Teaching Journal
Day 114, Tuesday, March 31, 2009

I was deriding myself this morning for doing some dismal teaching, when I suddenly remembered the handful of students who had genuinely sparkled during my ‘dismal’ classes. It’s interesting that my self-pity had caused me to temporarily forget how impressed I had been with their comments during our discussion of a poem. These scholars had been alert, engaged, and downright sophisticated in their remarks. I remember thinking, in fact, that I should send them a note or call home to congratulate them on their fine work. It’s strange, then, how quickly my desire to feel sorry for myself about my uninspiring teaching made me forgot their first-rate work as students. Yes, I wasn’t the greatest teacher in the world this morning, but some of the kids in my class had been superior students. I wouldn’t win a prize for my teaching, but they should be given a prize for their scholarly work. Once again, my self-absorbed attitude (all about I,I,I and me, me, me) caused me to turn my back on the achievements of my students. While staring at the gloom inside me, I forgot about the bright lights I saw shining in my classes.

"Canal Reflections", oil on wood panel, by Sheila Vaughan

Teaching Journal

Day 113, Monday, March 30, 2009

     On this, the first morning back after a long vacation, I was again reminded of how easy this job of mine is. In some ways, teaching these kids is as simple as breathing in and breathing out. It’s a straightforward process of giving and receiving: I give what I have learned to the scholars, and I receive, in turn, their youthful zeal and wisdom. Whatever labor I might engage in is as effortless as the labor of treelimbs moving in the wind. I work hard, yes, but it’s like the unforced and painless work of clouds passing overhead.
* * * * *
     Speaking of the wisdom of the scholars, I noticed more of that today in our discussions about a poem. It was a somewhat complex and inscrutable poem, and yet many of the students showed insightful perception as they shared their thoughts about it. There was an astuteness in their comments that we don’t ordinarily associate with thirteen-year-olds. One boy in particular, a lad who thinks of himself, I’m afraid, as somewhat of an academic failure, demonstrated a wonderful kind of fresh and free-spirited understanding of the poem. Several times he surprised all of us with his discernment of some intricate inner meanings. I praised him, and I was happy to notice him smiling shyly over his accomplishment.

Lately, I've been reading short stories and rediscovering the beauties of that short, compact form. I just finished a story by Katherine Mansfield called "Prelude" -- a long, puzzling, and oddly lovely story about a family moving to a new and bigger home outside of London. There's no plot to speak of (Mansfield is famous for that), but in the end, I was left with a strangely clear picture of this family. She manages to quietly and almost imperceptibly lay open the sights and sounds, as well as the inner feelings of the characters. Reading it, you think it seems like a boring story, but by the end you're smiling because you came to know this interesting family so well. I also read a story by Willa Cather (one of my favorite authors) called "On the Divide" -- a wild and wonderful tale about a giant, crazy Norwegian in Nebraska (1880's) who suddenly finds both love and serenity after a life of liquor and despair.

Below is a journal entry for the last day of the trip to England with my 9th grade students:

Day 8, Thursday, March 12

     Although it’s like selecting one mountain peak in a whole range of beautiful mountains, this day might have been the high point of the trip for me. It began with a very satisfying English class in the spacious living room at the Hostel. The scholars (as usual) were attentive and courteous, and I thoroughly enjoyed reviewing with them the main themes in “The Tempest”. We had spent many weeks reading and studying the play back at school, and this review felt like an affectionate look back down a beautiful trail we had traveled.

     After the class, we rode the public bus into the village of Stratford, where the kids strolled off in groups to find their lunches, which enabled we teachers to wander the streets of this picturesque and celebrated town on our own. I ended up at a woolen store where I purchased two handsome Irish sweaters.

     We all met again and walked a few blocks to the theater, where we quickly found our seats and settled in for a truly astonishing performance of “The Tempest”. The production had more sparkle and force than I would have imagined possible on a stage. There were enormous puppets, colorful costumes, a startling set, and the kind of acting a person sees perhaps once in a lifetime. I was deeply moved by the entire show. The great themes of love and forgiveness shone out from the stage with intensity and consolation. It felt like an epiphany of sorts for me. I sat stunned in my seat for ten minutes after the final curtain.  

 

 

 

"Painting at the Ruins, Ballycarberry Castle", oil on linen, by Roxanne Steed

An astonishing number of thoughts are generated in my English classes. The other day I calculated that, on a typical evening, my college students and I are together for around 145 minutes, which translates into about 8,700 separate moments. If I assume that each of us is entertaining a new thought during each of those moments, that means that my 18 students and I are producing somewhere around 165,000 ideas each night! Think of it: In our small, stuffy, and somewhat begrimed classroom in the middle of a fairly run-of-the-mill military base, a veritable explosion of thoughts occurs every Monday and Wednesday evening. Without even being aware of it, my scholars and I participate in a fireworks display of thinking each evening. Passersby in the hall, glancing in, might think we're just 19 typical people trying to survive another night class, but they would be dead wrong. They would miss completely the steady and astounding eruption of thoughts occurring in Room 319.

"Vacation every moment" and "Where do thoughts come from?"

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"Homage to the End of Winter", oil on canvas, by Halima Washington

 

     I spent a good part of this morning trying to create curriculum for the final two months of the year, and all I seemed to create was an abundance of frustration. I mentally struggled and fought at my desk for several hours, as though making lesson plans was like building a house. I hammered away at ideas, nailed stray thoughts together, sawed ideas into pieces, and in the end, all I produced was a strong feeling of failure. At noon I had no better idea what to do with my scholars in April and May than I had when I started this hard labor several hours earlier.

     As I thought about it over lunch, I realized that I had been thinking that creating good lessons was like hammering a building together, whereas it’s really more like helping a good garden grow. A teacher is way more like a gardener than a construction worker. There’s much more patient waiting involved than forceful fabricating and assembling. Good lesson plans grow, and in order to grow, they have to be gently cared for by a teacher who is willing to wait. I should have done more waiting this morning – more waiting for the ideas to quietly germinate instead of wildly thrashing around in my mind in the hope that a decent lesson could be thrown together. Excellent teaching is never thrown together. The only way it ever appears in a classroom is through a natural growth process. The teacher has to uncomplainingly watch and listen, and soon the ideas, sure enough, will push their way up in his mind like sprouts in the spring.   

 

"Absolute Confidence" and "How Can I Serve?"

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"Maine Clothes Dryer", watercolor, by Nita Leger Casey

A maxim that has been instilled in me from my earliest days is the notion that imperfection underlies reality. Right from the start, nothing seemed more important than understanding that perfection is an impossibility. My parents, pastors, teachers, and friends repeated this mantra over and over: “Nothing is perfect.” Naturally, from this basic principle, it gradually came to me that my major enterprise in life was to struggle to improve the universe’s imperfections. If nothing was perfect, than my job was to make everything I encountered a little closer to perfect – a little less imperfect. From this evolved a life of constant toil and thrashing about as I attempted to restructure and upgrade every situation I found myself in. I became the great “fixer”, hell-bent on moving everything a smidgen closer to perfection.
Now, oddly enough, at the age of 67 I find myself faced with an outlandish question: What if that supposed truth that has underlay my entire life is dead wrong? In fact, what if the exact opposite is true? What if perfection underlies reality? What if each moment is as perfect as it could possibly be? I might wish that a moment was different, but what if no moment could be made any better than it is? If it’s a sad moment, perhaps it’s a totally (or perfectly) sad moment. If it’s a tragic moment, perhaps it’s as tragic as it could possibly be – a perfectly tragic moment.
How would this understanding affect the way I live? Would I have to abandon my life-long habit of struggling to make everything better? Would I have to give up forever the belief than I can control, organize, and improve everything? Might I have to admit that life is built on a foundation of utter perfection? And might I see more of that perfection if I made that admission?

The quote printed below is from Chapter 55, a powerful description of a storm along the coast near Yarmouth -- a storm which took the lives of two of David's great friends, Ham Peggotty and James Steerforth. In the passage below, David has just seen the body of Ham, dragged in to shore after a failed attempt to rescue Steerforth, and now someone has come to tell him of another body.

.........................................

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was 

done, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were
children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door.

'Sir,' said he, with tears starting to his weatherbeaten face,
which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, 'will you come over
yonder?'

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his
look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out
to support me--

'Has a body come ashore?'

He said, 'Yes.'

'Do I know it?' I asked then.

He answered nothing.

But, he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she
and I had looked for shells, two children--on that part of it where
some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had
been scattered by the wind--among the ruins of the home he had
wronged--I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had
often seen him lie at school.

"Night Lights", oil on canvas, by Halima Washington

This afternoon I came across a quote (see below) by a favorite poet of mine, and it instantly started me thinking about my work as a middle school English teacher. So much of what William Stafford believes about writing poetry relates to what I believe about teaching. Like him, I feel I know next to nothing about “the important things happening 
around [me] or even within [me]”. Like him, I sense, more strongly each year, that there are “vast forces” at work in my classroom – forces which are both unintelligible and uncontrollable , and which extend infinitely beyond my scanty capacities as a teacher. When I started teaching decades ago, I had “proud assumptions” about my knowledge and abilities, but now I understand, all too well, my “serious limitations”. I’ve learned “to listen, give [myself] over”. I realize that, as a teacher of human beings, I am basically “traveling through the dark”. Each day in the classroom I listen, and look for the light.   

....................

“We are only 
intermittently conscious enough to know the important things happening 
around us or even within us. Even a compass needle on this table would tell 
us something about the present that we don't know. There are vast forces 
that we rarely, if ever, perceive that control us. There is an awful lot that is 
getting by us. We already know that because we've invented instruments 
that tell us there are other things out there. My poems again and again are 
based upon the difference between our proud assumptions about self-control and our serious limitations. Now, the ultimate significant Other is God, or something like that. The 
speaker of many of the poems, then, or whatever the intelligence is that 
inhabits these poems, is a person who is in league with powers greater than 
human powers. These greater powers can't really be known. The Other is 
also the location of another perspective, as in that poem where the speaker 
seems to walk alongside a Cree warrior. We have to listen, give ourselves 
over. We have to settle for things, for our limited understanding of things. I 
think ‘Traveling Through the Dark’ is that kind of poem.”

-- Wiliam Stafford

"Raining Again", oil on plywood board, by Sheila Vaughan

     The last two days have been relatively mild, with a slight suggestion in the air of both spring and spring rain. There’s been an easygoing feeling in the weather, as if it’s relaxing a little after the rigors of the winter. In the park yesterday, I could almost see the trees docilely letting their limbs hang looser and more liberated. They were standing around the park in a more passive and submissive manner, as if waiting quietly for spring to present its magic act. Today a rainstorm has arrived, but it’s a placid one. It’s more a shower than a storm – simply a soft spreading around of raindrops. As I look out I see the rainwater running smoothly in the gutters, and a tender wind is waving among the trees. 

"Memory: Provence", watercolor, by Susan Abbott

It’s most likely true that many of us are rarely satisfied. In other words, we hardly ever feel that the present moment is “enough” – that where we are and what is happening is thoroughly adequate for our needs. There’s probably not often a feeling of abundance and sufficiency. Instead, we have the sense that something necessary and better – something we genuinely need – is just around the corner. This is an unfortunate way to live, for without satisfaction, there can be nothing but distress and uneasiness. Because the present moment never seems filled-up and complete, neither can we. Without true contentment, our lives are also without true joy.  

View from ReenCaheragh to Portmagee, Ireland", oil on linen, by Roxanne Steed

 It occurred to me this morning that there will be a lot of “dealing” today. For one thing, the universe, eons ago, made a deal with itself that everything would always happen harmoniously, and that arrangement still holds true today. It’s as if the universe, at the time of the big bang, shook its own hand and agreed that it would operate in a well-balanced manner. True, we humans often don’t recognize the harmony embedded in the operations of the cosmos, but it’s definitely there. After all, a deal was made some 15 billion years ago, and our universe isn’t in the habit of canceling its contracts.  Also, another kind of “deal” will be happening today, similar to the dealing of playing cards. All day, it will be as if I am sitting at a card table receiving astonishingly good hands, one after another, from the dealer (the universe). It’s a game (called “Life”) that I can never lose, even though I may trick myself into believing I’m losing. I may not always realize it, but whatever cards the universe deals me are the exact cards I need to be a winner. I just hope I can identify and be thankful for the high-quality dealing that will be happening all day today. 

"Off 50th Street", oil on board, by Mike Rooney

     In the midst of the almost daily crashes in the economy, when stores and companies are folding by the dozens and hundreds, I’m pleased to note that my life has folded in a different way – more like a comfortable blanket than a busted business. When I fold my blankets each morning, it is for the purpose of seeing them neat and tidy on the bed, ready for duty the next night. When I say my life has folded up nicely, I mean that it, too, seems to be a shipshape package, ready, at a moment’s notice, to bring comfort to any situation. In years past, it was more a pile of ripped rags than a carefully folded blanket, but gradually some order has been brought my way. It might be because I have slowly learned to surrender a little, like a soft blanket does. When I fold my blankets, they don’t resist – and I’ve been trying to be a good, compliant blanket these last few years. Whatever way life wants to fold me, I let it.  

I'M GOING TOO

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"Profusion in Sunlight", oil on board, by Kit Hevron Mahoney

 

After returning from an 8-day sojourn in the UK with my 9^th grade scholars, I’ve enjoyed a sleepy weekend. The minutes and hours have passed in a drowsy manner, each one quieter than the one before. I’ve been almost totally inactive, spending most of my time being rather than doing. It’s a good way to live. I could grow accustomed to this dreamy lifestyle, especially when it follows a week of non-stop haste and urgency. In London and Stratford, we seemed to always be sprinting ahead to the next place, so it’s been refreshing, these past two days, to turn my back on rushing. Whatever I’ve done has been done as slowly as possible. This morning it took a record long time to cook my spinach, egg whites, and toast for breakfast. In England we often moved as quickly as possible, but today I happily buttered the toast in a drawn-out and measured manner.  

 

Dear Readers,

I will be unable to post for the next week or so. Check in again around March 15th. 

Hamilton Salsich

Teaching Journal

Day 104, Tuesday, March 3, 2009

 

     The word “attention”, which is a favorite of teachers, derives from the Latin “teneo”, which means “to hold fast” – and I’m afraid I didn’t do much holding fast today. I wasn’t very attentive to my students. I had a million things on my mind during class (be sure you mention this, don’t forget to cover this, remember to remind the students about that, etc), and consequently I think I forgot the most important thing of all – the individual students. There they were, a group of living, breathing, thinking, feeling children sitting in front of me waiting to be noticed, and I was so busy with my long lists of items to cover that I’m afraid I barely noticed them. Yes, I addressed the class in a clear and orderly way, and yes, I listened when they spoke to me, but I don’t think I was really attentive to them. I wasn’t really ‘holding them fast’ in my awareness. It saddens me to realize that, because it's not the kind of teaching I admire. It’s not even real teaching. It's just fast-paced, madcap, rushing and dashing  – and I don’t intend to do it tomorrow. 

IT'S ALL ABOUT POWER

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THE OLD MISTAKE

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