This morning I spent an ideal few hours at the beach. It seemed like a perfect morning in every way – textbook breezes beneath a flawless blue sky. I rode my bike out around 8:30, just taking my time and enjoying the wonderful weather. The beach was nearly deserted (even when I left around 11:00), as if it was my own personal paradise. I sat under my rainbow-painted umbrella, re-read a few chapters from Middlemarch, and occasionally took in the unspoiled look of this remarkable place that’s just down the road from my apartment.

I’ve gained some interesting insights lately from Adolescent Literacy, a book I’ve been reading this summer.

First, the negative:

In several articles about the teaching of writing, I again came across an attitude that befuddles and annoys me. The gist of it is that writing teachers should not be “teachers”, but should rather be listeners, suggesters, questioners, helpers, coaches, and friends. The implication is that teachers of writing should be unlike teachers of other skills. A welding teacher, I’m sure, demonstrates how to do various specific welding tasks, and then assigns the students the same tasks. The welding teacher is not afraid to establish guidelines, give assignments, and hold students accountable for completing the assignments as assigned. Why is it that so many writing teachers don’t want to do this? One author I read today even went so far as to say that writing teachers should NOT give assignments, but should allow his students to make their own assignments! Can you imagine what would happen in a welding class if this procedure was followed? (For one thing, a lot of students might get badly burned.)

Now for the positive:

Robert Probst discussed the importance of intelligent conversation in the classroom, and suggested that this skill needs to be taught. I couldn’t agree more.

Jim Burke discussed the skills our students will need to compete in the “flat” world of the future. Students will need to be collaborators and orchestrators, synthesizers, explainers, leveragers, adapters, green people, personalizers, and localizers – and we English teachers need to allow students to practice these roles in our classrooms. I’m going to study Burke’s ideas very carefully in the next few weeks. (I especially like a website he gave, for the National School Reform Faculty – nsrfharmony.org. It’s filled with very helpful ideas for teachers. One of the best is “chalk talk”, where a silent classroom discussion is held by inviting students to come to the board and write their comments. )

Yesterday, I finished re-reading George Eliot’s Middlemarch, and I’m seriously considering starting over at page 1 and re-reading parts of it yet again. I first read this beautiful novel about 15 years ago, but it seemed many times more beautiful on this second reading – and I want to make sure I didn’t miss any of the beauty. If I took a tour of a lovely Caribbean island, I’m sure I would want to go back and re-visit it again, and I guess this book might be my “island” this summer. Last night, when I finished the final page, I immediately went to the front of the book and read the Introduction, and today I’ll start re-exploring the early chapters. I’m also thinking of ordering two or three books about the novel from Amazon. (Wouldn’t I buy a few travel books about an island I was visiting?)

* * * * *

Yesterday I took an hour-long bike ride north of Westerly on Boombridge Road. There are a few decent hills out that way, so I was able to get a good workout. At one point, as I was cresting a fairly steep hill and trying to catch my breath, some friends pulled up alongside in their car. They waved and said hello, but I’m afraid I could barely gasp out a return greeting. Later, resting in the shade of some trees by a farm, I called them on my cellphone and we laughed about our bike/car meeting on a hilltop.

* * * * *

In the evening I had dinner with some good friends at a Thai restaurant by the train station. We met in the park, where their 2-year-old grand-daughter enjoyed herself in the cooling evening air, and then we walked to the restaurant, where we spent a friendly hour or so in welcoming surroundings.

It’s a warm morning, 5:20, the fan blowing across the room, cloudy sky outside, a few bird songs.

Yesterday morning I made my first fully-equipped bike excursion to the beach. I strapped my beach umbrella to the bike, loaded my backpack with supplies, and rode out around 8:00. It felt good, as it always does, to park my bike (for free) right next to the beach and have all I need right there for me. I walked about twenty paces and there it was, the pristine and almost empty beach. I stayed for several hours, reading comfortably in the shade of the umbrella and watching the beautiful sea slowly change its colors.

Later I met Jaimie, Noah, and Matt at a small beach in Stonington. This time I set up two umbrellas, and then read a few chapters in a book on teaching (a very good one), examined some small crabs Noah caught, laughed at the little guy’s invincible good cheer, and talked with my sons about teaching. Around five, we went to Stonington Pizza where we enjoyed grinders and more of Noah’s cheeriness.

In the last ten years, I have become more interested in helping my students build up their critical capacities than in helping them become more creative. My changing beliefs are well-expressed in Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way, where she says that many of the ancient Greeks (especially Euripedes) believed that criticism – the rigorous evaluation of what is right and wrong, good and bad, beautiful and ugly – was far more important than creativity. Euripedes was a critic in the sense of the American Heritage dictionary definition: One who forms and expresses judgments of the merits, faults, value, or truth of a matter – and this is precisely what I want my students to be able to do. Whether they’re examining a chapter of a novel or assessing their own thoughts about a particular essay topic, I want them, most of all, to be able to discriminate – to be able, as the dictionary puts it, to make a clear distinction, distinguish, make sensible decisions, and judge wisely . In that sense, I want them to become critical young people. Creativity is important, yes, but the ability to intelligently criticize – to demonstrate the art of critical thinking – is at the heart of what I’m trying to do as an English teacher.

Yesterday I took my longest bike ride of the summer (62 miles), and managed to stop occasionally to write some haiku poems:

Mile 11, Oceanview Highway

reeds standing straight up

as far off as I can see

through smudged sunglasses

Mile 22.5, River Road on the Pawcatuck River

small tree in sunshine -

one bird floats across the road –

noise of power saw

Mile 24, Greenhaven Road

music from a small house –

soft sound of plane over head –

Sunrise Avenue

Mile 27, Route 1, by Greenhaven Road

traffic rushing by me –

birds chirping in the bushes –

totally blue sky

Mile 28.4, corner of Route 1 and N. Main

trembling leaf shadows –

two leaves fall straight down like stones

as I breathe deeply

Mile 31, N. Main

young shadowy woods

with small patches of sunlight –

a smashed can of Coors

Mile 34, Wheeler Road

white butterflies float

over a dry brown cornfield –

highway hums far off

Mile 37, Al Harvey Road and 201

smell of fresh cut grass

and a small blue plane above –

my bike relaxes

Mile 40, Wolfneck Road at the Ledyard town line

bridge over small stream –

flies buzzing on the surface –

a girl rides past me

Mile 43, Old Mystic

leaves float on the pond

while leaves tremble around me –

my orange vest shines

Mile 45, River Road

kids learning to sail

in small boats with striped sails --

traffic far away

Mile 47.3, across from Sea Swirl

lunch by a small cove –

I stretch out in the cool shade –

tree limbs wave to me

Mile 53, Stonington Borough, Du Bois Beach

great rocks all around –

SUVs stand like monsters –

a small boy splashes

Mile 54.5, Route 1, near Cove Ledge Inn

big white house on hill

with bird songs all around it –

junk piled in shade

Mile 58.2, the bend of Greenhaven and River Road

old pickup for sale

and a sail boat with old sneakers –

voices far away

Mile 60.6, River Road

many big white boats

and birds singing from the trees –

red fire hydrant

Yesterday, Matt, Stacey, and I enjoyed a beautiful evening in the park at the annual “Summer Pops” festival. I had set out some blankets on Friday night, and by the time we arrived with our picnic supplies yesterday around 6:00 pm, the place was nearly filled. I was struck by the large number of people who were apparently alone, sitting by themselves on their blanket or in a chair, some reading and some just enjoying the lovely look of the early evening. A woman behind us was one of those. I assumed she was waiting for others, because she had a large blanket spread out, but no one ever joined her, and she experienced the evening of starlight and music by herself. Matt, Stacey, and I talked, laughed, and enjoyed our KFC picnic meal as we took in the beautiful surroundings. I recall the light blue look of the evening sky as the sunlight slowly left, and also the several long strings of balloons ascending and swinging above the crowd. The entire evening was a spectacle I won’t soon forget. Of course, the music was wonderful. I especially appreciated the special guests, a group of skilled brass and wind players, and the local big band from URI wasn’t bad, either. Mostly, though, I just loved leaning back in my beach chair and being grateful that I was exactly where I was.

What I believe about life controls everything I do. My beliefs are like riders controlling the reins, and I am the horse. If my belief says that the world is a matter-based, scary place, every thought and action will be guided by that belief. Even the smallest, most insignificant act will be steered by my belief in the threatening nature of life. It’s impossible to overstate the power of beliefs. All the billions of people on the earth are operating, right now, under the guidance of their beliefs. If you could somehow harness all the power of these beliefs, it would easily be the strongest power in the universe. The wonderful truth hidden in all this is that I don’t have to believe in the matter-based, menacing nature of life. There is another way of seeing – believing in – life, and that is that life is spirit-based and harmonious. If I approach each day guided by that belief, I experience a very different kind of power and a totally different kind of life. Life becomes an enjoyable game instead of a fight to the death. Nonstop struggle is replaced by eternal harmony. It’s as simple as changing riders on a horse.

Below is a journal entry for today, written in the park after my morning ride. It can be enlarged by clicking on it.

A challenge for me and my students: Write a paragraph that contains an appositive, two examples of parallelism, and one simple sentence with a triple compound verb. (Note to readers: Can you find them?)

I had two excellent rides to the beach this morning, sandwiched around one of my favorite breakfasts. The first ride, at 5:30, was delightful – a trip through cool air, brightening light, and utterly peaceful countryside. Even with the sound of the air rushing past my ears, I still could clearly hear the songs of the first birds. The cool air and almost total lack of wind made the ride seem nearly (but not quite) effortless. When I got back into town (fairly exhausted, I must confess), I stopped at a coffee shop, bought some breakfast fare, and rode a few blocks to the park. There I indulged myself in one of the finest breakfasts I can think of: sitting on a bench in our pristine park with the sports page of the paper, a large black coffee, and a sesame bagel with grape jelly. The park was especially beautiful this morning, and so was my little meal by the pond. I then took a few hours off to do some work at home, after which I again rode out to the beach. The ride was enjoyable, but even more enjoyable was the huge construction site I stopped to see. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so close to really massive working excavation machinery. The enormous bulldozers were digging deep into the earth, turning up immense boulders, loading them into their “jaws”, and dumping them to the right or left. I was fascinated by both the delicacy and power of the machines. I felt quite small, sitting there on my featherweight bike watching these mammoth diggers doing their work.

One of the books on teaching that I’m reading this summer suggests that “a focus on the immediate” is one of the keys to good English teaching. Students want to get immersed in an exciting present-moment experience and receive immediate feedback, and this is what good English teachers provide. English class, the authors suggest, should focus on “the now”, making sure that each experience is thoroughly absorbing and immediately fulfilling.

I find this approach to teaching quite troubling. It seems to me that one of the biggest problems we’ve created for adolescents is precisely this need for every activity to be thoroughly absorbing and immediately fulfilling. We’ve produced a generation of kids who want everything today, right now, this minute, and who consequently are missing out on the great pleasure of doing something carefully and thoughtfully and receiving the reward only after a significant period of hard work. For example, many students these days expect a book to be immediately understandable and enjoyable, with no hard thinking and re-reading required. They want to “get it” instantaneously, and this is the kind of book the authors seem to suggest for English classes. Give the students books that don’t require serious effort – books they can get “lost” in and can get immediate gratification from.

I have a different idea. I want my students to work very hard in their reading. I want them to exercise their brains in English class just as vigorously as they exercise their bodies on the athletic field. I want them to have to re-read certain sections of their books many times, because in this way they will develop the ability to overcome verbal obstacles and go further into a text than they ever thought they could. I want my students to realize that getting “immediate” results is often the path to disappointment and dissatisfaction. By delaying gratification until some hard work has been done and difficult obstacles have been overcome, my students may discover a kind of fulfillment that far exceeds the superficial pleasure that comes from the engrossing “now”.

In Reflective Teaching, Reflective Learning, I’ve discovered some interesting ideas:

1. The authors describe something called the Flanders’ Interaction Analysis System, which is a method a classroom observer can use to evaluate the kinds of communication that occur among students and teachers. The observer simply makes a note, every few seconds, of the type of interaction that’s happening, whether indirect teacher talk, direct teacher talk, student talk, or silence. The authors suggest that the good English classroom has a lot of student talk and not so much teacher talk, but I’m afraid I would fail in that respect. (I do most of the talking, by far.) Next year, I hope to recruit another teacher to come and observe me occasionally, and perhaps do the Flanders’ Analysis. I suspect it would be surprising (maybe shocking), but certainly helpful.

2. I like the idea behind what is known as Raphael’s Question-Answer Relationships. He delineates two main categories of questions regarding literature assignments, each category being then broken down into two sub-types. The first type of question is “in the book” – that is, the answer can be found by simply looking in the book. These questions are further divided into “right there” questions (the answer is in the text and rather easy to find), and “think and search” questions (the answer’s there, but you need to put different parts of the story together to discover it). The second major category of questions is “in my head” questions. It is broken down into two sub-types: “author and you” (the answer can be found by thinking about what you know combined with what the author tells you), and “on my own” (the answer is not anywhere in the book, and you can find it without reading the text).

These are very interesting categories to consider for next year.

3. A concept I don’t agree with is the idea that “flow” is an important goal to aim for in literary experiences for kids. Basically, “flow” is the kind of experience that is so fulfilling that one loses track of time while one is engaged in it. The authors suggest that English teachers should design a curriculum that encourages this kind of “flow”, and they use video games (!) as a fine example of flow. They imply that, like the gamer gets hypnotized by his action figures, our literature students should get hypnotized by the books we assign – get “lost” in them, as some might say.

I’m sorry, but I do not want this kind of “flow” in my literature classroom. I want to encourage careful, systematic thinking in my students, not the mindless trances that we see in video game enthusiasts. In fact, I guess I want my student readers to stand a bit outside the flow of the story, so they can begin to appreciate its larger truths. I don’t want them to get “lost” in a book, because then they won’t be able to “find” the really great ideas contained in the pages. True thinking requires some distance from the topic, and you can’t get that distance if you’re totally into the “flow”.

Perhaps nothing is more important than the ability to laugh at myself. When I laugh at myself, I’m actually laughing at my “self” -- the physical, separate, limited, vulnerable and amusing “person” that I’ve created in my thinking over the years. This “self” seems always threatened, always at risk, and always alone, and thus it has been an entity that I have tried to defend and protect over the years. However, the strange truth is that this separate “self” doesn’t actually exist, no more than a separate breeze exists apart from the vast weather patterns of the earth’s atmosphere. The person I call “Ham” is not separate, alone, or vulnerable, but is rather an integral part of the seamless and harmonious universe. The self I’ve been caring for, and worrying about, all these years is no more real than the imaginary rabbit that Jimmy Stewart loved and looked after in the old movie, Harvey. When I laugh at my “self”, then, I’m simply laughing at a silly, make-believe creation of my own thinking – and that’s a very healthy thing to do.

This morning I was out on my bike by 5:30, pedaling up and down the hills near my apartment. A fairly dense mist had settled over the town, so I decided to forego a ride to the beach and instead focus on hill work closer to home. It was a rewarding time for me. The streets were silent except for the music of the birds, and the mist made the riding seem more special than usual, more out of the ordinary, more mysterious. After about 30 minutes of climbing, I rode over to Tim Horton’s for a large cup of coffee and a paper, and ended up sitting on a bench in the foggy park, reading about the Red Sox’ victory and enjoying the first sips of coffee.

* * * * *

Yesterday, I visited Matt’s 3^rd grade classroom, and enjoyed it immensely. Though obviously tired after a long and warm day at school, his students were utterly cheerful and friendly. After talking with them for just a few minutes, I could see why Matt has enjoyed working with them. They raised their hands with heartiness and spoke with passion. I saw the great spirit of 8-9 year olds that so many teachers love – the look of unrestrained excitement and eagerness in the eyes, the quick shifting of postures when an idea came. I walked out of the room thoroughly recharged. My bike ride back to Westerly was as effortless as it’s ever been.

I was thinking this morning that the ultimate goal of teaching (at least my teaching) is to help students move beyond themselves and thus broaden their horizons. Put another way, I want to help my students become more unselfish, more able to forget about the small, frail entity called the “self” and become ever more aware of the infinite universe beyond the self. I want to push and pull them out of themselves and into the astonishing realities of the world around them. This is no easy task, simply because my students (like most of us) have been trained by the culture to see their lives as isolated, limited “selves” faced off against an unlimited number of competing selves. Thus, the horizons of my students’ lives are extremely close and confining. They see themselves as dwelling in a small fortification (called the “self”) surrounded by carefully constructed defenses, beyond which is the darkness of a mysterious and menacing universe. My difficult task as their English teacher is to help them slowly dismantle these fortifications so they can become aware of the powers they’ve been shutting out. They have thought of themselves as having a very small brain (with probably lots of “learning issues”); I want to show them that intelligence is far too vast to be confined within a fist-sized muscle inside their heads. I want to expose them to real learning, which exists not inside their brains but in the far reaches of the endless universe. I want to help them to become un-self-ish – to forget their limited, helpless “selves” and remember the immeasurable universe they’re part of.

I’ve discovered a perfectly wonderful apple this summer. I was shopping at the A&P store in Mystic when I came upon a Fuji organic apple from Chile, and it has quickly become one of my all-time favorite fruits. On long, tiring bike rides, I sometimes picture myself biting in to one of those succulent treats from south of the border. I’ve probably eaten 20 in the last week alone.

The other day I met a true “senior bicyclist” on my ride. I stopped under the shade of some trees for a break, and this man happened to be there with his bike, loading it on his car’s rack. I could see that he was an older guy, perhaps a few years older than me, but that didn’t seem surprising or worth noting. However, a few minutes into our conversation I was completely astonished when he told me he was 87! He looked entirely fit, and he was riding a sleek, competitive road bike, which made my astonishment all the greater. He said he rides almost every day, and, when he described his favorite routes, I knew he was interested in serious exercise, not just a casual ride around the block. As I rode away, I smiled, picturing myself in 22 years, still teaching teenagers and still riding up long hills on my bike.

* * * * *

On Sunday, Father’s Day, I had a wonderful visit with Jaimie and Luke and my three grandchildren. I first had an early breakfast with Noah, Jess, Jaimie, and the adorable Ava Elizabeth. We talked and laughed in the kitchen in the morning coolness, and, as usual, I couldn’t stop admiring the two children. Noah is as gracious and kind and personable as a 4-year-old can be, and little Ava seems to be a perfectly formed 2-month-old human being. I find both of them to be utter miracles.

After breakfast, I drove with Noah up to Millbury for a visit with some more miracles, Luke and his family. I talked with Krissy for a bit, and then Kaylee and Josh rode with Luke, Noah, and me over to a Barnes and Noble bookstore nearby, where we had a wonderful time together. Of course, we spent most of our time in the children’s section, where Josh blissfully played with a wooden train set and Kaylee read many picture books to a spellbound Noah. What I noticed most of all was how easy it was for all three kids to become thoroughly engrossed in an activity. Josh was fascinated by the train set, Kaylee was utterly focused on the words as she read them, and Noah couldn’t take his eyes off the pages. I noticed the same kind of concentration in Noah on the way home. Luke had given him a small toy truck to play with, and for a full hour, he turned that truck over and over in his hands, moving the various parts and talking quietly to himself about all sorts of things. I’m sure I smiled during most of that ride, feeling like a very lucky grandfather – and father.

I’m reading a very helpful book about teaching by Leila Christenbury, called Making the Journey, and she makes some wonderful points.

1. About her early years as a teacher and, specifically, about the process of literally making herself into an adequate teacher, she says: “I felt like I was taking my personality apart and putting it back together so I could succeed in the classroom.” I know that feeling, although I didn’t begin that process of re-making myself until only about 10 years ago (after nearly 30 years of teaching). Before that, I was a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants teacher, and I’m ashamed to even think of those early years. Thank goodness something woke me up to the fact that I needed to be a totally different kind of person if I was to become even a passable teacher. I started re-making myself in about 1996, and the process still has a long way to go.

2. She makes the point that good teachers realize they are both being teachers and becoming teachers. They know the becoming must never stop.

3. She lists five models for teaching: teaching as telling, teaching as inspiration (the seat-of-the-pants stuff I did for many years), teaching as maintaining a creation (where the teacher spends all summer planning a day-to-day curriculum, and then sits back and watches it work all year), and teaching as discovery (which is what I’ve been trying to do since 1996). For the discovery method, she says the teacher

* doesn’t avoid questions to which there is no answer, or mind saying “I don’t know”

* let’s students talk

* allows pauses in the talk. This means there are periods of silence in the classroom

* asks, asks, asks, and falls out of love with telling

* starts teaching where the students are, not where the book is or where the teacher is

4. About the complexities of teaching, she quotes David Labaree (and I love this): “Teaching remains an uncertain enterprise [because of its] irreducible complexity. What we know about teaching is always contingent on a vast array of intervening variables that mediate between a teacher’s action and a student’s response. As a result there is always a ceteris paribus clause hovering over any instructional prescription. This works better than that , if everything else is equal. In other words, it all depends.”

The steps of the godly are directed by the LORD. He delights in every detail of their lives.

--Psalm 37: 23

I take thousands of “steps” each day. Every moment is a step: I think this or that thought, do this or that activity, make this or that decision. I can’t avoid this step-taking process. Even if I sit at home and do absolutely nothing for an entire day, I have taken a step by deciding to sit at home. What this sentence from the psalm tells me, encouragingly and comfortingly, is that all of my steps are organized, managed, directed, guided, and led by the supreme power in the Universe. (Some people call this power God or Allah, but I prefer the Universe.) I don’t have to do any organizing, managing, directing, guiding, or leading, because it’s all been taken care of for me. In a sense, I’m like a child whose every minute has been carefully planned by his parent. The weight of responsibility has been lifted from my shoulders; I have no choice but to relax and follow, step by step, the plans laid out for me. What’s wonderful about this, aside from the total freedom from anxiety, is the realization, as the psalmist says, that the Universe cares for (or “delights in”) me, down to the smallest detail of life. I am an essential part of the Universe. Every aspect of me was created when the Universe was created, and thus I am watched over and protected as carefully as the largest star or the highest mountain or the richest celebrity or the smallest atom. I don’t decide each moment to keep my heart beating and my blood running in my veins. The Universe has made that decision for me, just as it actually makes all the decisions for all the steps of my life. Today, and every day, all I have to do is follow the footsteps that have been carefully laid out just for me for a zillion years.

A roadside garden

A pond in Old Mystic

Flowers on River Road

Oh, I had some marvelous bike rides these last two days. Yesterday I covered about 40 miles, cruising quietly along our charming country roads. I wasn’t out to break any records or prove myself; I just wanted to feel the ease and smoothness of riding through a beautiful landscape on a fine bike. Since the bicycle seemed to do all the work, it was almost an effortless few hours.I recall noticing the shadows most of all. (I often focus my attention on one specific aspect of the scenery – shadows, doors on houses, shades of green, etc.) As I rode along, I realized there is a sense of heaviness, of solidity, almost of strength, in shadows. As I approached the shadows in the road from immense trees, it was almost as if I was entering material “things”, weighty objects that had mass and power. The landscape seemed filled with these dark presences.

This morning, I started out extra early, around 4:40, because I wanted to say goodbye to a group of my students who were departing from school for a 10-day trip to Japan. I rode in the near-darkness for a while, with my red light flashing behind me and the earliest birds doing their first songs in the trees. I love that time of morning for riding. The world is new born. The streets seem fresh and perfect, and my bike seems to speed along with unaccustomed grace. I said goodbye to the kids in the parking lot, and then rode over to Mystic, past the awakening coves and inlets, and enjoyed hot coffee, a bagel, and the sports section of the paper at a cafe. Then, it was back down Route 1 to Westerly along still sleepy streets. I was back in my apartment by 7:00 am, ready to start in on my daily writing projects.

Yesterday I rode up into the hilly country north of Westerly for the first time this year. Feeling somewhat listless, I took it fairly easy, which enabled me to better appreciate the rural scenery. There was a serenity along the country roads that I almost never experience on my town rides. Everything seemed to be moving at a quiet and contented pace, which is exactly the way I was riding. Several times I came upon groups of cows lounging in their pastures, and each time I stopped to admire their look of indolence and contentment. They were in no hurry to do anything other than what they were doing, and neither was I. Watching them for a few minutes was a good lesson for me in the joys of satisfaction. On the way home, I stopped at a place called “The Westerly Town Forest”, a nature preserve I had only recently heard about. I parked my bike, unloaded my lunch bag, and walked a few minutes into the shady woodland. There I found an even greater peace than on the roads. All was serene, composed, peaceful. I sat on a rock, enjoyed my lunch, and took in the tranquility around me.

I’m somewhat disappointed in the books about teaching I ordered for summer reading. They both seem to be based on the popular notion that a good English classroom is based more on “dialogue” than “monologue” – more student-centered than teacher-centered. What bothers me about this is the implication that the students’ ideas are just as important as the teachers’. The suggestion seems to be that students and teachers should meet on an even plain, and that by “dialoguing” about literature and techniques of writing, they will discover together the best paths to take. The problem I have with this approach is that it ignores the primary purpose of English instruction – the teaching of specific skills of reading and writing. If I want to learn the specific skills of welding, I would not be interested in “dialoguing’ about it with my teacher. I would want my welding instructor to teach me the skills. I would assume that he knows the skills – that he is an expert at welding – and therefore I would be prepared to listen carefully, watch closely, and imitate exactly. Why do so many English teachers not accept the fact that we are, in many ways, very similar to any teacher who teaches a skill? There are specific methods and procedures that an English teacher can teach his students – methods and procedures that will systematically lead to better reading and writing. The teacher knows these methods and procedures, and the students do not. Therefore the teacher must teach. Yes, dialogue plays a part in this process, but at the heart of the process is monologue – the teacher explaining and showing and the students listening and imitating. It’s what teaching and learning any skill is all about, including the important skills of reading and writing -- and it's what most students, I think, want. They can dialogue with their friends in the halls; in class, they want to be taught.

Yesterday I rode my bike for many miles in a chilly and gusty wind. It seemed more like October than June. I was bundled up against the blustery weather, but I still felt chilled as I rode along. The wind was a challenging antagonist all the way, whipping down the roads against me, pushing me back, making bike-riding seem like a fairly unintelligent idea. I especially remember noticing the noise of the wind. The sounds would be relatively serene for a few moments, and then a sound like a storm would swirl around me as a squall of wind whipped up. It was a thoroughly raucous ride, as if a constant battle was being fought. It was nice, though, to feel the utter peacefulness that always comes after a long ride, especially after such an arduous one. When I arrived home, I set my bike in its place in the kitchen, took off my cold-weather gear, stretched my tired muscles, and reveled in a feeling of accomplishment. The ride had been a hard one, but now life was utterly easy as I padded through the apartment in my shorts and socks.

Today I stopped on my bike ride to watch a tree blowing in the wind, and it reminded me of some truths I’ve been considering lately. It was clear, first of all, that the leaves weren’t doing any of the work -- nor, in fact, was the breeze that was nearest to each leaf. No, the work was being done by a far larger force, something we might call the weather system of the universe, or just “the universe”. The swaying of the leaves and limbs on the road along the Pawcatuck River this afternoon was simply the latest step in a literally endless process. Something got started at the Big Bang some 15 billion years ago, and the rustling in this windy tree at 3:30 pm today was the most recent result. These thoughts brought me back to the fundamental truth that, like the tree, I actually don’t “do” anything by myself. The tree doesn’t initiate the swaying, and I, on my own, do not initiate any action. Like a leaf on this tree, I am part of a never-ending and ultimately unknowable process. The leaf does what it must do, and so do I. Interestingly, sometimes the leaf did nothing. As I watched the tree, I noticed that occasionally some parts of it were entirely still, and I realized that this stillness was also part of the same huge, mysterious process. The leaves were not always fluttering beautifully in the wind, just as I cannot be always busy with activities. It was fitting and proper for the limbs of the tree to be totally motionless sometimes – doing absolutely nothing – and the same is true for me. If I “accomplish nothing” in a particular day, that must have been what the Universe designed for me on that day. I was beautiful in my indolence and unproductivity, just as were parts of the tree I watched today. Also, some parts of the tree were occasionally in shadow, and thus were not as bright and outstanding as other parts – just as I sometimes spend hours, days, even months in relative obscurity. It was obvious as I watched the tree change in the changing light that a law was operating: nothing can be always in the sunshine or always in the shade. There must always be alternation. Finally, one great truth that I couldn’t miss yesterday was the fact that all the power in this windy and beautiful scene was coming from the sun. Behind everything – behind the changing colors and shadows, and behind the constantly shifting winds – was the silent but omnipresent light and heat of the sun. The scene appeared to be very busy with many different forces, but actually only one power was operating – the vast and commanding force of the sun. A similar truth applies to me. No matter how full of activity my life seems to be, there’s actually only one supreme power at work. Some call this power God, some Allah, some the Tao, but whatever it’s name, it’s constantly moving and inspiring, just like the wind in the tree beside the river this afternoon.

TWO NOTES:
1) The ideas contained in the above paragraph are certainly not "my own". Countless numbers of people, including classic thinkers like Plato, Lao Tse, Shakespeare, Milton, Whitman, and Dickinson, have expressed the same ideas. I just "rephrased" them.

2) Some readers might think I am a "determinist" -- a person who believes people are powerless and life is ultimately pointless because of the absence of free will. Nothing could be further from the truth. I believe that understanding the powerlessness of the personal ego paradoxically makes us way more powerful. It's the difference between the power of a single wave in the ocean, and the power of the entire vast ocean. The point of the paragraph above is that we are not separate waves, but the ocean itself, and the wonderful point of life is to simply be that ocean, and enjoy it.

The Pawcatuck River

A Marsh off Route 1

Flowers at the beach

A view of the Watch Hill Lighthouse

A rose beside the sea

I’ve had some inspiring bike rides the last few days. Rather suddenly, it seems, I’m back in my summertime bike-riding shape, and pushing my bike up hills and over long stretches of roads is surprisingly easier than I had predicted. On Sunday, I had a stirring ride along the shore to Mystic and then back again, a distance I hadn’t attempted since last fall. Oddly enough, the farther I traveled the stronger I felt. I even contemplated heading up into the hilly country north of town, which would have doubled the length of the trip. One of the things I found most exciting about my recent rides is that old, wonderful feeling I always get from stopping in the shade of a tree for rest, nourishment, and perhaps a little rousing reading. I did that yesterday many times, but one in particular stands out. When I entered Mystic, I bought a sandwich and sat in the cool shadow of a tree to enjoy a lunch break. I ate slowly, sipped a frosty drink, and read a few pages of Whitman. I can’t recall having a more stimulating meal. After that, my ride was more exhilarating than ever.

One day last week, as the school year drew to a close, I received a compliment about my teaching, but it was noteworthy to me in a very different way than compliments used to be. In the past, a compliment suggested to me that I had done something well, and that I could be pleased with my accomplishment. Back then it was very much an ego-thing. The pronoun “I” in its different forms was prominent in my thoughts: the compliments meant that I did well because I have talent and because I worked hard to make myself a better teacher. Now, though, after 40-some years in the profession, I’ve come to understand that good teaching has nothing whatever to do with a personal ego. In fact, to the contrary, only by realizing that the ego of the teacher is the biggest obstacle to excellent teaching can the door be opened to genuine success in the classroom. Only if the teacher’s ego becomes less and less can real learning become more and more. When I received that compliment last week, I was glad, but not glad for my self, the puny little ego that thinks it’s so important but really, in the big picture, is utterly powerless by itself. I was glad, rather, for the whole immeasurable and mysterious process that’s involved in educating a human being, a process of which I am one of an incalculable number of parts. In the lives of my students, all the movies, tv shows, conversations, entertainments, trips, passing glimpses, passing thoughts, words overheard, joys, sorrows, and sunsets contribute just as much to their education as their English teachers. As well meaning as it was intended to be, the compliment should not be for me, but for the process – the thoroughly enigmatic and graceful flowering called education. I was gratified to receive the compliment, but in my mind I passed it along to the rightful recipient.

In the last few days, I had four beautiful experiences that seemed filled with light. The first was on Friday, at our school’s annual pre-graduation ceremony called Poetry Night, an event at which candles have traditionally played an important role. Families and teachers gathered in the Music Room to hear a presentation of readings and music by the graduates, and what will always stay bright in my memory is the light from the candles that each student carried in. As they read poems and passages from the books we studied, the candlelight lent a soft glow to the room that complemented the luster of the students’ spoken words. Then there was the graduation ceremony the next morning, which was held in the brightly lit auditorium as a storm darkened the campus outside. Though many people were damp from the rain when they entered, I think we all quickly grew accustomed to the radiant atmosphere. At a graduation, all anyone pays attention to is how the honored graduates look, and they all seemed rosy with satisfaction and joy. The next rather dazzling experience was this morning, when I spent a few hours at my school with Noah and Jaimie. It was a perfectly lovely morning, with sunlight sweeping across the grounds and buildings and an enlivening breeze almost constantly brushing by us. We played in the enormous sandbox by the pre-K, and I remember thinking how beautiful even the old grimy toy trucks looked in the morning light, to say nothing of golden-haired Noah. And finally, at the end of my bike ride home from Mystic this afternoon, I stopped in the park where the Westerly Brass Band was giving a children’s concert. I stood in the shade and listened as the band performed “When the Saints Go Marching In”, and what I noticed most of all was the bright look of the sunlight on the golden trumpets and trombones. As children marched and danced in front, the instruments glowed in the light like things that were filled with power.

Yesterday our school held its annual Field Day, and the perfectly clear weather set the tone for the entire day. I’m not sure I can recall a day when the air seemed clearer and cleaner. The sunlight was especially bright and fresh-looking, and everything appeared to be shining with unusual intensity. I remember marveling, many times, at how vivid all the colors of the clothes looked as the kids raced through their activities and the parents wandered the sidelines. Even the sounds seemed particularly clear. I could hear the laughs and squeals and shouts of the students from far across the field as unmistakably as though they were standing a few feet from me. As I talked with friends and parents, our words somehow seemed distinctive and extraordinary.

Since one of our worst fears as humans is of growing old, it’s important to keep in mind the simple truth that nothing is ever old, and that all things are always brand new. This is a rather startling statement, because oldness seems to be all around us, and most of us constantly think about it. When we look in the mirror, or when we put on shoes we’ve worn for three years, or when we remember events that occurred many years ago, the sense of oldness can seem overpowering. Life, we think, progresses from newness to oldness, from youth to old age, from freshness to decrepitude. It seems to most of us like an invincible law. Happily, however, there’s a far more powerful law that states that all power resides in the present moment, and that every present moment is brand spanking new. When we examine the present moment, we find that, at bottom, it consists of a thought, an idea, a state of awareness, and these can never be old. Even the thought “I am very old” is totally new. We may say, “But I’ve had that thought many times before” ... and even that is a new idea in the fresh, new-born present. The bottom line is that we can’t escape newness because we can’t escape the new present moment. In order for something to be “old”, it has to be a material thing that has passed through time from the past to the present – but there are no material “things” because there is only this state of awareness in this present moment. Behind all our worries about growing old or living in a world full of oldness is the ubiquitous, supreme, and omnipotent present, which is always thoroughly fresh and full of youth. The truth is that newness is an inescapable law.

The weather was quite agreeable these last few days. Each morning, the birds whistled their songs amid the most pleasant breezes. I usually took my coffee at the computer table where I could hear the songs and feel the currents of air through the open window. The birds always seemed ready for a day of peace and harmony, and I looked forward to being gently pushed along on my bike by the puffs of spring air. And yes, my rides to school were pleasurable, almost easy-going, affairs. Although I did have to push myself to make it up the several long hills, I felt like I was coasting most of the way. The pedals spun seemingly by themselves as I cheerfully rolled along. Luckily, that cheerfulness stayed with me all through the hours at school. Of course, that's fairly easy at my school, for it's built on a foundation of optimism and exuberance, but I guess I felt even cheerier than usual these last few days. In the midst of such good-natured weather, it would have been hard not to.

YIELDING

I wonder if I should place a “YIELD” sign at the entrance to my classroom, since yielding is an important aspect of quality education. In one sense, the word refers to the process of giving forth by a natural process, especially by cultivation. Just as a field can yield many bushels of corn, my students and I can yield a bountiful crop of learning. Of course, both procedures require steady cultivation: the farmer nurtures the land and his corn, and my students and I look after each other in order to help us learn as much as possible. The word “yield” also can imply surrender, or the giving up of an advantage to another, which is something that must frequently happen in a productive classroom. We often fall into the habit of believing that “gaining an advantage” is one of the best ways to be successful in school, but the truth is that giving up the advantage can be even more beneficial. Instead of always trying to be better, smarter, quicker, or more clever than anyone else, my students and I need to learn how to “yield” to the talents of others. Only then can we realize, and benefit from, the astonishing wisdom that’s present in all of us. To use an analogy, many of us have gradually learned that yielding when driving a car can actually help us get where we’re going in a more efficient manner. Instead of bulling our way forward, we can “surrender” to the flow of traffic and thus move along more smoothly and harmoniously. In school, my students and I are learning a similar lesson. The more we yield to the wisdom of others, the more we understand our own.

It may seem odd, but I always try to think of my students as having majesty, glory, and honor. I try to see them as being majestic, as having a kind of royal dignity of bearing or aspect, and I encourage them to act that way. I do my best to notice the inner glow that radiates from all of them, and I urge them to appreciate and promote that glow. To me, my students (and all people everywhere) have as much grandeur as royalty, and it is my goal to be aware of, and be grateful for, that grandeur. It is also my goal to see my students’ glory – the highly praiseworthy assets that each of them possesses. They all have at least one “crowning glory”, some trait that sets them apart as truly extraordinary individuals. It may be a talent for drawing, or doing math, or making people laugh, or listening carefully to others – but it’s definitely there. The remarkable talents that are each of my students’ glories are forever shining in my classroom, and my task is to see and respect them. A final task of mine is to treat my students with honor. Each day, I must do the small things for my students, the marks, tokens, or gestures that express my respect for them as dignified human beings. One example would be greeting them at the door and inviting them to have a “place of honor” (which is any place) at the round table in my classroom. Since they each bring majesty and glory to my room, the least I can do is treat them in an honorable manner.

Matt and Josh

Stacey and the birthday boy

Noah on Luke's hammock

Noah working on a hot dog.

Yesterday was Josh’s 1^st birthday, and it was a happy occasion, not just for the little fellow, but for many people. It definitely was for Matt, Stacey, and me, because it afforded us the opportunity to spend some cheerful hours in the car up to Millbury and back. We talked and laughed about many things, but even when the minutes passed in silence, I felt content in their good company. In our busy lives, we don’t spend as much time together as we would like to, and this rather long round-trip journey gave us the chance to enjoy each other's friendship. The celebration was also a joyful occasion for the rest of Josh’s big family. Most of Krissy’s family was in attendance, and it was easy to see the delight in their expressions. I was especially struck by the happiness Krissy’s dad was feeling as he held little Josh on his lap and chuckled and whispered to him. The birthday boy, too, felt the cheeriness of the occasion. He did a good amount of smiling throughout the day, and often bounced around as though he couldn’t contain the good spirits inside him. On the other hand, he also sometimes expressed his contentment by sitting quietly on various laps in perfect peace. It was a day of joyful merry-making, a festival for a good family and a happy one-year-old boy.

Lately I’ve been thinking that it would be good to eliminate all use of personal pronouns in my speaking and writing. Our world is afflicted with a serious case of selfishness, and personal pronouns only reinforce the problem. Everything is personal and self-centered: “I” have this idea, which is better than “your” idea. This is “my” space, and you better stay in “your” space. It’s amazing how wrapped up I am in my own separated, isolated, private existence, and this fixation reveals itself in my use of personal pronouns. I’m sure I would be astonished if I could count how often I use the words “I”, “me”, “mine”, “you”, “yours”, etc. I wonder if it would be possible to eliminate these words from my vocabulary. (I just used two of them in that sentence!) Instead of saying, “I have an idea”, I could say, “This is an interesting idea” – suggesting that the idea doesn’t exclusively belong to me, but rather had its origin in many different sources (books, other people, etc). Instead of saying, “Now I understand this chapter”, I could say, “It is very clear now.” In fact, the word “It” (which is often classified as a personal pronoun) might serve as a replacement for “I”, “me”, “you”, etc. “It” could be appropriate and helpful because it suggests the impersonal nature of the universe. There is no truth more important than that the world is not composed of separate “personal” individualities (this is the self-centered outlook), but is actually one harmonious reality. Instead of being personal and therefore unconnected, the universe is actually impersonal and therefore connected and harmonious. Using “it” would release me from the grip of I-ness and you-ness, and would evoke the grand harmony of the universe. “It” is, after all, an astonishing place.

(By the way, thirteen personal pronouns were used in that paragraph. This pronoun-elimination project will not be easy!)