STEPPING OUT OF THE STORY

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"Still Life", oil on board, by Don Gray

Teaching Journal
Day 103
Friday, February 27, 2009

As often happens to me, I had an epiphany in the middle of one of my classes today. We were watching a film about Shakespeare’s The Tempest, when something one of the actors said about the play suddenly opened a door for me. I paused the film and told the scholars, with substantial fervor, what I had just realized. It was an idea that had never occurred to me, a truth I had never seen in all the times I had read the play. I was quite excited about it, and – looking back – I’m glad I was able to share my excitement with the scholars. I almost got a little breathless in front of them as I told them what I had realized about the play. I said I had learned something important – something that altered my entire way of understanding the play. I noticed that they were watching me with a strange kind of intensity. Perhaps they were surprised to take in the fact that their teacher was a learner as much as a teacher.

MY FATHER'S BUSINESS

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"Afternoon Clouds, Esquimalt Harbor", oil on canvas, by Jeffrey J. Boron

Day 102, Thursday, February 26, 2009

Today in all my classes we watched films – one about Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”, and the other about Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men”. They’re good films and it appeared the scholars enjoyed them, but I came to doubt myself a bit as I watched them. After all, I wasn’t really teaching, which is what I get paid to do. I was simply sitting in the back of the room, relaxing and enjoying the movies. I wasn’t leading, guiding, instructing, or edifying anyone. (Well, I did pause the film occasionally to share some insights about what was happening, but anyone could have done that.) However, eventually this led me to remember something I’ve often thought and written about – that teaching isn't always about the teacher. I was doubting myself because I wasn’t the center of attention – wasn’t the headliner in the ‘English show’. Were the scholars learning, even with their teacher sitting in silence in the back? Of course they were. They were watching enthralling films about the material they have been studying for several weeks. For me to think they always need my supervision in order to learn anything is as silly as thinking they need my help to breathe. Learning is always happening, and it happened today, even with me relaxing in a comfortable chair with a cup of coffee.

On Being a Big Success -- Each Moment

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Teaching Journal

Day 100, Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Two Versions of the Same Event

1. 

 How does it happen that on a day when a long-lingering cold seems worse than ever – when I’m coughing and sneezing more than I’m thinking or planning – how does it happen that on this kind of day I do some of my best teaching ever? This morning the 9^th grade English classes were simply wonderful. I was sick and the kids were sleepy, but somehow we worked together to produce some fairly exhilarating learning. Reading lines from “The Tempest”, I was in my glory, waving my arms in gesture, stomping around the classroom like the enlightened Prospero, talking with the scholars about forgiveness, wisdom, and transformation. The scholars, too, seemed genuinely involved.

2. 

Teaching Journal
Day 100, Tuesday, February 24

How is that, on a day when my long-lingering cold felt worse than ever – when I felt more stuffy and feverish than organized and inspired, and when I probably should have been wrapped in blankets at home rather than leading my scholars through the last act of a Shakespeare play – how is it that on this day I did some of the best teaching I can recall? I’ve always believed that good teaching springs, at least partly, from the alertness and liveliness of the teacher, but today I felt more inert than alert, more dead, frankly, than alive – and yet some fairly adequate teaching occurred. Somehow, amid all the sneezing and sniffling, I managed to hold the kids’ attention as the final moments of the play unfolded. I actually inspired myself (if not the scholars), and when the classes were over, I felt somehow energized and uplifted. I still felt sick, I was still ready with dozens of coughs and sneezes, but the glory of Shakespeare was shining all around. How does this happen? How does an inspiring class arise from the fog and congestion of a cold?

THE MASTER

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On Not Judging

MEDITATION: "Being Non-Judgmental"
One of the best habits I can develop in the future is being non-judgmental -- but it won’t be easy. I have been an incorrigible “judge” on a daily, hourly, and moment-by-moment basis for my entire life. I constantly assess every aspect of my life as to whether it’s good or bad, helpful or not helpful, harmless or dangerous. The way I continually pass judgment, I may as well go around in judge’s robes with a gavel in my hand. It’s truly odd that I would set myself up as a judge, given the fact that I have no particular wisdom with which to pass judgment on whether a present moment is good for me or not. How can one isolated individual in this endless universe possibly know enough to assess the value of a given situation? Since there are an incalculable number of possible ramifications for every occurrence in my life, how can I, a mere mortal, pretend to be able to decide which occurrences will be ultimately good for me, and which will be bad? It’s actually shocking to me to think I have spent so much time – most of my waking hours – sitting in judgment on everything, from people to events to situations. It’s shocking because it tells me I have missed an enormous amount of the wonder of life by being so focused on handing down verdicts. While I was habitually deciding if each single moment in my life was a good or bad one, these glorious moments were flashing right past me. What I need to do is develop another habit – the habit of being non-judgmental. I need to realize that each and every moment this universe creates is somehow appropriate, useful, and beautiful. Instead of judging, I need to accept. Instead of being opinionated about everything that happens to me, I need to practice being constantly amazed.

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"Provincetown Alley", oil on board, by Cooper Dragonette

Teaching Journal

Day 99, Monday, February 23, 2009

 

     This morning, during a short vocabulary exercise run by a student (each week a different student is the “teacher’s assistant), I sat in a comfortable chair in the back of the room, simply observing and learning. As I watched the 13-year-old doing a more than satisfactory job in guiding the class, I picked up a few tips about effectual teaching. I noticed, for example, that the boy was talking very quietly – gently and kindly, but extremely quietly – and I made a note to myself to consider raising the volume of my voice in class. I tend to speak softly as I’m going about my teaching duties, which can be useful in some ways, but can be bothersome if it creates a monotonous and sleep-inducing atmosphere in the room. I also noticed that, when the students answered one of the vocabulary questions correctly, the T.A. rarely offered compliments – and their absence was palpable. Something was clearly missing – a kind word of praise, even just a nod and a smile. It reminded me of the importance of giving encouraging feedback. I am usually fairly consistent in that regard, but this was a helpful reminder of the value of an occasional cheering word of support. Of course, the Assistant Teacher, just a youngster, did his very best, and actually conducted a successful short lesson. I had a good chat with him after class, and offered a few suggestions. These students are learning to be good teachers as well as good students, and today I learned a few constructive lessons from this young apprentice instructor.

I can't believe the way the power of this novel is building. It's like a hurricane that has taken hundreds of pages to develop. The winds of the plot are blowing very strongly now, but I'm sure they'll get stronger yet. The latest shocking development is the news that Emily, who ran off with the evil James Steerforth, was seriously abused and finally abandoned by him for another woman. Steerforth's equally evil servant tried to keep Emily locked up in the mansion, hoping that he could eventually win her heart, but she escaped and is now nowhere to be found. David and Mr. Peggotty, however, have set out again to search for her in London. They track down a forlorn homeless woman named Martha, whom Emily once befriended, and Dickens describes a sad midnight scene by the river Thames where David and Mr. Peggotty console Martha and ask if she would be willing to help Emily. Martha willing accepts their offer, seeing it as the only way she can redeem her life from total failure. Wow. Such stirring emotions and such brilliant writing.

"Departure", acryllic, by John K. Harrell

Teaching Journal
Weekend, Feb. 21-22

One Teacher’s Alphabet: I is for Impulsive

I’m often critical of myself for being too impulsive in class, but perhaps I should ease off the criticism a bit. Perhaps I worry too much about my tendency to say things in class that are inadequately thought out and gracelessly worded. Yes, there have been countless times when I have “shot from the hip” as far as words go, and usually those sentences seem to go nowhere but off into the atmosphere. I’ve often wished I could pull some hastily spoken words back, but of course, that’s not the way words work -- and maybe its not such a big deal anyway. After doing a little dictionary work, I realize that I may need to temper my self-condemnation. For instance, I found that the word “impulsive” derives from the Indo-European root meaning to thrust, strike, or drive, and surely I don’t want to eliminate those verbs from my teaching. I definitely want to thrust new ideas toward my scholars, strike the entire class with fresh ways of thinking, and drive the scholars toward excellence. The actions suggested by those words are always the driving force in any rousing and inspiring class. In addition, the following words come from the same root as “impulsive”: pelt, pulsate, push, compel, dispel, expel, impel, impulse, propel – and certainly the atmosphere suggested by these verbs should be present in my classroom. There’s a feeling of dynamism and progression in the words, a sense that something is being driven forward and fundamentally changed – the precise ambiance I want to maintain in my middle school English classroom. When the scholars leave my classroom each day, I want them to feel like they’ve been struck by utterly new emotions and pushed forward by full-size ideas. That would be the good – very good – side of the impulsive teacher coin.

"Strolling Aix en Provence", oil on board, by Kit Hevron Mahoney

Teaching Journal

Day 98, Friday, February 20, 2009

 

One Teacher’s Alphabet: K is for Kindle

 The word ‘kindle’ says a lot about what’s important in teaching. As a middle school English teacher, it’s my responsibility to build a bright fire of ideas for my students each day. Much of this must be done ahead of time, just as a serious builder of fires in the hearth must carefully prepare everything before the match is struck. For each class I must lay in a good stack of well-seasoned and sophisticated ideas, plus a layer of simple starter ideas, like the kindling and paper of the home fire-maker. Next, I must actually ignite the fire – ‘strike’ the ideas in such a way that they light up and glow for the students. If a sunrise can be said to kindle the skies, my lesson plans should be able to strike up a flame in my students. If they don’t – if the lessons fizzle and slowly die out – they’re no better than a failed fire made from unseasoned wood. But of course what I most want to kindle is the emotions and thoughts of the students. If a class is to be successful, the fire of ideas that my lesson hopefully ignites must, in turn, set afire the students’ inner lives. My teaching must somehow kindle an intellectual passion in the scholars. They must leave my classroom with at least a small, new fire glowing somewhere inside.

     

"Bowl of Clementines", oil on canvas, by Elizabeth Fraser

Teaching Journal

Day 98, Thursday, February 19, 2009

 

     I’ve been thinking about the word ‘pressure’ these days. The 8^th grade has just completed two days of pressurized presentations, and, as I write this, they are loosening and lightening up in the library, trying, I suppose, to untie the knots this project has tied inside them. They’re relaxing around the library like freed pieces of string, happy to be unfastened. Oddly enough, as I was watching the children deliver their presentations I found myself thinking of espresso coffee. The only way you can brew a truly strong cup of espresso is by forcing steam under pressure through the coffee beans, and sometimes it seems that a good way to create a truly fine group of scholars is by purposely placing them under significant pressure. It’s hard to watch them suffer through the trials of writing nine-paragraph essays and delivering fifteen-minute formal speeches, but the end product – stronger, wiser, more durable students – would seem to justify the distress and anguish. Pressure makes diamonds, espresso, and – we trust – exceptional 8^th grade scholars.    

I'm glad to be back to my reading blog. I must admit that it does take some serious discipline to write a few sentences about my reading each day. I can understand why the students have found this to be difficult. 

This "David Copperfield" by Charles Dickens is an utterly draining book. It is SO full of emotion -- every chapter, every page, every sentence (it seems). David and his friends go from one crisis to another, from high point to low point to high point again. Just now the strained relationship between old Dr. Strong and his beautiful young wife Annie is being beautifully brought back together through the help of the mentally handicapped Mr. Dick. (He himself recently declared that he was 'simple' -- a Victorian word for 'retarded'.) The scene describing the reconciliation was unbelievably powerful and poignant.  I almost had to reach for a tissue.  

"Passing Storm, Long Island Sound", oil on board, by Roxanne Steed

Teaching Journal

Day 96, Tuesday, February 17, 2009

 

     Today I had the 9^th grade students listen to a lecture I had posted on the class blog, and as they were listening and taking notes, it occurred to me that it might have been a ‘boring’ experience for them. However, a few minutes later I begun asking myself what that actually means. What is a boring experience? What does it mean to be bored? The word is used frequently, but rarely (maybe never) have I stopped to consider its meaning. Checking one dictionary, I found that to be bored is to be ‘tired and impatient’. Is that what my students were feeling as they were listening to my lecture? Is that why they looked so weary and worn-out, so edgy and uneasy? Perhaps, then, the boredom arose not so much from the content of my lecture as from the fatigue and restlessness of the children. Is that, perhaps, where all boredom arises – from the hearts of the observer rather than from the substance of what is being observed? Does that mean that everything is exciting if we come to it with excited hearts?    

 

 

"Charleston Stroll", oil on board, by Mike Rooney

Teaching Journal

Monday, February 16, 2009

Presidents Day

 

     This morning I’m thinking about the word “interesting”, and how it might apply to my work as a middle school English teacher. What immediately comes to mind is that I should find everything that happens in my classroom interesting. I should be like an awestruck child, thoroughly flabbergasted by everything I see and hear during class. I should move around the room in a daze of astonishment, unable to fully absorb the amazing events that are occurring. This may seem like an exaggeration, but isn’t it a fact that each moment is entirely new and fresh? Isn’t it a fact that nothing exactly like this moment has ever occurred before in the history of the universe? And aren’t we usually at least somewhat amazed when he see or hear something totally new? This is what happens in my classroom every day – the birth, over and over, of completely original ideas, feelings, and actions. My students and I – like all of us all the time – are witnessing creation, again and again, during every class. Shouldn’t this process be intensely interesting to me? Shouldn’t I sometimes stand back from my desk in total amazement and just watch and admire? 

* * * * * *

     I’m writing this while my college students are writing essays in the computer lab at the college. A moment ago, I was listening on my iPod to a Mozart violin concerto as the students tapped away on their keyboards, and the contrast made an impression on me. Here were my students hunched over their books and notes, staring at the screens with intensity and uneasiness, and here was their professor floating away on the silken harmonies of Mozart. It was like those days when sunshine and storms seem to live side by side; the students were in the midst of thunder and lightning while I was relaxing in the sun. The students were being soaked by insights and frustrations, but I was high and dry in violins and horns

"The Philosophers", acrylic on wood, by Sheila Vaughn 

Teaching Journal

Day 95, Friday, February 13

 

     I spent a quiet holiday away from school, but my thoughts, I must admit, were back in the classroom, trying to see where I went wrong this week, what I can do to bring more get-up-and-go to my lessons, and how I can make myself a better teacher next week. I spent a lot of time in my quiet apartment, walking among the rooms, looking out the window, sitting in my several hospitable chairs – all the time thinking of ways to enhance and brighten up my teaching. I must confess that no lightning bolts of inspiration struck, no insights unrolled like maps, no bright ideas switched their lamps on. It was just a day filled  with itinerant thoughts about an utterly confusing profession. No problems were solved, but the thinking itself, on this sunny winter day, was a pleasing process.     

"Welcoming Window in Waterville, Ireland, oil on Beligan linen, by Roxanne Steed

Teaching Journal

Day 94, Thursday, February 12

 

     Today I noticed that the boy who was the “teacher’s assistant” in his class thoroughly enjoyed himself. He was a keen and eager assistant right from the start. I was sitting at the teacher’s place when he entered the room, and he immediately came and stood quietly beside me, as if to graciously suggest that I should move aside. I dutifully moved to a quiet corner of the room while the students gathered to do a little silent reading, and, a few minutes later, right on time, the boy softly touched the chimes that hang above my desk to indicate that the reading period was over. He then, without delay, and with an authoritative voice, began going over the first steps in my lesson plan. He was brisk, commanding, and professional about it, and in a matter of moments he turned the class over to me for the heart of the lesson. I could see a smile on his face as he walked away from the teacher’s place – a smile of self-assurance and satisfaction. He knew he had done something noteworthy. In a dignified and stalwart manner, he had led – actually taught -- his classmates for a few moments, and in doing so had climbed a few more steps up from childhood.  

 

 

"Roof in the Sun", oil on canvas board, by Mike Rooney

Teaching Journal
Day 93, Wednesday, February 11

"The art of living is neither careless drifting nor fearful clinging to the past. It consists in being sensitive to each moment, in regarding it as utterly new and unique, in having the mind open and wholly receptive."

--Alan Watts

Teachers often remind students to "pay attention", but I started wondering this morning whether I might need to do a little more of that myself. Perhaps I need to be more alert and attentive during class, just as I ask my students to be. Maybe I need to "sit up, lean forward, nod, and track the speaker", as I often remind my students to do. The word "mindful" could be relevant here, a word that suggests total attention to the moment at hand -- something, I'm afraid, that is sometimes missing from my teaching. My students are occasionally off in "dreamland" during my classes, and -- in a way -- perhaps I am too. While a group of living, thinking, feeling children are sitting in front of me, I'm sometimes far away from them in my mind, thinking rapid-fire thoughts about my lesson plans and how best to implement them. Sometimes (I hate to admit this) it's as if the students aren't even there, and I'm just sailing through my lesson, more for the sake of getting through it efficiently than of actually affecting the lives of my students. That may be an exaggeration and a bit too harsh, but there's enough truth in it to give me food for thought. The last thing I want to be is a mindless teacher going through robotic motions in a totally perfunctory way. I want to be, above all, a vigilant teacher, one who appreciates fully each little occurrence in the classroom. Perhaps I need to say to myself more often, "Mr. Salsich, please pay attention."

Teaching Journal

Day 92, Tuesday, February 10, 2009

 

     During quiet reading time at the start of one class, I noticed a boy leaning over and showing a friend a passage in his book. They were whispering and smiling as they looked at the page. It was just a passing moment, but there was significance in it for this old teacher. Here were two kids sharing their zest for words and ideas, two young scholars getting pleasure together from the richness of written words. Their passion, for that fleeting moment or two, was as strong and deep as any lifelong love. Storms in the sky sometimes burst and vanish in astonishing suddenness, and the ardor these boys were feeling for the book will quickly disappear, I’m sure, as fast as the next tantalizing interest comes along. But for a moment or two in my quiet classroom, they were lost together in the love of books that every English teacher loves to see. 

* * * * *

     Today I experienced the willingness and wisdom that can come forth when a teacher puts his trust in his students. I gave the students a list of 100 SAT vocabulary words that I thought they could study and learn in the final ten weeks of school. However, I asked them what they thought. Could they do this? I asked – could they memorize ten words per week until the final exam? Did they think it was a workable plan, something they could accomplish and feel good about? I must admit that I hadn’t planned to ask their opinion, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the moment – and I’m glad I did it, because it brought forth a very gratifying response from the students. After just a few moments of discussion, they all seemed to agree that, yes, it was a project they could complete. They even appeared to think it would be a helpful activity, one that would make them feel proud of their accomplishment when it was completed. I thanked them for their input, and said I would give it some more thought, but I had already made up mind. Wise and eager scholars like these deserve a special challenge like this.     

"Cottage by the Bay", oil on canvas board, by Mike Rooney

Teaching Journal
Day 91, Monday, February 9, 2009

Every so often the student designated as the “teacher’s assistant” seems sleepy as he or she leads the class through the initial steps of the lesson. They sometimes speak softly, almost faintly, and there is often a wilting quality in their voices that seems sure to promote a wilting feeling in the other students. I even begin to feel, as I listen, like I, too, want to lean my head on my hand and sail off to daydream-land. The T.A.s do their best, and they usually pick up the pace as the class moves along, but it always starts me wondering whether I often have that kind of soporific, sleep-inducing effect on the students. After all, I always speak softly during class, and we almost never do what kids would call “exciting” activities during class. Mostly we sit at the round table, just talking and listening, which, I suppose, can be a wide-open doorway to absent-mindedness and reverie. My students seem attentive during my quiet, less-than-thrilling classes, but perhaps that’s a deceptive façade. Perhaps, behind their focused eyes and erect posture, they are miles away, sailing on a wish and a star.

* * * *

One Teacher’s Idioms: “In the Heat of the Moment”

My ideal English class would be one in which the students and I feel “the heat of the moment” every single moment. After all, each moment is totally new, born right in our midst approximately 3,000 times in each class period (48 minutes). There has never been a moment exactly like those that arise in our presence in every English class. Each moment is as fresh as a newborn infant, as hot as baked bread spanking new from the oven. I wish my students and I could enjoy our moments together with as much delight as we would savor the first bite of a warm, steaming, sweet-smelling loaf.

"Spring Sail" oil on masonite, by Heidi Malott

 

TEACHING JOURNAL

DAY 90 FRIDAY, February 6, 2009

 

     A girl who came to class early this morning immediately began to set up chairs around the table, and it set me thinking about the whole process of learning. I’m a teacher, and this is a school, so learning is what I’m involved in -- both the formal and informal kind, both organized lesson-learning and the less formal, out-of-the-blue kind that happens moment by moment. What was happening with this girl was the second kind. As she went around the room quietly placing the chairs under the table, she was surely learning something about herself. She was realizing, once again, that she has the power to make good things happen. Sure, she was only putting chairs in the proper position in a small classroom in a small school on a run of the mill day in February, but in doing so, she was doing her part to make the world a better place. I’ll bet she was smiling inside. I’ll bet her heart was swelling a little with the sense of generosity and accomplishment. She was learning a small but wondrous lesson – that even the slightest acts of kindness can bring light to a world that often, these days, seems more dark than bright.

………………

     During one 8^th grade class, as the “teacher’s assistant” (a different student each week) was leading the students through a lesson in a vocabulary book, my stomach started seriously growling, so I excused myself from the room, asking the TA to carry on. I walked the halls for a while, trying to settle my stomach, and by the time I returned about 10 minutes had passed. As I came down the hall, I couldn’t hear a sound from my room, and when I walked in, the students were bent over their vocabulary books in utter silence. There wasn’t a sound in the room except for the rustling of pages and the occasional scratch of a pencil. I found this gratifying and, more than that, astonishing. When I was a teenage student, this never could have happened. If a teacher had left the class alone, disarray and havoc would have swept through the room with very little delay. Today, though, the same calmness that existed in the classroom when I left was still evident when I returned. The kids had worked diligently when I was with them, and they apparently had worked in the same manner when I was not. At the risk of oversimplifying, the only explanation that I can come up with is that the students knew that I trusted them to behave like serious students when I was gone. I’ve occasionally talked to them about this – about the fact that if I ever did have to leave the room for a few minutes, I would totally trust them to handle the situation like grown-up and reasonable scholars. In fact, now and then during the year, when the students were involved in a literary discussion, I have quietly left the room to get a drink of water down the hall, perhaps even pausing to converse with a teacher on the way, simply in order to give the students a chance to show their trustworthiness. When I returned to an orderly classroom, I always praised them for proving how dependable they were. Perhaps they truly listened to my praise and believed it. Perhaps they have grown to believe that they are reliable and responsible people. Perhaps that’s why they proved it again today.   

"Open Door", oil, by Fred Bell

Teaching Journal

Day 89, Thursday, February 5, 2009

We had a surprise visitor in one of the 8th grade classes this morning, and I, for one, found it invigorating. It's refreshing to have an audience in the room, someone to share the fun of teaching with, someone who gives you the feeling of being on stage, presenting a show, winning over a crowd. I usually don't consider teaching to be much like 'entertaining', but when a guest is with us, my work does seem to take on some of the glamor of a stage production. I feel a tingle of trepidation and a glow of excitement. I'm not sure the students learned any more today than they usually do, but there's was a cheerful tension in the room that added a thrill to my usual duties.  

"Window in Sun", oil on board, by Fred Bell

Teaching Journal
Day 88, Wednesday, February 4, 2009

I noticed that a girl who was the ‘teaching assistant’ in her class today spoke with great dignity and poise. She held her head high, said each word slowly and meticulously,  and made it a point to compliment many of her classmates for their contributions to the discussion. In some ways, she showed more composure and self-assurance than any other TA this year. It was impressive to me -- and, I hope, to her.

* * * *

We had shortened classes in the morning, but for some reason, my 30-minute classes seemed more profitable than many of my full-length ones. The kids were on the alert from start to finish, much good work was done, and we reached all the goals I had set forth in my planning. Perhaps this is what happens when a teacher makes a good thing come in a small package, or cuts a long story short, or makes short work of a lesson, or gets through a class in short order. Whatever it was, it was a short and sweet experience for this teacher.

"Snowy Fields", oil on panel, by Stephen P. Goodman

Teaching Journal

Day 87, Tuesday, February 3, 2009

 

     By some mysterious miracle, today was one of the best days of teaching I can recall. I use the phrase “mysterious miracle” deliberately, because the reasons for this success remain veiled and inexplicable. I honestly have no idea why this happened today – why almost everything I did seemed right, why so much wisdom flourished in my classroom, why each class seemed abundant with blessings. True, I planned a decent lesson and I worked hard during each class, but I try to do that every day, and yet many days in the classroom are small disasters for me. Why was today different? Why did I end each class feeling like I was sailing on the ship called Success? Why did my horizons as a teacher seem to be boundless today – like I could keep teaching and learning about teaching forever?  

"Winter Morning", oil on birch panel, by Jason Tako

Teaching Journal

Day 86, Monday, February 2, 2009

 

     This afternoon during study hall in the library, I decided to do absolutely nothing for a few minutes. I put down my books, set aside the papers that needed grading, put my red pen away, and just walked quietly up and down the rows of books. The students were busy with their work, so I don’t think many of them noticed an elderly teacher strolling musingly among the books. It was a serene and restorative few moments for me. Instead of doing anything, I guess I was just living – just being alive, just breathing, seeing, hearing, thinking, just letting things happen instead of making things happen. It was a brief respite from the rush of the workday – a time when thoughts came and went as quietly and effortlessly as clouds pass above us.

* * * *

     A friend once told me he was trying not to do so much I-ing and my-ing, and today I felt like I should follow his advice. It wasn’t an especially grand day of teaching for me. I seemed to lurch and falter through one lesson, and in all the classes, some of the students seemed on the threshold of sleep. In between classes, I berated myself about my teaching, as I often do – and I used the word “I” and “my” quite often. Later, I realized what I was doing, and I thought about what my friend had said. I was focusing on myself instead of the students. I was kicking myself because I wouldn’t win any awards for teaching today, instead of praising the students’ good behavior and reviewing their accomplishments in class. It was all about me instead all about education. Yes, it’s good to review my work at the end of the day to see what improvements can be made, but it must be done with a view toward helping the students learn more, not toward helping me feel better about myself. There’s a fine line between wanting to become a better teacher and wanting to pat myself on the back more, and today I was on the wrong side of that line. 

"Stream in January", watercolor, by Don Gray

Reading David Copperfield this morning, I came across a passage about a character being “surprised” by something, and it suddenly occurred to me that I should be surprised by everything. I should literally be astonished every single moment, because the truth is that I have no idea what’s going to happen next. From one second to another, I have only the wildest guess as to what might be awaiting me. One second from right now (as I’m typing this), any of a zillion possible events could take place: a car could pass on the street, the phone could ring, I could turn my head in one direction or another, I could drop dead over the keyboard, and on and on. Every moment of my life is a bombshell, a bolt from the blue. I have no control over it. I might pretend that I do, but that’s like one wave pretending it controls what will happen next in the ocean. What happens does so because of far mightier forces than those possessed by the wave or little me. Something could blow up or blossom one second from now; something could die or rise up in newness; I could collapse or discover a stunning star above the house. It’s all a shock and revelation, every second, and I may as well sit back for the startling ride.   

"Full Moon Barn", acryllic, by Toni Grote

Teaching Journal

Weekend, January 31-February 1, 2009

HOW IS THE UNIVERSE DOING?

     It’s weird that I spend so many of my waking hours wondering how I am doing, when what I should be concerned with – and the only thing that matters – is how the universe is doing. It’s odd that I’m so obsessed with a relatively miniscule entity called “me” when a limitless and incalculable universe is majestically creating every big and little event that occurs. While I’m wondering if I’m spending my morning in a productive manner, the universe is quietly keeping my heart pumping and waterfalls pouring and breezes blowing among trees. While I’m concerned about whether I’m performing well enough as a teacher, the vast universe (of which I am a part) is performing snowstorms and sunsets and zillions of heartbeats in an utterly flawless manner. I am preoccupied with ten-thousand miniscule cares and concerns, while all around me a vast and splendid universe is absorbed in simply being itself, whether by whitening a hillside with snow or bringing blood to the far reaches of living organisms beyond count. It’s peculiar. Why would I spend a single second fretting about how I’m doing as a writer of sentences when the universe is doing just fine as a spinner of planets and stars?