yesterday, but I was pretty dead to what was happening around me. You could have replaced me with a teaching machine yesterday and the kids might have benefited just as much. For just one example, in the afternoon I came into the study hall in the library and, without giving it a single careful thought, immediately told the kids to be silent. They had apparently been quizzing each other in preparation for exams, but I summarily shut it all down. When a boy asked me why they couldn’t quiz each other, I said, with a curtness that sounded strange to me, “Because I don’t want you to.”

I hope today will be different. I hope I can let each of my actions arise naturally out of careful consideration and awareness. Teaching must be a thought-ful enterprise. It can only be done by thinking people, not mindless machines.

I’ve been riding my bike to school lately, and feeling very grateful about it. It’s a gift to be able to pedal through my small town at 6:00 am on a serene spring morning, with the sun starting to lighten the trees and the birds whistling with their free spirits. I feel like singing or shouting in appreciation as I ride. Somehow, by some mysterious miracle, I’ve been given the opportunity to do this delightful activity, and I’m thankful for the gift. Yesterday was especially fine for riding. The air was chilly in the early morning, but the exercise kept me feeling comfortable, and I pedaled in a determined way. Even the long hill leading out of town wasn’t too taxing. I just shifted down, leaned forward, found a good rhythm, and before long I was breasting the top of the hill and then coasting and resting. One of the best parts of the morning ride was stopping at Tim Horton’s for coffee and a bagel. I sat in the window seat, taking pleasure in my breakfast and watching the morning light brighten. As I looked at my silver bike leaning against the outside wall, I felt fine for traveling to school in such style.

This morning I again realized that good teaching does not consist in the exercise of the teacher’s will over the students’ wills, but rather in the exercise of what I might call the “universal will of learning”. It’s not easy to keep this in mind during the teaching day. I often fall into the bad habit of thinking that I must constantly exert my “will” in order to accomplish good things in the classroom. The scenario of “teacher over here and students over there” is, I’m afraid, often played out in my room. I don’t think I harass or intimidate my students, but, quite honestly, I do sometimes think of them as “subjects” who must bend to my willpower. This morning, though, I understand once again the inaccuracy of that viewpoint. I see that the only “will” that needs to exert itself as I’m teaching is the will of the entire universe to learn, develop, mature, expand, and spread. My students and I aren’t isolated, separate entities who have to use willpower to gain some “thing” called knowledge. We are part of a never-ending universe that grows because it has to grow and learns because it has to learn. Far from being an object that needs to be willfully brought under control, knowledge is a natural expansion that should be humbly experienced and enjoyed. Truly, there’s enough arrogance in the world today without adding more through my teaching. What I need to do is overcome my sense of self-importance and realize that this thing called learning is way bigger than any individual teacher or student. Learning is not about my will versus their will. It’s about constantly being open to the evolution of knowledge that is continuously occurring at all times and in all places, including my small classroom on Barnes Road.

Yesterday Annie, Gabe, and I took a walk on the beach. The day was a bit overcast, but in town the air was pleasant and almost summer-like, so we wore shorts and thin shirts, and in the first part of the walk, this was suitable attire. We strolled happily along, enjoying the look of the grassy dunes in the cloudy light. It was good to be by the spring shore with my daughter and her great friend after the long months of winter. Soon, though, the weather changed to gusty and chilly, and before long light rain was dropping around us. We moved along more quickly, still enjoying the beautiful setting. There was something about the colors that seemed more brilliant under the gray sky, and Gabe explained that artists always appreciate colors more in these conditions. We saved our picnic lunch until we reached the shelter of a big dune on the windward side of the island. There the air was considerably warmer and the sun was brightening, and we enjoyed our sandwiches in a lovely atmosphere. As we ate, we spoke of many things and always kept our eyes on the glittering sea.

I can’t imagine a more beautiful spring day than yesterday. The sun was shining, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and promising trees and flowers were showing off their glories everywhere. It was a day like a gift. We humans in Westerly woke up and there it was – a day made for joy and jubilation. I celebrated by taking my first strenuous bike ride of the season. I rode to school along the bright roads, past the familiar homes and farms, up and down the short but challenging hills. With my faithful bike under me, my reliable pack on my back, and one good feeling after another inside, I rode with considerable get-up-and-go. I felt unexpectedly good on this first real ride of the year. I also felt good on the ride home, so good, in fact, that I quickly showered and hurried down to the park. The annual art fair was being held, and I found a shady place on a hillside and read some of Milton amid the happy festivities. It was a rewarding way to relax after my demanding bike ride. I read a few lines of poetry, then watched the cheerful activity among the tents and stalls, then read some more. The breeze was so pleasing it almost felt like it was flipping the pages for me.

Today I want to ponder the wonderful truth that belief has all power. Actually, it is not only wonderful, but shocking. It’s almost too hard to accept the simple fact that what I’m believing at any given moment creates all the power in my life. It goes against all my prior ideas about power, which suggested that power was located in countless material things and forces. Now I begin to see (as I think Jesus did) that everything begins with belief, not matter. Any event, happening, occurrence, experience, or consequence is, in the end, the outcome of a belief that I have entertained. It may appear to have something to do with matter, but if I go deep enough into the facts, I will always come head to head with a belief. This is, indeed, a most astonishing discovery for me. It is, in fact, the most important discovery I have ever made, for it uncovers the central power of the universe: belief, faith, conviction, idea. Today, and every day, the universe is guided by thought. This is God, Allah, Buddha, and the Tao. It’s the only power. I live in it and it lives in me.

Yesterday was a day of lovely sunshine and exuberant performances. All day long at school the most pleasant breezes blew through the campus, and sunshine graced all the grounds. I didn’t hold my classes outside (as I sometimes do), but I felt like we were outdoors as we talked in my bright and breezy classroom. Walking from building to building was like taking a delightful stroll in the most perfect weather. It was the kind of weather that flawlessly fit the mood of the students, because excitement was in the air yesterday. The kids were restlessly looking forward to the evening performance of the annual “Spring Arts Program”, and they seemed to move down the halls as eagerly as the breezes in the trees. Several times I came close to being side-swiped by a keyed up student on the move from class to class. The enthusiasm rose to its peak around 7:00, when the curtain went up in the auditorium. I had to stay with the 8^th graders until they went on stage, but that was almost as exciting as watching the show. The kids were beside themselves with exhilaration as they waited their turn. Mingling with them in the large Music Room, I felt like I was outside somewhere with dozens of pleasing spring breezes swirling around me.

It occurred to me this morning that my students and I are passengers on a mystifying voyage. We’re traveling together in a nameless vehicle with an unidentified destination. As a teacher, I like to pretend that I know where my students and I are going each day, but the truth is that Life is sweeping us along to no one knows where. Each day in English class -- each moment -- we arrive at a mysterious destination, one that is utterly new and totally miraculous. A wonderful aspect of this journey is that our passage is free of charge (the Universe has paid the fee), and we’re not required to do any real work on the vehicle. By simply being alive, we have gained the right to a complimentary ticket, and the Universe does all the work. It provides the power and guidance for the trip, so all we have to do is sit back, relax, and take pleasure in the developing sights, sounds, and thoughts. Indeed, it is the thoughts that are the most fascinating feature of this endless journey that my students and I are on. We’re traveling to scenic locations of the mind (or Mind, because there’s no end to the possible thoughts we can have). Each moment in our classroom expedition, a new idea rises in front of us like an enchanted isle. All we have to do is be watchful for it and enjoy its charms, and then watch for the next thought as it comes into view.

Yesterday morning I sat outside at school in the early morning, around 6:30, reading Paradise Lost and listening to the songs of birds. I sat in the midst of one of our beautiful gardens, surrounded by flourishing trees, shrubs, and flowers. The birds sang in their quiet, soothing manner while I enjoyed the restful lines of Milton’s poetry.

* * * * *

As we draw near to the end of the school year, I realize how much I will miss this year’s graduates. Yesterday in class, I sat among the 9^th graders like a father among his children who are preparing to leave home for good. It was a reflective and somewhat melancholy time for me. These are inestimably wonderful kids, whom I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of teaching for two splendid years – and after next week they’ll be gone. I’ve been in their pleasurable and stirring company five days a week for 18 months, but it’s almost over.

I hope to become a more and more faithful teacher. I want my students to see that I have an undeviating attachment to my work, a loyalty to my profession. Each Monday morning, our school community recites the Pledge of Allegiance to our country, but I feel just as strongly about the pledge of allegiance to teaching. I am a member of the noblest profession of all, and I want to act like it. I want to be constant in my loyalty to my work, and to my students. Shakespeare wrote about being “constant as the northern star” – never changing, always there, forever reliable and steady. Students need a teacher like this, someone who, so to speak, “shines” with a perpetually stable light. To put it even more strongly, I want to be thought of as a staunch practitioner and defender of my profession. I’m involved in the vastly important task of educating young people, and I have to be as loyal and true as a dedicated soldier. There’s no greater fight than the one for the hearts and minds of children, and I’m lucky to be a part of it. What I hope is that I can be constantly faithful to my duties.

As a teacher, I must, above all, be an inviting person. Like a congenial host, I must continually invite my students to take part in the learning that’s available in my classroom, must ask them for their presence and participation. This is far different from demanding or requiring, which is the mindset that I’ve often adopted in the past. Rather than making demands of his guests, a good host politely and humbly invites, and so does the good teacher. There should, I think, be a certain formality in this invitation. I should consider my students to be guests at a ceremonial occasion, a very proper and decorous meeting of minds. When they enter my classroom, I should graciously invite them to be seated the way I would at a formal banquet. I should remember, too, to be encouraging in my invitations. Like shy guests, some of my students may be hesitant to contribute to the class activities, and I need to offer support and gently cheer them on. I need to continually invite them to share in the feast of learning that English class (hopefully) offers.

Just as one ray of sunlight can’t be said to be any brighter than another ray, I don’t see how a teacher can be said to be any more important than his students. The only real power in a classroom is the power of intelligence, and students and teacher share uniformly in that power. To set the teacher apart as “owning” a greater part of that intelligence is like saying, “Oh, do you see that single ray of light over there? It has more brightness than any other ray.” That would be a ridiculous statement, and saying that the teacher is the central, or key, or most essential element in the classroom is, to me, just as ridiculous. In my classroom, there are, at any given time, twelve students and one teacher – thirteen bright rays of sunshine. We each have only one task – to shine with our own natural brilliance. Indeed, it’s actually not a task, because that word implies effort or work, and rays of sunshine don’t have to make an effort to be bright. They are bright, by their own nature, and so are my students and I. Perhaps, in fact, what we all need to do is quit trying so hard to be smart, quick, scholarly, and clever. As a teacher, I, especially, need to give up the great effort to be the intellectual leader in the classroom. I’m simply a ray of light among other rays, and I need to calm down, lighten up, and enjoy that wonderful role.

Yesterday was a day of quiet recovery for me. After my draining trip to Washington with my students, I needed some time of tranquility and revival. I spent most of the day doing little more than “going with the flow”. I sort of drifted around, from my classroom to the park to a cozy restaurant with friends for dinner, just letting the energy of the universe carry me contentedly along. The weather was chilly and damp, but that didn’t trouble me at all. After trying to control 25 restive teenagers for four days, I wasn’t interested in controlling anything yesterday. I simply wanted to go where my life took me, and that’s exactly what I did.

I returned on Thursday from an exhausting, inspiring, and happy trip to Washington with my 8^th grade students. I must admit that I was entirely done in by the time I reached my little apartment by the park. I could barely make my way around the rooms to unpack and prepare a small dinner. Even now, two days later, I feel the draining effects of four days of travel with 25 teenagers. On the other hand, I also still feel the uplifting stimulations and insights gained on the trip. These were days in which I studied, learned, discovered, realized, and came to understand many things. I felt stirred and inspired by the places we visited, but even more so by the kids and teachers I was with. This trip was truly transformative for me: I’m a more perceptive and appreciative person than I was before. This is partly the result of the pure happiness that I felt throughout the four days. I am one of the truly fortunate people on earth, a man who was generously paid to travel around a beautiful city with a group of entirely cordial and accommodating people. I felt nothing but gratitude as the cheerful hours and days passed. And now, sitting at my desk on Saturday morning, I must admit to feeling a dash of regret that my trips with kids are over until another school year begins.

If you were looking for a demonstration of pure tranquility, you should have been with me yesterday. The hours passed like a peaceful river. It started with my drive up to Jaimie and Jessy’s with Matt. The afternoon was lovely and the countryside pristine, perfect for driving, talking, laughing, and just enjoying a friendship. We talked a lot about teaching (a favorite subject of ours), but also about baseball, the weather, and our lives. No conversation between father and son could have been more relaxing or restful. We picked up young Noah (almost 4) and then drove up to a Barnes and Noble near Worcester to spend some time with Luke (or Lukey-boy, as Noah calls his uncle) and baby Josh (11 months). We enjoyed a soothing hour or so just visiting and appreciating each other’s company. We first ate lunch in the cafe (Noah had grilled cheese and Josh relished single Cheerios provided by Luke every so often), and then browsed among the books and toys in the children’s section. I think Noah spent as much time studying the other mysterious children as looking at books. We said our goodbyes and then Matt and I and Noah drove back to Jaimie and Jess’s house in the forest. We only stayed for a few minutes, but it was enough time to enjoy the company of the flawless and exquisite Ava Elizabeth (two weeks old). When we walked into the house, there was mellow music playing, and Jaimie was rocking back and forth with Ava, as perfect a little person as I’ve ever seen, resting quietly in his lap. To me, the entire scene, including Jessy working serenely nearby on her laptop, was a miracle of tranquility, as the entire charming day had been for me.

I’ve been realizing recently that I still seem to be in the grip of the belief that I am a separate material entity in a universe of countless separate material entities. This belief must be a very powerful force, because it’s had me in its hold for most of my life, and still hasn’t appreciably loosened its grasp. At the bottom, underneath all my spiritual hopes and ideals, lies this stubbornly unshakable belief in the materiality of the universe. Unfortunately, it’s a conviction that has led me, day after day after day, into a no-win struggle to control everything. My reasoning has been that if the universe is made up of separate things and I am one of them, then I better try to control as much as possible. That’s been my basic belief, and it has created for me a life of never-ending labor. This morning I realize that I simply must overcome that belief if I want to find genuine contentment. Strangely, though, even that sentence suggests that I’m still burdened by the belief in materiality, for it implies the existence of a separate “I” that can “overcome” some material force. The truth is that the universe is a bottomless and boundless spiritual force, consisting not of separate “things” but only of one infinite power of which every supposed “thing” is an indivisible part. It’s an endless sky in which what is called “I” dwells as an inseparable, indistinguishable component, like a breeze in the infinite wind. If this truth could finally become clear, there would be no need to exercise control, because it would be obvious that there is no “thing” to control and no “thing” to do the controlling. There would just be the single supreme force that always controls itself in a perfectly harmonious manner. This force (or Force) has been given various names, such as God, Allah, and The Tao, but whatever its name, it’s the power that always does exactly what needs to be done. What’s especially wonderful about this is that it means “I” can – and must – relax, because there is actually no “I” to be gripped by any belief, and certainly no “I” that can do any controlling. There’s only the solitary, serene Universe that’s always managing everything in an utterly relaxed manner.

Yesterday, walking in the park in the early evening, I was especially attentive to the various colors. One of the most conspicuous was the flourishing pink of a tree beside the steps near the pond. The blossoms were bright beyond belief, almost to the point where I thought about shading my eyes from them. Just a week ago, they were carefully folded buds, but now they were flashing their showy pink petals for all to see and admire. From the top of the hill overlooking the pond, I noticed the orange colors of the leaves of a maple down by the field, as well as the glowing gold of a tree in the western part of the park with the sunlight shimmering behind it. Nearby, down beside the pond, was a tree whose intense leaves seemed to be a deep red, almost purple. One interesting tree was an enormous oak whose leaves were just starting to unfold. Amid all the extravagant colors of spring, here was a tree that was still modestly dressed. Its small unfurling leaves seemed plain and unpretentious beside the ostentatious reds and golds. It was my favorite, though – a strong but simple tree just being its unassuming self.

Today I have many duties and responsibilities, but none more important than standing guard at the door of my mind. I need to guard the entrance to my thought as carefully as I guard my material possessions. I always keep my car and apartment locked, and I should protect my mind just as conscientiously. I should stand beside its entrance like a strong-armed guard, watching diligently to see what thoughts try to enter. After all, my thoughts are, by a considerable margin, the most valuable possessions I own. They have more power than any amount of money or any material object, for they are the forces that literally create my life. I am happy only if my thoughts are happy, and I am sad when my thoughts are sad. It’s strange that I so often leave such valuable commodities undefended. I go through most days with my mind as wide open as a bank with unlocked doors and safes. It’s like I’m saying to the nastiest and most destructive thoughts: “Come right in. Take my life over.” Today, though, I’ll be more attentive. I’ll be an observant and dutiful sentinel at the entrance to my mind. Of all my obligations today, none is nearly as important as this, for nothing can assemble or demolish a happy day but my thoughts.

This has been the “spring of popcorn” for me. A few weeks ago, I bought an air-popper and a bag of popcorn kernels, and ever since I’ve been enjoying a heaping bowl each evening as I sip a glass of red wine. With a teaspoon of melted margarine on it and just a sprinkle of salt, it tastes delicious. I feel like I’m in my glory as I sit in my comfortable chair with my popcorn, my wine, and my evening sports page.

* * * * *

The weather has been exquisitely gentle. The temperature has been in the 60’s, there’s always a tender breeze blowing, and the sunshine has been of the mild kind, just enough to soothe your skin but not enough to have any harsh effects. I love being outside on days like this. It feels like the calm universe is caring for me as I walk among the promising trees.

* * * * *

Now, at 5:00 am, I hear the two notes of the bird who sings the simplest song. Ta-duh, ta-duh, ta-duh – over and over. It’s my favorite bird song, I guess because it’s like my life – plain and trouble-free.

I’ve never given much thought to the idea that a good teacher should also be an “illustrator”, but perhaps I should. First of all, an illustrator clarifies by using example or comparisons, and surely this is what I should do in my classroom work. No matter what lesson I’m teaching, I need to focus on making it as clear as possible to the students, and an effective way to do this is by using illustrations. If I can show them a model of what I’m talking about, or compare it to something already familiar to them, I have a better chance of bringing understanding to them. Another way I can be an illustrator is by serving as an example or comparison for the students. Instead of showing the students a model, I can be the model. For instance, if I want to teach my students to be neat and organized in their work, I can be neat and organized in mine, thus illustrating the behavior that I want to encourage in them. It’s instructive that the word “illustrate” comes from the Latin root meaning “to make bright”. So much of what I try to teach my students must seem utterly “dark’ to them at the start of the lesson, and my task is to shine a light on things. Perhaps I could put it this way: I need to put a little “luster” on my English lessons, and I can do this by being a good illustrator.

This morning I heard two very dissimilar sounds at 4:16. First I heard the earliest birds whistling their songs somewhere outside. Since I had the window cracked open to let the mild spring air in, I could easily hear the first notes of their singing. It was a mellow way to start the morning – a gentle melody from somewhere out in the darkness. Next, I heard a different sound – the noise of a large truck backing up on the street. I looked out and saw a man from the power company raising himself up in a bucket to work on an electrical pole. The truck engine was running rather loudly, so I knew I wouldn’t be hearing any bird songs for a while. Finding that disappointing and frustrating, I mumbled irritably as I tried to do my spiritual reading. To my surprise, however, the truck pulled away in just a few minutes, and I was left with an even softer silence than before. Soon I could hear the birds singing their tunes again as I turned the pages of my book.

WHAT OFTEN HAPPENS

Sometimes he meets a morning

made to sing, to dance, to dress

in leaves and flowers.

It's just a little morning,

a dawn that doesn’t flaunt itself

or masquerade as something

it isn’t, for it's simply wind

among the branches

and sunshine on some steeples.

It's a song

sung by a some birds

bringing just what they can

to this unassuming morning

that meets him

as he sits at his desk

with toast and juice.

I used to think that my duty as a teacher was to help my students move a little further along the road to excellence, but now I believe my job is to help them see that they are already excellent. My task is similar to slowly taking the bandages off a person who has had surgery for blindness. In a sense, my students have been “blind” from birth – blind to their astonishing capabilities – and it is my responsibility to gradually help them see how excellent they really are. I’m not leading them toward any future “goals”; I’m simply helping them to open their eyes to what’s already present. This understanding of the nature of my work as a teacher helps me remain humble. After all, the work I do with students is as easy as opening up a treasure chest that’s right in front of us. All we have to do is lift the lid. It’s that simple. It doesn’t require Masters degrees and special certificates; it requires only a steadfast belief that the treasure chest is, in fact, there – inside each of my students. When the kids learn in my class how to write more elegant paragraphs, in a sense they’re not becoming “better writers”. More accurately, they’re becoming better able to uncover and understand the potential they were born with. The ability – the excellence – has been there all along. I just help them see it.

WHAT HE DIDN’T KNOW

The guy on the noisy motorcycle

keeps a pack of letters

from his grandmother

beside his historic baseball cards.

The woman at the grocery store

who swirls her words around

like sharp knives

whispered at her son’s bedside for weeks

while he slowly passed away at age seven.

The man with mean dogs

and maps of tattoos on his arms

cares for a friend with cancer

six days a week.

Hateful words

have sorrow inside them.

The clouds of storms

contain sweet air and light.

I have often used the word “mistake” when talking to a student about behavior that I didn’t approve of, but I’m beginning to think that’s not quite accurate. Now I’m not so sure that students make mistakes, as much as they simply take a different path than I was hoping they would take. The word “mistake” suggests that students did something wrong, whereas perhaps I should say they chose a different route than I had planned for them. Their action wasn’t “wrong”, per se, just different, unusual, irregular, nonstandard. The path they chose will lead them to some goal that I hadn’t planned for them. They will definitely learn something by traveling this path, but it won’t be the learning I had hoped they would experience. What’s important here is the realization that they will learn something. It’s imperative that I understand that every choice my students make (like completing their homework efficiently or skipping it altogether) will lead them to a learning experience. If they decide to not check over their essay before handing it in, they will learn something as valuable as if they complete the assignment with the utmost attention to detail. Any path is a path to learning, even the paths we usually call “mistakes”. In the future, when a student comes to class without a pencil, instead of telling him he made a mistake, I can simply say, “Well, that’s a choice that will teach you something important. Learn the lesson well.”

HIS CENSUS

It was a simple mission.

He just wished to see

how many thoughts he had,

and what the various types were.

He started counting

one softhearted morning in the spring.

He sat at his window overlooking the street

where cars were carefully carrying their passengers.

He counted his thoughts

as they drove down the streets of his mind.

There was a golden idea going east to the sunrise,

and a small industrious idea

that shook like its engine wished to ascend the steepest hills,

and an idea the color of roses

that rolled along with heroism and independence.

Soon he saw that his mind

was a city with no discernible boundaries

containing thoughts of countless numbers and styles.

The streets were busy but serene.

The thoughts were strong

because they were precisely what they were supposed to be.

There was a silent thought

that slipped along like a sports car,

and a silver idea that whizzed along

with sixty other silver ones

down a spotless street that had no end.

He sat at his window.

Down on Spring Street the cars

seemed to be singing to their passengers.

He just kept counting,

and his counting was something like singing.

Here are some springtime scenes from Wilcox Park, plus something I found written on the board in my classroom -- one of the best compliments I've ever received.

I enjoyed another satisfying day of outdoor teaching yesterday. Once again the weather was heavenly, so I held all my classes out in the garden beside my classroom. Under a bright sun and the bluest of skies, my students and I discussed Shakespeare, Dickens, poetry, and an assortment of English nuances. The air appeared to be utterly clear, almost as clear as the students’ voices seemed as they shared their thoughts and questions about the material at hand. In each class one student videotaped the class for a few minutes, and I’m eager to watch the tapes. This summer I hope to put together a DVD of my classes over this past year, of which this week’s open-air classes will surely form a special part. That segment might be entitled “English in Paradise”, or “Bird Songs, Bright Skies, and Literature”.

WHAT WE SHOULD DO

She always tries

to pour a perfect cup of coffee.

She cares about her customers,

about their sorrows

and their unfolding futures.

The steam from the coffee

floats upwards

like her feelings for Frank,

who comes in

at five minutes to five every morning

to improve his life a little.

She hopes she can help him

by handing him a flawless

cup of coffee

as the sun lifts itself

and lets the new day start.

She smiles

because she knows

there will be another customer

after Frank.

It’s 6:13 am, and the view out my window says it’s going to be a lovely day. One wall of the white house across the street is lit up in the sunshine, and the sky behind it is an incandescent blue. A woman just dashed past the house on her speed-walking workout, and a red car cruised quietly down the street. Now a man walks out of the white house, tosses a suitcase in the back of his truck, starts the engine, and drives off for a day of adventures, which is what I’ll be doing in about five minutes.

Recently, looking for some ideas about how to be a good teacher, I stopped in to Jeannie's dance room to see what I could learn. It turned out that two 9^th grader girls, as part of a project, were teaching a group of 2nd graders, so I stood in the corner and watched. Here's what I noticed that might help me in my own teaching:

1) I observed that the 2nd grade dancers were getting constant feedback on how they doing, something I guess we all strive for in our classes. Where was this feedback coming from? Well, from the 9^th grade student-teachers, but also from the mirrors along the wall. The dancers constantly watched themselves in the mirrors as they went through their moves, and I thought I noticed them adjusting their moves as they watched. Instant and continuous feedback. It reminded me that I can do a much better job of providing a "feedback atmosphere" in my classroom. Perhaps I need some figurative "mirrors" of some type.

2) I also observed the "teamwork" atmosphere in the room. Everyone had a space on the floor, but they were constantly looking around to see where others were in relation to themselves, and to make sure everyone stayed evenly spaced. I wonder…could I do more about helping my students to "see where others were in relation to themselves" during English class -- during discussions, for example. Could discussions be thought of as "dances" of a sort? Something to think about…

3) Jeannie's students were teaching other students, and she was carefully taking notes on what was happening. It was obviously a great way for the 9^th graders to learn some important skills, and it enabled Jeannie to learn some important things about them. Hmmm…perhaps I could do some of that kind of "student teaching" in 8th and 9th grade English. I was impressed to see how thoroughly the 9th grade girls seemed to be involved in what they were doing, something I would surely like to promote in my classes.

I’m not sure I’ve ever had a more satisfying day of teaching than I had today – and much of it had to do with the weather. It was the brightest of spring days, with a sky of luminous blue and a soft breeze blowing, and so I held all of my classes outside in the garden beside my classroom. The students and I sat in a circle in the sunshine as we went through our English duties, and I think we all felt fortunate to be right where we were. An emerging garden on an exquisite spring day is not a bad place to be when learning about the fine points of writing and reading. I recall looking across the circle at one of my students as the sunlight was flowing across her face, and thinking that this was a little paradise I was in. Not only was it a beautiful scene to contemplate, but she and her classmates seemed to be better students than ever in that open-air classroom. Their attentiveness was sharp and steady, and their comments were as bright as the day was. Toward the end of each class, we took an “English class stroll” around the campus, just meandering and talking about one thing or another. We had been studying a poem in which the poet spoke of “strolling” as a away of getting in touch with important qualities of life, and so I guess that’s what we were doing. In the midst of their harried days as students, it was good for the kids to simply amble along for a few minutes, just taking pleasure in the fine weather and each other’s company. I walked in the midst of them, feeling ever so grateful for this life that’s been given to me.

While I was watching the trees in the park sway in the breeze the other day, I began to wonder why I almost never watch my students in the same way. Why aren’t my individual students as fascinating to me as these beautiful, blossoming trees? I must have watched one particular tree for a good five minutes, just quietly appreciating the way its branches swung and dipped as the winds passed through. Have I ever paid attention to an individual student for that long -- I mean, just sat still and observed a student, really watched and noticed and scrutinized him or her? The answer is no, and it bothers me. Why is a tree more interesting to me than a student? Why do I say to myself, “That tree is astonishing!”, when I rarely say that about a student who is going about his or her work in my classroom. Yes, I compliment students on their class work, but I almost never stand back and simply admire the magnificence of a particular student. I find that very strange.

GARDENING

People are turning over the earth

these days,

but I’m just turning over thoughts.

This morning I turned over

several dozen, trusting

that something might spring up.

They lay inside me,

those fertile thoughts,

as the fullness of the day

dawned outside,

and there were signs of sprouting

as I taught the teenagers

at school

under a sunlit sky.

I awoke this morning to the sound of rain outside. It was faint at first, just a slight whisper of dampness on the streets. When I looked out the window, I could see the slick street, and, as I sit at my computer now, I can hear more clearly the sound of cars splashing along as they pass the house. I think I’ll enjoy this rainy day of teaching, just as a few birds are now enjoying their song-making outside in the drizzly darkness before dawn.

THINKING OF THE BIG BANG

This morning

as I was driving to school,

a bird began to sing.

Because the “big bang” happened

immeasurable years ago,

now this bird

was bringing me music.

As I turned the car up Barnes Road,

trees in Tennessee

were probably swinging their limbs,

and a wilderness of stars

was speeding away from us,

all because of an explosion

in the faraway past.

Perhaps people

on the tops of mountains

were trying to stay warm

that very minute,

and birds in forests

were finding their way,

as I was,

just because something

in the darkness

burst forth

billions of years ago.

The photos above show what the park is looking like these days.

One of my main goals is to be a gracious teacher for my students. I want to be kind, benevolent, and courteous to them, because they deserve it. My students are astonishing kids, every one of them, and as such they are worthy of my utmost respect. I want to treat them with the dignity they have earned simply by being good young people, day after day. I hope my graciousness can also extend to my classroom environment. I want to provide an atmosphere that’s characterized by good taste, comfort, and ease. When the students walk into my room, I hope they exclaim to themselves, “Now this is a sweet place to do some learning!” As a final point, I want to be a gracious teacher in the sense of being compassionate, and even merciful when mercy is called for. I want to lead my students, because that’s part of my responsibility, but I want to lead in a kindly and generous manner. I want to remember the words of the old hymn: “Speak gently. It is better far to rule by love than fear.”

On this first day of May, I’m pleased to report that the mild weather has returned. There’s been a gentleness in the air that is quite welcome after the harsh weeks of wintry weather we had in March and April. I kept the windows open in my classroom at the Subase last evening, and the balmy breeze swirled the blinds and swept around the room as we discussed stories and poems. Now, typing at 5:12 am, the window is open so I can feel the peaceable morning air of spring. Later today, I’m hoping to hold some of my classes outside in the pleasant garden beside my classroom. I picture myself sitting out in the sunshine with the students, conversing about the niceties of 8^th grade English while enjoying the easygoing breezes of May. There’s a serenity in that kind of teaching that is not often present inside my somewhat airless classroom. Later, after school, I plan to do my exercise-walking down in the park. I look forward to feeling the placid air on my skin as I climb the steps by the pond over and over again. Perhaps I won’t feel quite as exhausted as I usually do. In the youthfulness of springtime, maybe I’ll feel a singular freshness in my step.