GREAT TRUTHS

     I’m sure my students don’t usually think of English class as a place that produces great truths, but I do – and I dare to hope that the students might see some of these truths during my classes.  We just study words and rules about the use of words and how to help words come together in sharp and graceful sentences, but out of those studies can sometimes arise realizations that can transform lives. I’ve seen it in myself – a sudden understanding of what sorrow means while discussing a story with students, or a swift and new awareness of the significance of gladness while studying some lines from Shakespeare, or simply fresh thoughts flowing like a waterfall from listening to a student say what she likes in a poem.  I’ve seen a new truth take wing out of just a few short phrases from a story, and I’ve felt myself, countless times, turn into new person, if just for a few seconds, after searching through some sentences in a novel.  This has happened to my students, I’m sure. I’ve seen faces go flush with understanding during a discussion, and heads nod with delight after listening to a classmate clarify the meaning of a poem. I’ve heard words of wisdom on Wednesday from kids who were adrift in confusion on Tuesday. It can happen, yes. The truths of the universe can call out to any of us at anytime, even to teenagers and their timeworn teacher in a fairly conventional classroom on a quiet country lane.  

WONDROUS THINGS

     In the midst of an occasional tedious day in the classroom, it does me good to give some thought to the wonders that are working their charms.  For instance, there are my students and I, each of us a wonder of mushrooming, promising life – each of us more loaded with glories than a sunrise. There are atoms in us as old as the Big Bang, bringing billions of years of wisdom to our young and old bodies. In every boy and girl and their threadbare, tumbledown teacher, there are cells beyond measure making miracles every moment. There’s blood that transports strength second by second, and lungs that lift and fall without fail. Then there’s what’s around us – the air that’s been blowing across the world for centuries and happens to pass our way during class, and the sunshine that shares its softness with us whether we flourish or fail in our learning and teaching tasks. We do our English work, whether tiresome or stirring, in the midst of major miracles. Days may seem tedious, but wondrous things are waiting for us to see them.

NOTHING LESS THAN MARVELS

This morning I was recalling an old film about a man who forgot who he was, and it brought to mind my students, who, I’m afraid, often have that problem. I don’t mean they forget their names or their friends or their homes, but rather, they forget something far more important – their real and rather astonishing identity, their unreserved distinctiveness and uniqueness as creations of a boundless universe.  Each day, sometimes tousled and hesitant, they bring their unsure selves into my classroom as though their lives are disordered specks in a puzzling mess called life. I, though, want to shake them into seeing that they are nothing less than marvels in a universe of marvels. I want to show them a magic mirror that will display the immeasurable inner spaces of their lives. They are more majestic than mountains, deeper than the deepest waters, grander than all the grand canyons of the world – but they’ve simply forgotten. They’ve gone blind to the bright light their lives give off. They have eyes, but they don’t see the beauty they bring to the world – and to my classroom. I’m a teacher, but I guess I’m also a “remind-er” – someone who must remind his students, over and over again, that there are stars in the sky that don’t shine as clearly and as smartly as they do.

 

A GREAT CALM

     It often happens that a great calm follows the end of something exhilarating – when a storm stops and sunshine is suddenly everywhere, or when applause for a performance stops and just the shuffling of shoes toward exits is heard, or when songbirds in the woods wait for a few seconds of silence among the trees. I haven't yet made a definite decision, but this year I may be coming to the end of 48 roller coaster, white-knuckle, nerve-racking, adrenaline-charged years as a teacher, and already I sense the telling signs of calmness.  My whole life looks lighter and easier to carry. The days, lately, seem unusually serene and still, like a pond’s surface after a storm has passed. This morning, for instance, the coffee-maker seemed to make its coffee in a casual and unruffled way, just bubbling along and then fading off and stopping in silence. The pendulum clock in the hall sounded its clicks with quiet composure, and even the crickets outside the window called to each other with a special kind of coolness and self-possession.  I recall, too, days in the past when grand storms suddenly sailed over the hills and nothing was left but a sky full of stars, something like what retirees might feel with a life full of fresh quests and escapades ahead of them. Yes, this year might be the end of something stirring and often breathtaking, but if it is, it will also be the beginning of something that might take my breath away in even better ways. The roller coaster could come to a stop next June, but a smooth and calm kind of adventure, and a different kind of delight, will be waiting in July. 

Tintern Abbey, Wales

As I write this, Delycia and I are somewhere over the Atlantic on our return flight from the UK. We are settled into our seats, reading and writing and nodding off now and then, and also, in our own ways, recalling with contentment the pleasures of the past 10 days. We walked on the hills of Wales with 14 newfound friends; we sat beside the ruins of an ancient Cistercian abbey and read the poems Wordsworth wrote when he was there over 200 years before us; we saw an entrancing performance of Shakespeare’s Richard III at The Globe Theater in London; we strolled the streets of London, looking for and finding the fairy-tale qualities of that timeworn, exquisite city; we cuddled in countless places – on benches in Russell Square, on the grass beside a stream in St. James Park, on buses and trains and planes; and we were sometimes silent beside each other in earnest appreciation of the lucky life we have found together in our blessed 70’s.

St. James Park, London

Today Delycia and I walked to some of her favorite spots -- the National Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square, and St. James Park. The crowds started swelling around noon, and soon we were walking in a sea of tourists -- and on a hot afternoon, no less. We persevered, though, and found a quiet place in St. James Park to picnic and enjoy the surroundings --  people like us finding peacefulness in a pretty setting. This park was used for some important Olympic events (men's bike race, triathlon, and beach volleyball), so much of it was closed, but we were lucky to locate a shady spot for our picnic.

We rode the bus back to the hotel, then rested and recovered, then walked to Russell Square where we sat on a bench and read aloud from Middlemarch -- then back to the Penn Club for chicken and salad and flavorful wine for dinner.

Yesterday, Delycia and I had breakfast with an English professor from Canada, who is a Thomas Hardy specialist and is preparing a paper on one of his lesser-known novels, to deliver at a Hardy conference in Dorcester, down in his home country. I loved our conversation, all about books and reading and Victorian literature. Imagine my good luck -- an English teacher and a lover of British literature enjoying a stimulating conversation with a distinguished professor in the heart of literary London!

Later in the morning, we set out for a 3-hour walk up to the poet John Keats' home in Hampstead. It was a delightful though tiring walk. We wandered along the picturesque canal, passing old and new houseboats and barges, and occasionally being passed by bikers and runners and other walkers. We paused for lunch at the top of Primrose Hill, where we sat on the windy summit and enjoyed sandwiches and chips and lots of water and lemonade, looking out over the London skyline. As I scanned the people resting at the top of this fairly steep climb, I was proud that we were easily the oldest ones up there!

Primrose Hill, London

Soon we reached Keats' house, where I felt like falling to my knees in worship at the end of our pilgrimage. I have been reading and loving Keats' poems for 50 years, so this, indeed, was a special afternoon for me. We spent lots of time touring the small rooms in the house, reading the explanations and picturing Keats and Fanny and his friends enjoying great literature and each others' company here. After our visit, we sat outside in the shade and talked quietly of the special things we noticed.

On our way back to the hotel, we rode on the top deck of a bus as it barged its way through the crooked streets -- a bit of a harrowing experience for me.

Dinner was a spinach and mushroom pizza and fishcakes at an outdoor cafe, and then a walk back on a lovely London evening.

Yesterday, our first full one in London, we enjoyed breakfast at the Penn Club with an English gentleman who was in town for an engineering conference. Our conversation was pleasant and the food was delicious, served with graciousness by the young staff.

We visited the British Library in the morning, where we wandered through a wonderful exhibit about the effect of the English landscape on British writers. I stopped to read about Keats (a letter to his brother describing a walking tour), Wordsworth (a travel guide to the Lake District which he authored in 1835), Hopkins (a long, lovely poem about a river), and several others. Because of our schedule, we had to leave after only an hour, but we may be able to get back for more in a day or so.

Mark Rylance as Richard in The Globe's Richard III

The highlight of the day was a performance of Richard III at The Globe Theater. It has to be one of the finest Shakespeare performances I've ever seen. The actor playing Richard was spectacular, portraying him as a giddy, childish, addle-brained, but very skilled and cunning "performer". The only disagreement I had with the actor's performance was that he made Richard seem almost insane -- almost completely free of the ability to be reasonable and make sense -- whereas I think of him as more confused than crazy. I was disappointed, too, that the actor didn't make it seem like Richard had an epiphany at the end of the play (which I think he did, realizing that he's been a fake all his life).  The overall production was superb, however -- one of the best I've ever seen.

Dinner was excellent pasta at an outdoor cafe in breezy coolness, then a walk home to our hotel.

CEREMONIES

... written in 2006 BD (Before Delycia)

Ena Joyce (b.1926)

Table Cloth and Rushbottom Chair, 1956,
Mixed media on paper

I was wondering this morning whether I could make each moment of my life a type of ceremony. I got to thinking about this as I was having lunch in my apartment – at my little table with a white tablecloth, a small vase of flowers, and cloth napkins. I ate very slowly, taking delight in each bite, appreciating the look of the carefully arranged table and the summery view out the window. I was alone, and it was the simplest of meals, but it still felt like a formal occasion, like a ceremony of sorts. It somehow felt special – which is the way all the moments in my life should feel, because each moment is special. Every moment is a brand new experience, a unique and distinctive occurrence which the Universe has been preparing for some fifteen billion years. There’s never been anything quite like this moment, and there never will be again. In that sense, what I’m doing at any given moment is as special, as singular, as extraordinary, as sacred, if you will, as the most formal of church services. Doesn’t it make perfect sense, then, to attend each moment the way I might attend the most formal of ceremonies? If I walk and talk in a church in a careful and attentive manner, shouldn’t I perform each act in my life in the same way? Shouldn’t I reach down to pick up the napkin with care and attentiveness? Shouldn’t I reach out for a peach slice with utter awareness?

The Penn Club, London

Delycia and I are finally off on our honeymoon! After a simple but elegant marriage ceremony on August 1, and a quietly joyous family celebration a few days later, we took some days off to savor our happiness, and then boarded a plane last night for a flight to London. Delycia's dear friends, Peter and Evelyn, drove us to Logan Airport, with much looking back and laughing about old times together, and our long flight across the sea was fairly smooth and pleasant. We slept little, though, so we are now resting in midafteroon in our small, snug room at The Penn Club, a modest Quaker-owned hotel at Russell Square in London.

"Middlemarch" by George Eliot

After finishing -- and loving -- Howards End, Delycia and I have started on this wonderful novel, which I have read more than a few times. So far, we love the careful characterization. Eliot has clearly established each character as a distinct and unique person, making us dislike a few and love and admire a few. Mr. Casaubon, of course, is a character whom no reader has ever liked, and the author does a wonderful job of bringing his unsavory qualities into a strong light. On the other hand, we love Mr. Brooke, a stumbling, bumbling, winsome, unpredictable, and always kindly gentleman. We look forward to following Mr. Brooke as the story unfolds, perhaps admiring him more and more, and perhaps -- lucky us -- uncovering the secret of his charm, so that we might borrow some of it for ourselves. (I've always felt that reading great books makes us better people.)

A CLASSROOM RESTING ON AN OCEAN

A church-going friend used to say that his faith was founded on a rock, and lately I’ve been looking at my classroom that way, as being built on a basis that can’t be shaken. I don’t mean to suggest that I am some type of super-teacher who never knows struggle or failure, just that what happens in my classes comes from a firmer foundation than I ever thought possible. Truly, my teaching is as full of flops and catastrophes as anyone’s, but still, no matter how calamitous a lesson seems to be, I know that nothing can shake the steadfast foundation for learning that lies beneath my students and me. In the ocean, countless waves can crash, but the boundless waters beneath will still be there, flawless and unassailable. This foundation that rests below my teaching comes not from me and my meager abilities, nor from the type of religious faith my friend was referring to, but rather from the far-flung universe itself.  Learning is as much a part of the cosmos as brightness is a part of sunshine. Whether we know it or not, new thoughts are being born in my students and me each moment, and it is these thoughts that spread out and sink down to depths to make the foundation for learning. Things may sometimes seem confused and even dysfunctional during my classes, but the vast sea of ideas is always spreading and progressing below us. All we need do is loosen ourselves and let this sea make itself felt, this limitless ocean of thoughts that keeps flowing for all of us all of the time.

 

Yesterday morning Delycia and I walked down the river for several miles in muggy weather, with clothes soaked in sweat, and then walked back for a brief tour of the Mystic Art Fair. There were a few fine watercolors we liked, and I think we both appreciated the commitment and courage of the artists, mostly amateurs who simply love art and look for ways to share it.

Later, we read a little of George Eliot's Middlemarch (our daily commitment to each other since last month), and in the evening we watched the final and very stirring installment of the BBCs film of Eliot's Daniel Deronda. 

THE CLASSROOM OF THE OPEN DOOR

     When I was a boy, there was a church near our house called The Church of the Open Door, and I recalled it recently when I was working in my classroom preparing for the coming year. Both doors to my room were wide open, with breezes and occasional voices coming in, and, for some reason, the church back in my childhood came to mind. With those open doors on that recent summer morning, my classroom felt unfenced and free, fully accessible and unrestricted, and perhaps that was why the church chose that name. Perhaps they wanted people to know they would find freedom inside the church, a chance to choose whatever thoughts they wished, whatever feelings flowed into them.  Perhaps they wished their church to be a place of welcome and cordiality instead of constraint and strictness. As I puttered around the classroom, sorting things out for September, I thought of the freedom I want the students to feel when they walk through my open doors – the freedom to find their own special truths, their own singular responses to literature, their own uncommon voices in their written words and sentences. I don’t want them to see works of literature as tamper-proof treasures accessible only to serious, unsmiling scholars, but as vast worlds with no walls and no required PINs or passwords.  My classroom, I hope, will hold its arms out like an openhearted companion, calling to the kids to come in and discover the best wisdom for each of them.  There will be rules, yes, and I will be the host and master in this house of English, but for sure there will be doors to open that I’ve never noticed, and the students will feel free, I hope, to do the opening.

THE LIGHT OF THE MORNING

This morning, as always, the sunlight returned at its reliable and leisurely pace, reminding me that orderliness will always return to my classroom, even after minutes and perhaps days of seeming disarray. I sat beside the window this morning as the darkness slowly disappeared and a new day dawned, and I couldn't help but recall (as I did in yesterday’s post) some of the days in the classroom when whatever I did seemed devoid of direction or insight – days when I felt like I was following a vague trail in a wilderness rather than a well-prepared lesson plan. On those occasions, I could always pretend that I knew where I was going, that each step in the lesson was lit up clearly for me, but the truth told a different tale. My lessons then were more like lurching than leading, had more obscurity in them than correctness. However, like this morning, the darkness in those kind of dreary lessons (which continue to come along periodically) is always, after all, replaced by some kind of increasing light for all of us.  If my students and I persevere and simply stay still and alert, some small insights will start to sparkle. They may not make us new people, but they will surely make us shine in different and noteworthy ways, like this brand new day on Burrows Street.  

On Wednesday evening, we picnicked at the beach again -- cold grilled chicken, marinated cucumber slices, some celery sticks, and bread with butter. We took a long walk and remarked on the different ways people were enjoying the beach -- some screaming and splashing in the surf, some racing in and dashing out, some standing and staring, and some simply sitting and being silent. At our turning-around point, there was a concert by a big, loud band up on a deck above the beach, with dozens of people dancing around them. Several hundred people sat in chairs on the sand or strolled around, listening to the music.

Yesterday morning we walked on Napatree Beach in a soupy and fairly dense fog. I carried two heavy stones and swung them around as we walked, working up a respectable sweat. We stopped once and I dunked myself in the reviving surf.

Last night we attended a going-away gathering for a former student. It was fun to visit with old friends and wish the boy (a good and bright one) a brilliant future at his new school.

SOONER OR LATER

Sitting silently and looking out over the misty skies above Mystic this morning, I thought of the many times when a mist seems to make its way across my teaching – times when all I can see as I’m standing before my students is the smog of imprecise lesson plans and sleepy students. These are the days when doing my job seems similar to searching for a certain stone in a vast and hazy forest. Try as I might, on those confused classroom days I see no signals ahead to help me make the most out of whatever lesson plan I had prepared.  All is confusion and indecision. I guess what I need to remember is that, like this misty morning, things will slowly sort themselves out and light will let itself through. By noon today, probably none of this mist will remain, and a restful but rousing sunshine will be spread around us. In its always leisurely way, nature will alter our world from gray to something closer to gold, and I’ll probably be walking a sunny beach by three. The lesson in all this? When I’m teaching this year, and a wearying, misty kind of confusion drops down upon my students and me, I need to simply sit back and be patient and prepare for some eventual and inevitable mental sunshine. It always comes, just like the sun always shows itself, sooner or later, in my small town beside the shore.

Delycia walked with a friend this morning, so I was left to lug my 5-pound weights up and down some hills near the house by myself. I was a weary guy when I got home, so I showered and sat on the porch in the slight breeze that was blowing across the yard. Later, we sat together and worked through some financial matters, and later still, for supper, we took pleasure in some tasty salmon fillets and wild rice at the small table on the porch as the day's temperatures dropped.

WHITE BUSHES WITH BEES

A plane was rushing across the sky,
parents were shouting in Westerly, 
interstates were screaming with cars, 
nations were dashing
toward the edges of cliffs,
while out on Shannock Road
a thousand bees were
happy with what they had. 

"After a long ride, the water is great!"

We took a tiring but stirring bike ride early this morning, before the mugginess moved down on Mystic again. We rode the hills and flat parts of 215 over to Noank and Groton Long Point, stopping for the fine views now and then, and for a short dip in a still and silvery cove (see photo). Later, we came together in our air-conditioned room for a quiet and cool few hours.

Yesterday, our families and a few close friends helped Delycia and I celebrate our marriage (which had officially happened on Wednesday). It was a sizzling and somewhat stifling day weather-wise, but where friendship and kindness were concerned, it came as close to perfection as possible. We gathered in the shade of Jaimie's lovely yard, down by the dark forest that I grew fond of when I lived with Jaimie and the kids, and the ceremony was simple, graceful, and -- for us --somewhat spellbinding. We stood before our family and friends in a sort of smiling trance, trying our best to seem like sensible adults, while feeling, I think, a little like lightheaded, shaky 20-somethings. For us, it was a day of both quiet comradeship and winsome reverie as we floated off on our brand-new cloud. It was a joy to join with those whom we love as we set forth on our somewhat breathtaking adventure.

(Note: Click here to read the wonderful toast offered by Peter Liffiton, and click here to log in and see the Shutterfly pictures already uploaded.)

Today we drove up to Jaimie's to join him and the kids for some pre-wedding preparations and just plain fun. We gave Noah his watch and Ava her starfish necklace for being part of the marriage procession tomorrow, and they both seemed to set great store by the gifts. Noah almost never stopped checking the time on his blue and white watch, and Ava wore her necklace with joyfulness for a few minutes and then made a special place for it on her dresser.

We had fun for the whole afternoon, from splashing in the small but perfect wading pool, to preparing a fruit salad for tomorrow with Ava's happy help, to listening with the kids to a special song we plan to play at tomorrow's ceremony. Toward the end of our visit, Delycia took the kids through a practice-run for the procession tomorrow, with Noah pretending to proudly carry the rings and Ava following behind with blossoms to spread before the bride and groom.

Now, at 7:36 pm, my bride and I are resting in a homelike motel near Jaimie's, just about as happy, I would guess, as 70-year-olds can be.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton E. Salsich

Yesterday Delycia and I were married quietly in our home on Burrows Street. A Justice of the Peace named Luanne, looking both earnest in her duties and joyous for us, stood in our living room and said the brief words that made us man and wife. We then walked outside to Delycia's flower garden, where Luanne took several pictures of us, with my new wife's flowers in the background. We then drove down to Old Lyme, where we lunched on the veranda of the Florence Griswold Art Museum overlooking the easygoing Lieutenant River. We must have looked like a strangely bemused but bouyant couple as we ate. We were enjoying the food and the pristine scene, but we were also off on some far-away cloud in our new life, trying to understand the mystery of what had happened that morning. We were sitting, but also floating.

Later, we took a picnic supper to the beach at Stonington Point. The evening was still and restful, and we leaned back and loved both our sandwiches and our brand new lives.