"Red Car, Yellow Shirt", oil on canvas board, by Mike Rooney

Teaching Journal

Day 85, Friday, January 30, 2009

 Yesterday, one of the “teacher’s assistants” demonstrated, perhaps, how much the students enjoy that assigned duty. The job, which rotates each week, involves little more than reading off the various steps of my prepared lesson, and sometimes calling on classmates and giving out stickers, but the kids seem to find a feeling of honor and accomplishment in performing the small tasks. They take it seriously. They sit up straight, speak with at least a semblance of clout, and move through their duties with youthful grace. Yesterday, a boy who is usually retiring and quiet in class was carrying out the tasks of the TA, and at one point I suggested that we could skip a segment that he was supposed to read. I thought his usual detached manner would lead him to quickly agree, but, no, he shook his head. To clarify, I asked him if he wanted to read the segment, and he slowly but rather decisively nodded. He proceeded to read it, and then we moved on with the lesson. Thinking about it later, I wondered if that was perhaps one of the first times in a long while (perhaps ever) that this boy had actually exerted some authority and been a leader. He was the person in charge for those few minutes, and he was taking pleasure in the rare feeling that comes with leadership. It made me grateful that I’m able to give a different  student each week the opportunity to enjoy that feeling.    

"Catching the Sun", oil on board, by Joe Mancuso

Teaching Journal

Day 84, Thursday, January 29, 2009

At the start of each class, we do a bit of silent reading. The students come in quietly, settle down with their books, and the room becomes, for a few minutes, a peaceful sanctuary for readers. It’s just a brief period of time each day, hardly enough to read more than a few pages, and someone might wonder what benefit it has, seeing that no direct instruction is involved. (Indeed, I also read, so I’m not available for teaching during that time.) A visitor might wonder what’s the point of having students spend valuable minutes in the classroom reading a book. They can do that at home, for heavens sake. The best response I could give to that statement would be to invite the person to visit my class during the reading time. What he or she would see is a group of children thoroughly engaged, together, in perfecting the single most important skill a student of English must learn – the ability to read with attention and dedication. English is not, first and foremost, about grammar or spelling or vocabulary or even writing essays. Above all, it’s about learning to read with all the brainpower a student has – with utter focus, with the kind of compelling passion that only devoted readers have. If my students can learn to read like their minds are on fire to learn, like their brains are magnifying lenses that light up each word in the text, like the book is all there is in the world for them – if they can do that, they will be assured of being fairly successful students in the years to come. It’s what really counts in English education – and it’s what happens in my classroom for about six minutes at the start of each class. It’s a time of both quiet ease and concentrated effort, a time of the most essential skill building in all of the English curriculum. It's a silent time, but I'll swear I can hear the learning happening.   

THE WEB OF THE UNIVERSE

Written on SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2008

I feel like I’m making progress in understanding that I am not a separate, isolated part of the universe, but am rather a part of an infinite whole. I’m realizing, more and more, that whatever affects someone else, affects me. It’s as if the entire universe is an endless web, where the slightest motion in one part of the web ripples out to even the most distant part. When someone is sad in one part of the world, I, in some way, am affected, or changed, by that sadness; when someone is filled with joy, no matter if they are on the opposite side of the world, I share in that joy. I think the word “share” is especially important here. In a very real sense, we all share our lives with every other life. Take a feeling like happiness, for instance. If I see a person walking down the street in obvious happiness, I actually possess as much of his happiness as he does. After all, happiness is not a physical, material thing that can be “owned” or “kept” by anyone. It’s a spiritual, unlimited quality. Once it is felt by a single person, it instantly flows out on the web to the farthest part of the universe. The sad reality is that most of us rarely feel this connection with the rest of the universe. We think of feelings like joy and sorrow as sensations that we privately own, not realizing that we can no more own them than we can own the wind. The wind blows across the entire earth, and so do our inner lives. If I am totally aware today, I will share the happiness or sorrow of the world as it ripples to me across the infinite never-ending web of creation.

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BAPTISM EVERY MOMENT

Written on SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2008

This morning I read the story of Naaman, the Syrian general who was cured of a skin disease by washing himself in the Jordan River seven times. It got me thinking how thrilled the general must have been to see that his skin was clean, that he was completely healed, that he could start over with a brand new life. He probably went around in a stupor of joy and wonder for many days. He might have asked himself many times, “Did this really happen? Am I really cured?” What’s wonderful, to me, about this story is that this kind of feeling could – and should – come to me constantly, for I am literally cleansed and made new every moment of every day. I have meditated countless times on the wonderful truth that the only moment that ever exists is the present moment, that this moment is always mental, and that therefore it is always new. (Only material things can age and get “old”.) I am always living in a completely new moment, and it follows that I must always be entirely new, fresh, sparkling, clean – and cured. I hope I can remember this truth throughout this chilly, rainy day. Wherever I am at any particular moment – at school, driving somewhere, at home reading the newspaper – I hope the truth of my total newness will be present to me. I hope I have, moment after moment, the same feeling Naaman had after he was cleansed of his disease. I should go around in a stupor of astonishment: Am I really brand new, fresh, sparkling, and clean – right now??



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THE GIFT OF SUFFERING

Written on September 26, 2008

An important truth for me to remember today is that suffering can bring helpful blessings. In fact, suffering may be the quickest way for me to learn, or re-learn, the elementary truths of reality. I often get lost, for days and weeks, in the nightmare that life is a material phenomenon, and suffering can awaken me to the simple truth that all reality, including all power, is mental, or spiritual. Suffering is like an alarm clock that tells me it’s time to wake up – to turn away from materialism and toward an awareness of the spiritual nature of the universe. Jesus understood this. When he was preparing himself for the suffering he was going to experience during the crucifixion, one of the first things he did was give thanks to God. I can imagine him, in the midst of his fears, quietly remembering that, no matter what happens, spiritual power (which some people refer to as “God”), manifested in qualities like love, kindness, patience, and courage, has no limit and no opposition, and that it will ultimately be victorious. I can imagine a refreshing peacefulness filling his heart. No doubt it’s strange to think of being grateful for suffering. Most of us want to avoid suffering at all costs, and we flee from it at first notice. But perhaps I can be different today. Perhaps I can keep in mind that any kind of suffering is a generous gift from the universe – a gift to remind me that all is spiritual, and all is well.

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TAKING IN AIR, GETTING TO KNOW GOD

MONDAY, APRIL 10, 2006

"But I know him: for I am from him." --John 7: 29

This morning’s quote from my Bible lesson reminds me that I really don’t have to work hard, or struggle, or study, to get to know God. Lately, I have been doing just that. I made a decision a few months ago that I needed to find out just what this entity called “God” is, and so I’ve been “working” at it – pinching my brows over the Bible and my notebook as I “struggle” to understand this concept that has been a huge part of my life for many years. I’ve thought of the process as a “project” I can devote my efforts to – getting to know God the way you might get to know a difficult, abstruse book. However, this morning’s quote from Jesus settles me down a little, reassures me, reminds me that there is actually no work involved. After all, if I am part of something, I don’t really need to study it in order to understand it. That would be as silly as trying to “understand” my own breathing, or trying to “get to know” the beat of my own heart. I am as much a part of God as a wave is part of the ocean, or as a breeze in Wilcox Park is part of the winds blowing across the earth. I know God, not the way you would know a separate object, but the way a tree limb knows the tree, or the way a flower petal knows the flower. Today I want to remember this wonderful fact. Yes, in one sense it’s good to “work hard” at studying the spiritual truths of life, but it’s also important to realize that, in fact, those truths are as close to me as my fingers, or as the breath in my own lungs. Taking in air is pretty easy, and so is getting to know God.



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NO BAD DAYS

Yesterday I had what people call “a bad day”, and I found myself growing discouraged about my teaching. I felt that I wasn’t doing a good job as a teacher – that I was getting disorganized, that I was falling behind in my syllabus, that perhaps the students were growing discontented and confused. I berated myself for most of the afternoon. I saw myself as a teacher who was maybe on the downhill run toward mediocrity and retirement. Luckily, though, on the drive home from school, an enlightening and comforting thought came to me. I don’t know why, but I started thinking of the ocean, with its swirling currents and tumbling waves and varying weathers and conditions, and it occurred to me that the ocean cannot have a bad day. No one would look out at the sea and say, “Gosh, the ocean is not doing well today. It’s not being a very good ocean.” No...the ocean is always just being the ocean, and whatever it happens to be doing is precisely what it should be doing. The ocean, in that sense, is always a perfect ocean. Whatever its condition -- whether there are storms, sunshine, calmness, choppiness, swells, or stillness -- the ocean is always a flawless ocean. This was a reassuring thought. It helped me see that, at every moment, what is happening in my life is just as perfect as the ocean. Whatever is being said or thought or done is exactly what should be said or thought or done. It isn’t good or bad, it's just the way things are. I also saw that my discouragement as a teacher yesterday stemmed from focusing on “me” instead of on the “ocean” of education of which I am merely a part. I saw that thinking that “I” was failing as a teacher was as silly as thinking that a particular wave in the ocean could “fail” as a wave. The wave has no choice but to be one special wave in the special and vast sea, and I have no choice, really, but to be a meaningful part of the infinite sea of teaching and learning. I don’t mean to suggest that I am some kind of super-teacher. Quite the opposite. Good teaching, in fact, has nothing to do with some “me” or “I”. It’s about an endless and unfathomable process, of which we individual teachers are just one small part. Taken as a whole, it’s a process that’s seamless and magnificent. Yesterday, I tried my best, and the universe tried its best. What more can I ask for? What was happening in the ocean and in my classroom yesterday was what should have been happening, and it will be again today. It’s the way it has to be. It’s the law.


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"Winter Sunset", oil on primed masonite, by Heidi Malott

ROOM FOR ANYTHING

     I hope to keep in mind today that there’s ample room in life for

whatever happens. So often I get the feeling that my life is a fairly small and cramped enclosure, with little available space for unexpected events. I have lived most of my years as though existence was a one-room apartment, necessarily filled with defense mechanisms and surrounded by sentries. I’ve felt, I guess, that I could handle only so much (and not much, at that), and any additional occurrences must be kept at bay.

     I now know that this is an entirely inaccurate view of life, and today I want to keep the truth front and center in my mind. Life is, in fact, infinite. There are no starting points, walls, boundaries, limits, or finish lines. Existence is like a sky that doesn’t start anywhere and doesn’t end anywhere – a “place” that has room for every possible person, object, situation, or event. What I call “me” is simply an ever-changing feature of this endless sky of life – a feature that swirls and transforms together with countless others. None of these are “good” or “bad”, “constructive” or “destructive”; they are just parts of the always shifting phenomenon we call life. No matter what happens today – triumph or disaster, celebration or sorrow – there’s more than abundant room for it. In the sky above us, all clouds float freely, coming and going, and so will all that happens today.

ROOM FOR ANYTHING

     I hope to keep in mind today that there’s ample room in life for whatever happens. So often I get the feeling that my life is a fairly small and cramped enclosure, with little available space for unexpected events. I have lived most of my years as though existence was a one-room apartment, necessarily filled with defense mechanisms and surrounded by sentries. I’ve felt, I guess, that I could handle only so much (and not much, at that), and any additional occurrences must be kept at bay. I now know that this is an entirely inaccurate view of life, and today I want to keep the truth front and center in my mind. Life is, in fact, infinite. There are no starting points, walls, boundaries, limits, or finish lines. Existence is like a sky that doesn’t start anywhere and doesn’t end anywhere – a “place” that has room for every possible person, object, situation, or event. What I call “me” is simply an ever-changing feature of this endless sky of life – a feature that swirls and transforms together with countless others. None of these are “good” or “bad”, “constructive” or “destructive”; they are just parts of the always shifting phenomenon we call life. No matter what happens today – triumph or disaster, celebration or sorrow – there’s more than abundant room for it. In the sky above us, all clouds float freely, coming and going, and so will all that happens today.



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"Under Vast Skies", oil on board, by Kit Hevron Mahoney

Teaching Journal

Day 83, Tuesday, January 27, 2009

 

     This morning I completely forgot to do an important part of the lesson I had carefully planned. It’s strange how something I thought was a key ingredient of the lesson could so easily slip out of my mind. At 7:30 before school, as I was polishing my plans, that ingredient was front and center in my thoughts, but by 8:45, when the class started, it had flown off to wherever fugitive thoughts fly. I managed to teach a reasonably beneficial class, but it lacked that basic component. It reminds me, coincidentally, of a book the 8^th graders and I are reading – Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. The title refers to the fact that even the most carefully constructed plans of both mice and people often come to nothing – often waft away in the wind like the mouse’s nest in the famous poem by Robert Burns. I had labored over my lesson plan last night, but part of it went the way of the nest. I thought it was a fairly noteworthy plan, but a piece of it was as flimsy as a passing puff of air. So much for fancy nests and stylish lesson plans.  

* * * * *

 I’m continuing to improve my ability to avoid impulsiveness during class. In the past, I sometimes spoke as soon as a thought occurred to me, giving little deliberation to exactly what the thought meant or what consequences the words might have. I rarely said hurtful things, but what I said was sometimes empty and inane, just little transient remarks having neither purpose nor value. I’ve been trying, this year, to get that under control. I'm trying to be a more deliberate, less impetuous teacher, one who says things that have some consideration and significance behind them. I'n trying to say less but mean more.   

"Only Oranges Left", oil on canvas, by Carol Marine

Teaching Journal

Day 82, January 26, 2009

In the 8^th grade classes, we (or at least I) had a wonderful time listening to one of the final chapters in “Of Mice and Men”. As a teacher, it was instructive to listen attentively with my students to a great work of literature – to listen with them, annotate with them, and think together about the meanings of the words as the end of the story unfolded. Occasionally I glanced around at the kids, and it was enlightening to see how absorbed most of them were. Their faces were bent low over the books, and several students seemed positively entranced by the written and spoken words. It was helpful for me to be reminded of how enchanting a book can be. These kids were lost in this book. They were miles away from their personal lives – their worries and hopes – and instead were sharing Lennie’s worries and hopes as he sat in the barn and sighed over his dead puppy. They had been transported by this slim book to a far off place – a place where they were learning a lot more than I can ever teach them by holding forth from the front of the room.

* * * *

I noticed, again, that several students sit quietly and read when we take our two-minute break in class. The rest of the kids are in the hall or outside, chatting or just hanging out, but these devoted readers are curled up with their books in my classroom. Someone might wonder what pleasure they could get from a mere two minutes of reading, but that’s like asking what pleasure you could get from a two-minute observation of a soaring hawk.

* * * *

 Today I enjoyed working with the new “assistant teachers” for the week, encouraging them to be strong and steady as they lead the class through my lessons. Of course, I do the actual teaching, but these kids have the opportunity to show some leadership skills from day to day. It’s not easy for many of them – having to speak with dignity and force, having to make some decisions, having to choose one friend to call on when several have their hands raised. I can imagine that, for some of them, it’s a daunting, even frightening, experience. I’ll try to remember that as I show them the path of leadership this week. 

"Snowday Evening", oil on masonite, by Jeff Mahorney

Teaching Journal

Weekend, January 24-25, 2009

“The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by the multiplicity of conflicting concerns, to surrender oneself to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone with everything, is to succumb to violence; more than that, it is cooperation in violence!”
   --– Thomas Merton

Merton’s point here (he was writing about the peace activists in the 1960’s) could easily be applied to students and teachers in our own frantic times. I sometimes see a sort of breathless devotion to “doing” at my school. Many of us – including me, quite often – seem in a great hurry to do as many things as possible as fast as possible. Students rush down the halls to get to the next class so they can "accomplish" as much as possible, after which they scurry to the next class where they do countless other “essential” tasks, and on and on. Many of us teachers, too, seem propelled by some inner pressure to do, do, do. I’ve often ticked off the tasks I finish at school, one by one, as though the more things I do, the better my teaching will be. It’s like a hurricane is almost constantly swirling through the halls, stirring up kids and adults alike into an ever-greater tumult of doings and goings-on. Merton calls it a form of “innate violence”, and I would agree. As we bustle here and there in our frenetic desire to get things “done”, we are doing violence to own inner peace, the peace that only comes, really, when we are content with what’s happening right now, when we’re not anxious about speeding on to the next half-dozen things “to do”. When students are worried that they won’t complete the innumerable tasks assigned for homework, there’s no contentment, no peace, and probably not much learning. When teachers anxiously hasten through their list of school-day tasks, there’s no satisfaction -- and probably no achievement worth noting. There’s just relentless combat between us and the endless list of tasks to complete. No one wants violence in our schools, but we may already have a sly and crafty kind that’s rushing us along to even more impatient and restless times ahead.  

"Chicken Truck", oil on masonite, by Jeff Mahorney

Teaching Journal

Day 81, Friday, January 23, 2009

After listening to another splendid speech by a member of this year’s graduating class, I recalled the famous Harvard study that identified America’s number one fear as public speaking – and I marveled, again, that these 14-year-olds are able, week after week, to rise above that fear. I’m sure the students feel the almost universal fear of being shamed – a fear that their basic unworthiness will be revealed for all to see – and yet they overcome it. They stand before 300+ people and valiantly present themselves for all to see. “This is who I am,” they seem to say. “I accept myself as I am, and I’m ready to handle the world’s criticism.” I did a little research on the word “shame” and discovered that its root meaning is “to cover”, which led me to realize that these young scholars, in refusing to be ashamed of their thoughts and feelings, are actually engaged in the difficult and life-long practice of uncovering themselves. It seems that most of us enfold our lives in layers of protective wrappings, and these youthful students are bravely beginning the process of peeling off those layers. They have already learned, possibly, that hiding yourself is not an option if you want to live a life of fullness and satisfaction. This led me to wonder, perhaps, if all teaching and learning is fundamentally a process of uncovering. Instead of adding wisdom to ourselves, maybe we teachers and students are engaged in uncovering the wisdom that’s always been there. Maybe teaching and learning essentially means revealing and discovering – the kind of fearless labor our 9^th grade students take on each Monday morning in the auditorium.     

"Truckin Home", oil on masonite, by Jeff Mahorney

Teaching Journal

Day 80, Thursday, January 22, 2009

      Yesterday I worked out a plan for a boy to get started on his service project, and it surprised me, later, that it was so easy to do. The student and I spoke with the after-care supervisor for a few minutes, she expressed excitement about signing  him on as a volunteer, and, within thirty minutes we had mapped out a fairly detailed plan for the project. It was no harder or more complicated than opening a door so the student could walk through. It made me wonder how often I have faced a task as if it were an ascent of Mt. Everest, when in truth it was no more difficult than a quiet walk in the woods. How often have I worried about a job that lay ahead, when in reality it was not a job at all, but actually a gift – an opportunity to learn and grow? I guess we all make mountains out of molehills, but I’m not sure I’ve ever fully understood that old truism until today. A molehill is a petite and delicate construction, much like all the so-called problems I face. In the future I hope to be able to treat a problem the way I might treat a molehill in the yard: appreciate it, perhaps study it to understand how it was made, and finally step over it and pass peacefully by – the way my young student and I did today.   

 

·      * * * *

This morning, as the students and I were starting class, as usual, with seven minutes of silent reading, the classroom had an exceptionally serene atmosphere. The streetlamps (props for a school play a few years back) were glowing, the green desk lamps were shedding a soft light, the scholars were sipping hot chocolate and turning pages, and the only sound, almost, was the hushed breathing of faithful readers. It was an enchanting few minutes. It made me think of monks meditating in their solitary, faraway cells. My teenage students and I are only in little Stonington, and we’re certainly not monks, but some noteworthy meditation happened this morning at the start of 8^th grade English.   

"Moody Tart", by Halima Washington

Teaching Journal

Day 79, Wednesday, January 21, 2009

This morning, as one class was beginning, I noticed some students dawdling at the door to my classroom, looking at the photos on my door. I was tempted to speak up and encourage them to come in, but thankfully I resisted the temptation. They looked at the pictures for maybe ten more seconds, and then entered, sat down, and opened their books. The dawdling hadn’t, after all, interfered with their learning. It’s interesting to think about the consequences if I had spoken up and asked them to stop looking at the photos. Perhaps they would have entered the room twenty seconds sooner, or maybe even one full minute sooner, but how would they have entered? Wouldn’t they perhaps have carried a slightly larger load of stress on their backs because I had not allowed them to loosen up for a few seconds? Wouldn’t their minds feel slightly more edgy and tense because yet another teacher had rushed them along in order to save twenty or thirty seconds? Wouldn’t the doors of their hearts be just a wee bit more closed because I was more interested in the quantity of time than the quality of learning? It’s a strange passion we teachers have for hurrying our students, as if speed can make them succeed, as if haste doesn’t inexorably lead to waste. Over the years I’ve done my share of pushing, browbeating, hurrying, and driving students like so many racehorses, but I’m done with that now. In my class there’s a place for a little healthy dawdling now and then. I just noticed a snowflake dawdling along in the air as it lived its brief life, and it looked quite beautiful. Come to think of it, the students passing a few seconds looking at photos on my door did too. 

"New Every Morning", oil on stretched canvas, by Nel Jansen

Teaching Journal

Day 78, Tuesday, January 20, 2009

 

     Because I was putting things away after the 9^th grade speech, I came to my first period class a few minutes late, but not to worry – the students were talking quietly when I walked in, and they quickly settled into their books for the usual few minutes of silent reading at the start of class. I always find this astonishing and very gratifying – that these boys and girls are so politely attentive to my expectations. They know I expect them to behave like civil and serious students, and therefore they do. There’s no badgering or commanding involved, because it’s not necessary. More than sufficient, I’ve found, is my solemn expectation, often communicated without the use of words, that the students will do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. They know I expect it of them, and I think they’re glad that I expect it. It makes them feel uncommon and worthy of attention – which they are.   

"Down by the Sea Near St. Finian's Bay, Ireland", oil on Belgian linen, by Roxanne Steed

TEACHING JOURNAL

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Day 76, Wednesday, January 14

At the start of class this morning, I noticed that one of the girls kept slowly stirring her hot chocolate for what seemed like several minutes as she was reading her book. Round and round went the spoon as she stared at the page. I couldn’t help but think, as I watched her, that perhaps the story she was reading was swirling her thoughts around just like she was doing to her steaming drink. She was folding the hot chocolate over on itself, again and again, and the words on the pages were softly folding themselves over inside her. Perhaps a gentle blending was happening inside both her brown mug and her young mind.
* * * * *
I noticed an atmosphere of coziness as the 8th grade classes were doing their first podcasts of the year. I asked four students to discuss last night’s reading in “Of Mice and Men” while sitting at a small table with a microphone, and the four of them looked like close and comfortable friends as they chatted about the book. Of course they were nervous because of the microphone and the newness of the activity, but there was still a snug and pleasant look on their faces. There was a welcoming feeling to the seven-minute discussions, as if all ideas could feel at home in the conversation. The occasional bursts of giggles only emphasized this ambiance of relaxation and wellbeing.
* * * * *
I’ve been moving around the classroom more lately, sitting or standing here and there among the scholars, and, not surprisingly, it’s opened up new perspectives for me. I wonder why I don’t do this more often – I mean move among the students the way I might travel around in a forest, getting new viewpoints and seeing things in fresh and novel ways. If I visited an exotic island, would I sit in one place for the entire visit?

"Kerry Fields", oil on canvas, by Roxanne Steed, Mystic, CT

Teaching Journal
Day 75, Tuesday, January 13


If the ancient adage that says we learn best from our mistakes is accurate, then I had a marvelous day of learning today, because I realized that I had made a conspicuous and harmful mistake. I had thoroughly bungled an exam assignment – messed it up, blew it, botched it. I had given the 9th graders an exam outline that was poorly thought-out and thoroughly inconsistent with my teaching philosophies. The truth came home to me this morning: my exam assignment deserved no higher than a ‘D’. I learned about this mistake through the kindness of a student’s mother, and also through the well-mannered honesty of the students themselves. The mom came to me in the morning to express, in an understated and gracious manner, some concerns she had about the expectations for the exam. At first I felt the old self-protectiveness rising in me, but thankfully I was able to settle down and listen carefully to what she was saying, and it slowly became evident that she was making a very good point. Later, I spoke to the students about it, and many of them – just as politely and respectfully as the mom – suggested that the requirements for the exam were a bit confusing, and perhaps even a little unfair. Fortunately, I had some free time later in the day, during which I was able to sift through my thoughts about the issue, and slowly but surely the truth floated up as easily as the sun appears, some mornings, quite suddenly above the horizon. I saw the simple truth: I had made a dumb exam outline. I had goofed. What’s surprising to me, looking back, is how good I felt when I realized that uncomplicated truth. I guess it was a little like the sun coming out from clouds. I had made a mistake, but it was ok. In fact, it was more than ok, because now I had a chance to learn something about being a better teacher. I could change, grow, improve, reach a little higher. I don’t mean that I was glad I had made the mistake, just that my life opened a little wider because of it. Teaching has always seemed like an almost immeasurable enterprise to me, and today the boundaries pushed out even further. Lucky me. 

"La Neige", oil on canvas panel, by Liza Hirst

TEACHING JOURNAL

Day 74, Monday, January 12

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This morning one of the boys made an astute observation about the life of words. We were discussing how a certain word had slowly altered its meaning over the centuries, and I asked the class how this could happen. This normally taciturn student raised his hand and made quite a sparkling statement concerning the tendency of words to constantly change their meanings. He didn’t use those precise words, but he did speak like a teenage scholar, like a precocious little professor, like a youngster with a hidden load of wisdom. I was impressed. His statement shed a sudden and clear light on our discussion.
* * * *
During one of the classes, a boy was trying to formulate an answer to a puzzling question I had asked him about vocabulary, when suddenly a girl interrupted and gave what she thought was the answer. The boy paused, raised his head, looked at the girl across the room, quietly said “Please don’t interrupt”, and then went back to searching for his own answer. It was a dignified and strong way to handle the situation, and I told the boy that. I told him, and the class, that he spoke ardently but kindly to the girl. He was definitely brave and straightforward, but there was no meanness in his voice. It was a small matter (and I smiled at the girl as I said that), but it was a constructive lesson for all of us.

"Snowstorm", acrylic, by John K. Harrell

Weekend, January 10-11, 2009

It often occurs to me that teaching is more about discovering than creating. Planning a lesson or teaching a class, I do way more revealing than making. I uncover lessons rather than create them; I notice what’s been there all along rather than make something new. I don’t so much create successful teaching as stumble upon it. I hear colleagues talk about trying to be more creative in their teaching, but I guess I’m trying to be more – to coin a word – discoverative. Instead of creativity, I guess I would like to develop more discoverity in my work. There are astonishing lessons waiting for me to find them, and extraordinary students sit before me each day, waiting to be noticed by a discoverative teacher. I don’t have to build or make or create; I simply have to patiently search, watch, and wait. Success in the classroom may sometimes be hidden and hard to find, but it’s there. A devoted teacher/explorer will stumble upon it again and again.

* * * * *
A silent and soft snowstorm passed through this weekend, leaving about six inches for us to enjoy. I recall looking out the window in the early evening yesterday and seeing the whiteness of the snow and the grayness of dusk blended together. I slept especially soundly last night, as I always do when snow is falling outside. Perhaps the softness of the snow creates, in my dreams, a corresponding softness for a tired teacher to rest in.




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"Winter Walk" (Arnhem, Holland), oil on panel, by Rene PleinAir

Teaching Journal, Day 73

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Teaching Journal
Day 73, Friday, January 9, 2009

During our usual Friday freestyle writing period, the 9th grade students produced some extraordinary sentences – in just about 10 minutes. They wrote while listening to a beautiful song by Barefoot Truth called “Leaving Ourselves Behind”, and perhaps it was the words of the song that inspired such surprisingly charming writing. When I read their sentences aloud to the class, with the song playing softly in the background, there was a pervasive sense of stillness and attentiveness in the room, and when I was finished, I thought sure I heard a soft, collective gasp from the students. This was special writing, and they knew it.

A typically quiet and reserved student was the ‘assistant teacher’ in her English class today, and what we all saw was seemingly a totally new person. Gone was the reticence, replaced by directness; gone was the shyness, replaced by gentle boldness. She spoke with a sense of authority and self-assurance. She was a dignified and compelling leader as she called upon her classmates and guided the class through a vocabulary lesson. I was enthralled as I watched her. After class I told her that she has what it takes to be a superb teacher someday, and she smiled as though she liked that possibility.

In Chapter 32, Mr. Peggotty embarks on a "long journey" (the title of the chapter) in search of his beloved niece Emily, after he and David had an emotional meeting with Steerforth's mother and the strange and wicked Rosa Dartle. 

"Looking Out at the Skyline", pastel on paper, by Micah Condon

TEACHING JOURNAL

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Teaching Journal
Day 72, Thursday, January 8, 2009

This morning I temporarily lost track of my goal of never rushing in class – but at least I noticed it fairly quickly and was able to return to my usual placid and meticulous manner of conducting class. At the start of one of the classes, I cut the quiet reading period short – way short – in order to move on to the first step of the lesson. The students noticed it, and almost immediately I sensed some discomfort in the room – as if they noticed that something in English class had suddenly changed – that Mr. Salsich, for some reason, was rushing. I carried on with the lesson, but in the back of my mind I slowly realized the mistake I had made. I saw that, in my haste to cover material as fast as possible, I had forfeited one of the truly profitable aspects of my classes this year – their relative serenity, their freedom from speed and hurriedness. Gradually, as the minutes passed, the usual tranquility of my classes returned (the rushing Mr. Salsich was thankfully gone), and consequently a good deal of quality teaching and learning occurred.

As I was scolding myself, during a free period, for my dreadful teaching earlier in the morning, I happened to notice the message on the rubber stamp on my desk: “Sweet work!” Suddenly my frustrations with my performance as a teacher seemed utterly silly and insignificant. In the tiny, personal, egocentric picture, yes, I was not a wonderful teacher this morning, but in the vast picture of the infinite universe, my teaching –and everything else that happened this morning – was sweet work indeed. The wind blustering outside my classroom was doing sweet work, as was the bird feeder swinging back and forth, as were the bare flower stalks swaying in the wind. The universe can’t do anything BUT sweet work, no matter how hard it is for me to recognize that. In my supposedly bumbling, unsuccessful way, I was a good member of the universe in my classroom this morning. If the class flopped, it flopped in a beautiful and flawless way.

This year I’ve been working on bringing better order to my desk in the classroom. I’ve dedicated myself to the motto “Everything in its proper place”. Disarray is a condition that produces no useful results, and I’m determined to at least reduce its presence in my professional life. As I look out the window of my classroom, I see that nature can teach me some lessons in this regard. Out in the garden, everything is in its proper place. Even the scattered small piles of last week’s snow are just where they should be, as are the seed shells the birds have scattered below the feeder. All is correct and tidy, just like I hope my desk will be.

Ah, more sorrow over the death of Peggotty's husband, but especially over the fact that Emily, the beloved niece and friend, ran off with a good friend of David's. Ham Peggotty (yes, that's his first name) and Mr. Peggotty, Emily's adopted uncle, are preparing to abandon their homes and jobs to search for her, which is causing David much grief and worry. However, the most interesting development in this part of the book is the complete change -- transformation, re-birth, you might say -- of Mrs. Gummidge. She had always been a self-pitying, pessimistic, helpless person, but somehow the two tragedies have awakened her into a new person. She is suddenly helpful, loving, and optimistic. It's a profound event in the story, one that I'll have to give serious thought to in the next few days. (Also, the dwarf, Miss Mowcher, has some powerful things to say about society's cruel treatments of dwarfs and other handicapped people.)

Winter Series #5, watercolor, by Andy Smith

TEACHING JOURNAL

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Teaching Journal
Day 71, Wednesday, January 7, 2009

As much as I try to maintain a quiet classroom, a place where ‘noise’ is relatively absent, I realize that I can’t control the inner noise the students might be experiencing. Who knows what mental turmoil is occurring inside these kids as they sit through my classes. I sometimes picture them as little planet earths, with their own teenage lava boiling around under the surface. They might be sitting silently and placidly in front of me, but there might not be any silence and serenity deep down inside. There’s not much I can do about this, except to realize it, accept it, and keep it in mind as I go about the business of teaching them. Of course, I can continue to maintain a tranquil and industrious atmosphere in the classroom, which may help settle some of the inner racket the scholars might be experiencing. No matter how frantic we're feeling, I think all of us react well to a little order and tranquility.
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Since the morning classes were shortened to 30 minutes due to a weather delay, I wasn’t expecting much productivity, but I was greatly mistaken in that assumption. For some inexplicable reason, they were among the most rewarding classes of the year, at least for me. The students were attentive and actively involved, and the lessons I had prepared, though abridged, were carried out with a reasonable measure of thoroughness. Somehow, in just 30 minutes we seemed to cover more material, and more comprehensively, than we normally do in a full 48 minute class. Now, three hours later, I’m still rather dumbfounded by that.

"Frosty Morning", watercolor on paper, by Don Gray

TEACHING JOURNAL

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Chapters 30 and 31 brought a mood of great sadness to the story, and I was often close to tears as I turned the pages. First David and his circle of friends lost the inimitable Barkis,  the husband of Peggotty, David's nurse in his younger years. His death couldn't have been described more gently and artistically: the sentences seemed to move with doleful serenity, making death seem at the same time more real and more harmonious than I'd ever before imagined it. Then, as if echoing Shakespeare's words that 'sorrows come not singly, but in battalions', in the next chapter little Em'ly, Peggotty's beloved neice, runs off in the night with Steerforth, whom David had considered his best and most cherished friend. It's an overwhelming blow to David and the Peggottys -- a time of intense sadness for them (and for this reader). 

Teaching Journal
Day 70, Tuesday, January 6, 2009

On Teaching like a Grandparent
Probably because I am now an actual grandfather, I’ve been noticing more of a grandfatherly approach in my work with students. I see more equanimity in my demeanor, more of the kind of calmness and composure you might see in an elderly grandpa as he talks with his grandchildren. I seem better able to handle the ups and downs of class, the successes and disappointments. It seems easier, as the years pass, to gently accept what happens during class, in the way a grandmother might quietly understand, but not get drawn into, the ‘dramas’ of her grandchildren’s lives.

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I was frustrated at the end of both 9th grade classes today, mostly because of an ongoing sense that I’m not covering enough, that I’m falling behind in my yearlong syllabus. In some ways, this is a legitimate concern,  but it also points to a rather self-absorbed approach to teaching. It suggests that I’m perhaps more interested in patting myself on the back than in considering exactly what the students might have learned today. No, I’m not keeping up with my overall plan for the year, and no, my classes didn’t proceed precisely according to plan today, but, instead of fretting over “my” plans, perhaps I should center more attention on the students’ growth during each class. While I was beating myself up during this morning’s classes for falling behind, some of the students might have been gathering in important knowledge that I hadn’t planned for. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with my own success or failure (in the inane melodrama called “Mr. Salsich the Hero-Teacher”) I might be capable of noticing some subtle and beneficial changes occurring within my students right under my nose.