IN QUIETNESS AND CONFIDENCE

It might seem a stretch to compare one of my 9th grade English classes to a workout at the gym, and yet I am striving to build a certain kind of strength in my students – a strength that’s very much connected to quietness and confidence. It’s a shame that strength, these days, is so often associated with noisy bravado – with bragging and boasting and singing your own praises – when, to my way of thinking, true strength constructs a quietness that’s far more remarkable than clamor and horn-blowing. I want each of my students to develop an inner power that produces quiet confidence, the kind that sometimes creates a strange calm in classmates, as though just sitting next to this student settles you and sets you up on a mental hill. The quietness, perhaps, comes from knowing that what you know is nothing compared to the vast expanses of knowledge in the universe, and therefore you might as well relax and appreciate the sheer smoothness and lightness of all this nonstop knowledge. I hope my students come to discover that knowledge is not really something to struggle for or labor after, but that it’s more like a current in a quiet sea, a current that can easily carry them to incredible places and create a confidence that’s way stronger than shouts and chest-poundings

HIDDEN GIFTS

This morning, toward the end of a restless, almost sleepless night, the thought came to me to good-naturedly watch for the good that will come from this spell of insomnia, and I began thinking, later in the morning, that this is excellent advice for a classroom teacher. Halfway through my wakeful night, I was not thinking positively about my tossings and turnings, nor do I usually see the bright side of the various misfortunes that take place in my teaching. Just as I desperately wanted to fall into a sound and soothing sleep, in my classes I want a steady dose of success, and I grew just as frustrated with my sleeplessness as I do with any malfunctions in my lessons. However, toward morning the odd thought came to me that perhaps this nighttime wakefulness has some blessings for me. Perhaps, I thought, I should quietly wait and watch for the good that’s been given by these hours of missed sleep. It was strange to think that what seemed like sheer misery from midnight to morning might actually be a bequest from the vast universe just for me – a generous bestowal to use as I see fit. I’m waiting and watching (no signals as of yet), and I hope to be able to do some similar waiting and watching when things fall apart in my teaching next year. Who knows what gifts might be disguised as a disastrous lesson?

GOOD FORTUNE

"Monarch", pastel, by Karen Margulis

While he was smiling

at his good fortune,

a butterfly unfolded its wings

with what seemed like courtesy,

camped on a modest blossom

in a neighborhood nobody

cared much about,

a quiet, careful place

in Connecticut,

a small spot

on our carefree

and picturesque planet.

TIDINESS IN FLOWER GARDENS AND ENGLISH LESSONS

"Spring in the Garden", oil, by Pol Ledent

This summer I’ve enjoyed the fulfilling work of setting various kinds of edgings around our perennial flowers, and now the final, finished look of the gardens gives me some sense of how my best-planned classroom lessons might look next year. The flowers themselves are lovely, but somehow the trim and tidy look provided by the edging enhances their beauty, and it’s possible that some of my lessons could look just as well-set and shipshape. What I wish to teach in a lesson is actually no more important than how it’s presented to the students – it’s staging, you might say, or it’s presentation. Simply strewing a bunch of beautiful flowers here and there, with no visible borders, will bring little or no joy to viewers, nor will scattering skills and concepts through a lesson, with no discernible tidiness or method, bring much meaningful learning to my students. Both the good looks of a flower garden and the effectiveness of a lesson plan depend greatly on a simple feature that’s often overlooked – straightforward, old-fashioned tidiness.

THE INIFINITE RANGE OF THOUGHT

"Wheatfields 2", oil, by Liza Hirst

A friend recently spoke of what she called “the infinite range of thought” – her belief that there are absolutely no limits to what we can think – and her words brought to mind an odd combination -- my students and a boundless sky. It does seem like a peculiar combination, especially since most of my students think their thoughts flutter around in the tiniest of skies. If I asked them to compare their minds to something, they might select a closet or a kitchen cupboard, something so small that only a few trifling thoughts can fit. My students, year after year, seem to see themselves as thinking in very small spaces instead of in boundless skies. My friend would tell them something different – that thoughts are immaterial and therefore not tied to the typical laws of materiality. Thoughts can move as fast as sound or sunshine, and out beyond the farthest borders. No fence, no frontier of any kind, can hold back even the smallest thought. Of course, if my students believe the range of their thoughts is confined and cramped, then, for them, it will be. We make our own prisons, especially when it comes to thinking, and most of my students sometimes choose to stay in their mental prisons, preparing undersized thoughts in what they consider to be their peewee brains. A significant part of my job as their English teacher is to show them the vast – indeed, infinite – span of their minds – to help them realize that they can think any of the countless thoughts available to all of us in this measureless, mysterious universe. All they need to do is believe it.

EVER-CHANGING CLOUDS AND KIDS

"Building Up in Montana", oil, by Mary Maxam

This afternoon I was lazily gazing at some passing clouds, noticing their ever-shifting shapes and thinking, too, of my always changeable students. These clouds were the kind that seem stable, as though they are solid blobs of matter moving along, but on closer scrutiny become slowly transforming swirls of almost nothing, and I often mistake my students in a similar way. They sit in class like solid and separate entities, each one always the same, always seemingly set in her or his ways, and yet I know for sure they aren’t the same from one second to another. Like clouds, they can fool me with their ostensibly fixed appearance. They can trick me into taking them for granted – “Oh yeah, here come the same kids I taught yesterday” -- while all along they are transforming as constantly as the clouds this afternoon.

THE MIRACLE OF THOUGHTS

I used to not believe in miracles, but over the course of my many years in the classroom I have come to see them as almost commonplace, especially when it comes to thoughts. After all, isn’t a single thought – the appearance, out of the blue, of an idea – a true miracle? We’re sitting somewhere, perhaps sipping a 7up or saying something special to a friend, when presto, a thought comes to us as if on a breeze from the back of beyond. We know nothing of where it came from or why, just that it’s here with us and shaping our life a little differently. And these mysterious helpers – these powerful forces we have named “thoughts” -- come to us some tens of thousands of times each day! I often think of this during a 9th grade English class, when it would be easy to see dullness and tedium instead of miraculousness. It helps me to remember that, at any given second of any class, dozens of brand new thoughts are being born – thoughts that no thinker has exactly had since thinking began. What greater miracle is there, really, than the birth of something as fresh and strong as an idea – and it happens in a non-stop way in my classes. It may be an idea like “It’s a beautiful day outside”, or “I think I’ll call Jimmy tonight” or something more extraordinary like “I finally understand this poem”, but whatever form it takes, an idea is a darting signal of change in a person’s life: our minds are made over ever so slightly by each and every infant idea, every smallest miracle of thought.

TEENAGE STRESS AND COMPASSION

Stress in our lives can actually lead us to live more compassionately, an odd fact that I will ask my students to occasionally consider next year. The kids in my classes are usually carrying significant loads of unease and angst as they make their way through teenagedom, and it’s my guess that they have never considered the positive aspects of this stress – never realized that their toil and trouble can make them more aware of their membership in the vast, worldwide family of fretful teens. If they could step back a bit from their personal worries and get a more distant perspective, they might be able to picture the millions of other anxious kids in the world, and thus might be able to breathe a sigh of reassurance in the understanding that they are not alone. Indeed, the feeling of being alone – of being the only kid in the world who feels weighed down by stress and disorder – is the real burden, and if I could help lift that burden off them – help them realize they have brother and sister teenage sufferers all over the world – perhaps I would be a slightly better teacher. My job is to teach English, true, but my students are people with powerful feelings, and they will learn literary terms and comma rules better if they know they’re not alone in sometimes feeling bulldozed by pressures beyond their control. They will still worry, but they will worry, I hope, with more compassion for their countless worrying comrades around the world.

THE SPACIOUSNESS OF LIFE

Yesterday, my friend who is facing some serious pain and fear told me he is trying to see the genuine spaciousness of life. He said he realizes now that he has always thought of life as being small, cramped, and confining, but he has a strong feeling, these days, that he’s been completely mistaken. He has a feeling – and it has often come to him during this recent time of pain and fear – that life is not only not small or cramped or confining, but that it is, in fact, infinite – that it knows no boundaries, no start or finish, no limits of any sort. He told me he sees himself, sometimes, as if he is floating in an endless sky – no bottom, no sides, no top – and that the small life he has always called “his” – even the pain and fear -- is actually like a breeze in this endless sky, swirling effortlessly, coming and going and passing by in the immeasurable spaciousness of life, always with ease and properness. He said it’s a feeling unlike any he has ever had – a feeling of absolute naturalness and assurance.

TWO ANCIENT AND WISE TEACHERS

     A friend is facing some pain and fear, and I’ve been deeply impressed by his attitude toward these enemies all of us have faced. Actually, he told me he tries not to consider them enemies, but rather simply as conditions that have come along in his life – conditions he can’t avoid and may as well try to get to know and understand, and – who knows –maybe even appreciate (his words). He tells me he tries to think of the pain and fear as teachers, and he says they might be the best teachers he’s ever had. He says he’s even, in a strange sort of way, grateful for their presence in his life, for he’s spent many years in -- as he puts it -- a closet of anxiety and closed-mindedness, and this pain and fear might force the doors of his life wide open. For one thing, he thinks it might open him to a greater awareness of the pain and fear that billions of people are feeling at any given moment. His situation, as he puts it, will make him a member of the vast community of sufferers on our planet. He says he has high hopes for his journey with pain and fear as he looks ahead to what he will be learning from these ancient and wise teachers.
     As he embarks on his “adventure of learning” (his words), I plan to stay close to my friend, for I have a feeling he will, in turn, be a wonderful teacher for me.

ENJOYING A DRIVE THROUGH A STORM

Fortunately for me, I seem to be learning how to drive through stormy weather with a fairly comfortable attitude, and I’ve also grown more comfortable with the storms that occasionally swirl through my classroom. The coming on of clouds and showers used to take the fun out of highway driving for me, but I’ve learned to let the storms show me their magnificence more than their menace, and a similar change has happened in my teaching. Tough times come to any teacher – poorly planned lessons, little misbehaviors here and there, a thorough feeling of monotony among the students – and I’ve slowly learned that leaning into these obstacles is better than resisting them. There’s something striking about a storm descending across a road, if only I can open myself to it, and the same is true of the trials that sometimes test the wisdom of every teacher. When a lesson loses momentum and makes me feel like a failure, I can try my best to bring my attention to the strange aptness of it all – the fact that it happened, the fact that something else will happen in the next moment, the fact that suitable mysteries will continue to happen forever. Finding a certain fascinating properness in storms on highways or collapses in the classroom is not easy, but I’m learning to do it – and am learning to relax and smile more in the process.

TEENAGE RIVERS

"Mighty Mississippi", oil, by Kristin Grevich

I grew up near a marvel of constant motion called the Mississippi River, and I realized, not long ago, that my teenage students are similar marvels. It’s interesting that we give a name to a river, as though it is a solid, static object that can be conveniently labeled and categorized, as though it is always the same, always just the old, unchanged “Mississippi River”, and not the always transforming, always newfangled phenomenon we know it to be. My students, too, have names -- Maria, Cooper, Kiona, Gaelen, and so on – as if they are packages of humanity that stay the same day by day and therefore can be easily classified and compartmentalized. In that way of thinking, the Mississippi is always just the same Mississippi, and Maria is always pretty much the same Maria. Of course, we know this is ridiculous, for we know that both rivers and kids are relentlessly changing phenomena, never the same from second to second. Rivers rush by us with their countless and ever-shifting currents, and my students’ lives flow past me with equally mystifying variableness. In a single 48-minute class, a zillion changes happen to each of my students – new oxygen, new cells, new blood, new thoughts, new feelings. It’s as if I’m standing on the banks of many human rivers, pretending they’re the same as yesterday, pretending their names capture their reality, pretending I can understand who and what they are – but knowing all along that they are as mystifying as the mighty Mississippi.

WATCHING OUR THOUGHTS PASS BY

"Bluebonnet Stream 3", oil, by V....Vaughn

At times, my teenage students sometimes seem entirely too full of distress and anguish, and it’s then that I should ask them to simply watch their thoughts for a few minutes. Like most of us, the kids in my classes usually take their thoughts way too seriously, as if their thoughts are their rulers instead of just short-lived bubbles in the vast stream of their lives. I can sometimes see in their faces that thoughts are totally holding sway over them. In a sense, the students, like so many of us, bow in obeisance to thoughts like “I’m not smart”, or “This assignment is too hard”, or “Maybe I have a serious illness”, instead of simply observing the thoughts as they pass through their minds. It’s strange, how something as ephemeral and fleeting as a thought can throw our lives into absolute disarray. It happens to me as often as to the students, a thought suddenly soaring over me like some god that’s been given the power to rule. Here comes a thought like “maybe this headache is a  sign of something serious” and there goes my ability to dispassionately appreciate the moment-to-moment miracles of life. This coming year, I think I will occasionally ask the students to join me in simply observing our thoughts instead of throwing ourselves at their feet. When I’ve succeeded in doing this myself, a strange feeling of peacefulness has almost always come to me, as if I were sitting on the bank of a stream silently watching the currents and bubbles pass by. Even one minute of this peaceful observation of our thoughts by my students and me might make for a noiseless center of stillness in our stressed and anxious lives.

FAMILY FUN AT A WATERPARK

Today I enjoyed a wonderful outing at a water park in Douglas, MA. I drove up with Jaimie and the kids and met Luke and Josh at this one-of-a-kind place on a winding country road in southern Mass. The carefully manicured and cared-for property is on a large reservoir, and features several towering, winding water slides, which all of us rode down, and most of us thoroughly enjoyed. (Josh and Ava said very clearly that it was not fun.) When not riding the slides, we waded and splashed in the shallow water by the picnic grounds. I also had a chance to have a good chat with Luke, and playing with Josh was a special treat, since I don’t see him as often as I see Ava and Noah.

PREPARING A GARDEN -- AND A LESSON

"Garden Seat", oil, by Debra Sisson

Getting a new perennial flower garden going this summer has been a fun project for me, and it’s reminded me of a no-nonsense admonition about both gardening and teaching: you can’t get flowers growing or students learning without systematic and scrupulous preparation. When I started on the garden last week, I simply didn’t realize how time-consuming the preparation stages would be, mostly involving the thorough removal of old grass and weeds and the spreading of fertilizer and mulch. I guess I had innocently imagined that flower gardens can get going overnight – just get some plants, plop them in holes, and have fun watching them blossom. After a full week of work just to prepare the soil, there’s no doubt in my mind that I didn’t understand much about starting a garden – and there are times when I’m not so sure I know much about starting a learning process for my students. Now and then I find myself rushing into a lesson instead of letting the learning proceed in a well-paced, well-considered manner. I always plan my daily lessons, but that’s sort of like planning how and where to plant the flowers. It’s an important step, for sure, but it must always be preceded (and this is what I sometimes disregard) by careful preparation far in advance of the individual lesson. The “soil” of the lesson must be plowed and nurtured in the days and weeks preceding it, otherwise learning, like hastily planted flowers, will fold up and fade away.

WEEDING GARDENS AND ESSAYS

"The Flower Garden", acryllic, by D. Lacey Derstine

I’ve been having fun finding and pulling weeds from our perennial flower garden, and I can’t keep from thinking how similar it is to “weeding” a piece of writing. What I’ve noticed, once again, is the way weeding the garden gives the flowers more room to be the center of attention. Getting the wild stuff out of the way creates open spaces around the flowers, thereby drawing the focus more fully toward them. When the garden is packed full with both flowers and weeds, nothing is especially conspicuous or striking, but when the weeds are gone and generous spaces of soil surround the flowers, the flowers can flaunt their beauties freely. Next year, I must often remind my students of this basic principle of gardening, because a similar rule applies to their writing. It’s hard for them to realize, but deleting the unnecessary words is just as important as writing the necessary ones. Or, I might put it this way: in composing a good essay, de-writing is as indispensable as writing. When a student places a special truth in a paragraph, it’s crucial that there be “open space” around the truth so as to make it more prominent, and the open space is gained by getting rid of any useless, weedy words. I’ve been freeing up flowers these days by digging out the weeds, and next year I’ll show my students how to give emphasis to the special words in their essays by weeding out the needless ones.

LISTENING TO BIRD SONGS AND STUDENTS ALL DAY LONG

"Summer Song", oil, by Mike Beeman

I’ve often thought of making a one-day project of simply listening with attentiveness to birdsongs, but strangely, now that I think of it, I’ve never considered listening to my students in such a particular and single-minded manner. Our large yard is busy with the songs of birds all spring and summer – a kind of concert it is, from dawn to darkness, day after day – and it would be a pleasure to pass the hours noticing the infinite variety of songs. It could be a serious project – an important assignment for myself, a mission, you might say. I could start at dawn, sitting out on the patio in perfect peace, with a pencil and notebook for notes, and a stimulating supply of snacks and ice water, and just listen – just enjoy the inspiring performances from the trees. I imagine myself noting the subtle variations in the songs (although I’m not at all sure how I would do this, being musically challenged), keeping track of where the songs came from, and following with satisfaction the assorted melodies.  I can also, now that I’m thinking about this, imagine myself taking similarly meticulous notes as I listen to my students throughout a given day. Just for one day I could make it my mission to be an attentive listener (instead of, as is often the case, a distracted chatterer and doer).  I could take it on as a special assignment, a kind of “charge” I would choose to give myself, sort of a unique duty for a day.  On that day my talking would be reduced to the smallest amount possible. Mr. Salsich would be seen but not heard much, since he’s doing a special task -- listening like a scientist to the countless ways his students use spoken words

I had a perfect Father’s Day – a Sunday filled, I might say, with the good flow of life. I spent the early morning -- after a breakfast of toasted bagel, egg and kale omelet, and coffee – working outside in the old perennial garden beside the driveway. It was not difficult labor, and the two-or-so hours passed in a smooth, almost unnoticed flow. It was a pleasure to get the garden ready for some graceful placing of flowers later in the day. Then, after lunch Jaimie and I took a kayak ride on a lake about 20 minutes down the road. We paddled across the windy lake and found the entrance to a quiet flowing river. We parked the kayaks just in front of some fast-flowing rapids tumbling down into pools, and Jaimie waded up and took an dip in one of the pools. I sat down in some shallow water and just enjoyed the steady surge of this very old and reliable river.

I had a comfortable and cool day today – temp in the 60’s with light rain most of the day. It gave me a chance to choose some quiet work – reading, writing, driving to do a little shopping. Jaimie was at school so the peace of the house and woods was just mine. Now, at a little past five, I’m watching an old war movie, “12 0’clock High”, with Gregory Peck. Ah, how nice can Friday get??

EATING STRAWBERRIES

"Strawberry", oil, by Hall Groat II

He eats strawberries

the way winds find their way,

with leisure and casualness,

or the way a winsome day passes,

with a serenity

he wishes he could keep in a basket,

but he can’t,

just like he can’t keep strawberries

from coming to his mouth

in a slow-moving and sumptuous way.

FOLLOWING ROAD LINES

"Follow the Road", oil,  by Carol Marine

Driving to do some shopping yesterday, I kept noticing the faded dividing lines on the road, and began wondering whether the lines of some of my classroom lessons this year were faded and hard to follow. I guess I usually take for granted these useful lines that lead me along the roads I travel, and I may occasionally be just as lackadaisical about setting out obvious routes and itineraries for my students to track. When I drive somewhere, I always instinctively trust the lines, signs, and markings along the roads, and my students should have a similar confidence in the precision and clarity of my lessons. I started wondering this morning what would happen if there were no dividing lines, road signs, traffic lights, or laws of the road, and, correspondingly, no clear signs whatsoever to help my students steer their way through a lesson. Obviously, chaos would hold sway in both instances – cars careening around in confusion, and students stumbling indiscriminately toward a finish line far off in the fog. For sure, there might be a cheerful feeling of looseness and liberty -- both cars and kids would feel free to go where they wish -- but the lack of order would make getting anywhere almost impossible. My job as an English teacher is not to mollify the students by letting them loose to go where they wish, but to help them reach specific destinations – and the best way to do that is to set out clear signs, markers, lights, and dividing lines. They can’t always go where they wish in my class, but they can, I hope, sometimes feel the freedom that comes from following clearly marked roads. When I drive somewhere, I can usually relax a little as I let the road lead me on, and I’d like the same sense of leisure and repose to be accessible to my students as they follow the sometimes complex but crystal clear roads of my lesson.

ON THE PATIO

"Roses in the Morning", oil, by Roxanne Steed

Birds at the feeder,

flowers falling over each other,

the fullness of the sky above.

He sits like a silent stone,

staying just where he's supposed to be,

where the always sensible universe

wants him to be. He belongs

to an association of privileged people,

of which all of us are members.

A SINGLE LIGHT

"East End Sunlight", oil, by Cooper Dragonette

Some birds I noticed yesterday
were building mansions
made of sticks and leaves,
and little rivers of happiness
were passing among them.
They were pointing toward pleasure
with their beaks,
and breaking sorrow into pieces
in the summer sky.

A single light shines
inside this universe
which knows no boundaries,
just like the joyfulness
of these birds.

THE ADVANTAGES OF FOLLOWING

This morning on the way to school, when I fell in behind a steady, seemingly safe driver and stayed with him for nearly thirty minutes, it brought to mind the occasional advantages of following, both on the interstate and in my classes. Staying behind this driver today made it easy for me to relax and enjoy the drive, just as following my directions on an assignment may allow my students to loosen up somewhat and perhaps actually get some pleasure from an assignment. If they’re following me on the path I set out for them, the writing or reading could resemble a leisurely trip down the highway for them – turning, so to speak, when I turn, braking when I brake, and sitting back and settling in for a reasonably stress-free journey. Does it mean the students can’t be as creative as they might, since they’re following me instead of striking out on their own special writing and reading roads? Well, perhaps, but isn’t efficiency just as important as creativity? Isn’t getting a job done smoothly and correctly as valuable as getting it done with zest and gusto?

THE POWER OF SUNSHINE -- AND UNDERSTANDING

Last week, after days of steady rain, revitalizing sunshine swept across the countryside one morning and made me think about the brightening that happens in my classes when understanding suddenly comes to us. We might say quite casually, “Oh now I understand”, but those words don’t come close to capturing what happens when some kind of realization all of a sudden presents itself to us. It is, in fact, a fully transformative experience, sort of as comprehensive as what happens when sunlight lets itself loose after showery days. Even something as seemingly small as finally seeing the sense in a passage from Julius Caesar can remake a student’s inner life as thoroughly as a day of the best sunshine. It’s that “aha” moment, that instant when understanding remakes our minds like breezes remake my backyard’s air. One undersized but spanking new thought can do it, just something as simple as an insight into one sentence in A Tale of Two Cities. One moment you’re Jimmy Smith or Mr. Salsich, and the next moment you’re a thoroughly new and vivid Jimmy Smith or Mr. Salsich, someone the world, for its benefit, needs to know.

SEEING THE WIDE OPEN SPACES

When I’m teaching, I sometimes purposely see in my mind the far-flung plains of Kansas, for it makes a good reminder for me to take the widest possible view of the vast spaces presented to my students and me during class. Since it’s all too easy to see myself and the students as prisoners in a confined space called "9th grade English", struggling with countless small, restricted academic tasks, my imagined scene in Kansas (where I studied for several years) spreads it all out so I can see the enormous scope of what we’re actually dealing with in English class. Like the rolling, seemingly endless swells of the prairie, limitless works of literature and innumerable ways of writing words and sentences make up the landscape of our work. If we discussed the meaning of Julius Caesar forever, would we even come close to the final limits of the subject and a satisfying finish, or can anyone possibly count the numbers of ways a distinguished sentence can be composed? Truly, in the middle of teaching a class, I sometimes feel like I’m lost in the center of a never-ending Kansas, which, if it weren’t so stimulating and inspiring, could be a rather alarming feeling.

“THANK YOU VERY MUCH. I HAVE NO COMPLAINTS.”

 When I heard recently about someone who died with these last words, it occurred to me, somewhat unexpectedly, that I could probably say them at the end of almost every English class. In fact, I do try to say thanks to the kids as they leave the classroom, since they all bring remarkable gifts to class each day. Some bring newborn wisdom won from other classes or video games or books or movies or small talk with friends, while others simply bring their special behavior, be it stillness or noisiness, openhandedness or restraint, confidence or timidity. Some, of course, bring occasional discourtesy, but even that is a gift we benefit from as we promptly bring their incivility around again to graciousness and learn a good lesson. I could also say “I have no complaints” at the end of any class, because, honestly, what is there to complain about in working with flourishing, audacious, and essentially kindhearted kids? Certainly there are mistakes and disappointments in every class, but that’s no worse than sunny skies turning temporarily cloudy or a stream swerving one way around a rock instead of another. Who can complain about the way waves wash onto a beautiful beach on different days, or about the strange and astonishing occurrences in a class of teenagers? It’s totally clear to me that this life -- and this work of teaching -- deserve way more gratitude than grumbling.

EVERYTHING IS CONTINGENT

I often fall into the odd belief that what I accomplish in the classroom is dependent only on me, forgetting the wonderful fact that everything in the universe depends on everything else. Every sentence I say to the students, every glance and gesture and shift of my arms, comes about because countless other things came about. Even in the minutes preceding any class, dozens of miniscule events occur that can cause what happens in the class to alter ever so slightly. A sip of fine coffee coupled with some strange, accidental thoughts and a few words from a friend as the students enter could shift my lesson a shade this way or that. It’s actually somewhat uncanny to consider the innumerable numbers of occurrences that lead up to every event in one of my classes. Any words I speak in class wouldn’t have occurred to me if some event called A hadn’t happened, and A wouldn’t have happened if B and C hadn’t happened, and B and C wouldn’t have happened if D, E, F, G, and H hadn’t happened … and on and on back to who knows where. The fact is that everything’s contingent on everything else. I would have no chance of being a good teacher today if a few zillion things hadn’t occurred in precisely the correct way – including my mom falling in love with Pete Salsich, the doctor delivering me successfully, the sun shining a certain way on some day in ’67, the egg-whites and blueberry bagel this morning making a flawless breakfast -- all of which reveals teaching as the irrepressible, chancy, and exhilarating enterprise it truly is.

THE BENEFITS OF YIELDING

As I make my long daily drive to school on the interstate, I often have to swing to the outside lane to let a driver enter the highway, and this morning it made me think of the satisfaction that yielding can bring in English class. One dictionary includes “give something up” in the definition of the word, and I, for one, must give up many things during class if I’m doing my work well. I sometimes have to give up my own esteemed ideas as I listen to the students share theirs. No matter how basic and unsophisticated they might seem, the students’ ideas have just as much right to “the road” as mine do, and I must be ready to graciously yield and let their thoughts come along beside my own. After all, we’re all hopefully traveling toward the same destination -- the truth -- so why not surrender some space in the discussion to their perhaps ill-considered but often thought-provoking ideas? Of course, the same applies to the students as well. I insist on the importance of yielding as they discuss a topic among themselves. A discussion is not a contest to see who’s superior, nor is it a free-for-all to find which student is the fastest and loudest talker. A classroom discussion, like a drive on the highway, should be simply a satisfying effort to both get somewhere and enjoy the journey, which means all participants must be willing to sometimes wait, slow down, listen, and possibly yield. For both my students and me, yielding makes for a far more elevating experience than just pressing forward and hard-driving our own ideas and disregarding others who, like cars, seek to merge into the flow.

PRAISE FOR EVERYTHING

Now and then there is talk among teachers about pulling back praise, about saving it for only the most special occasions, but I tend to think in a different way, that we actually should be giving praise more often. Praise might be said to be the expression of respect or gratitude toward someone, and shouldn’t I always respect and be grateful for my students? I don’t have to always like the way they behave in class or carry out their English duties, but my respect for them as distinct human beings, and my gratitude toward them for being precisely who they are, should never waver. I can give a student a failing grade because she made a mess of an assignment, but at the same time  carry praise in my heart for her secret and sometimes startling uniqueness. I can berate a boy for his silly behavior, but still be grateful that such a disquieting and interesting student is in my class. Even a lesson that collapses in boredom and puzzlement deserves some praise, for how else can I learn but through my own errors and breakdowns? Truly, don’t we learn best by being broken and then mended and renovated? Don’t even our occasional classroom disasters deserve some praise?