Journal: 1/16/06

Oh, what a bitter cold day it was! The wind screamed all night, and when I awoke the windows were frosted over with cold, and the computer said it was 8 degrees. I shivered just thinking about it. The coffee, steaming and fresh, seemed especially flavorsome this morning. I stayed home for a few hours, snug in my warm apartment, and graded some papers. I listened to a wonderful CD of Stephen Foster songs as I worked, and I’m afraid the emotions of the songs raised the grades pretty much across the board. There wasn’t a paper that got much lower than a B+, thanks to those lilting, melancholy songs. Later, toward evening, I trudged up and down the Granite Street hill a few times, listening to Beethoven’s violin concerto. The traffic was too noisy to really appreciate the music, but nonetheless, I found it inspiring to be marching along in the frigid air with Beethoven as a companion.

On Teaching: "Oysters or Flowers?"

In Dickens’ Dombey and Son, the author compares two kinds of teaching – that which attempts to pry open students’ minds as if they were oysters, and that which allows students’ minds to open in a natural, gradual way, like flowers. Teachers may be tempted to say, “Well, of course I prefer the second kind. Of course students should not be pried open like oysters!” – but I wonder if the oyster approach might play a larger role in teaching than we realize. I wonder if we don’t often, without even realizing it, think of students as objects that need to be forcefully opened so that we can put information into them. I wonder if we don’t do a lot more prying than allowing in our classrooms. Actually, the idea of allowing is one that seems foreign to many teachers and schools, because it appears to imply a lack of control. Many teachers feel that all of their training was directed at learning to manage, lead, guide, manipulate, and influence students – not to allow them to grow and blossom on their own. Teachers may ask, “Why are we even necessary, if the students can just blossom on their own?” I have an answer for that: Teachers are as necessary for their students as gardeners are for their flowers. Like the gardener, the teacher nourishes, protects, and generally provides a wholesome environment. Like the gardener, the teacher has the complicated task of arranging conditions that will be conducive to the process of growth. The teacher’s job is a demanding and essential one, not because she’s prying oysters open, but because she’s allowing -- making it possible for-- her students to naturally blossom into their beautiful adult selves.

Journal: 1/15/06

I am looking out my window (it’s 4:32 pm) at an astonishing scene. The sky is a very dark blue, and below it the roofs of the houses are shadowy and gray as evening comes on. However, between the sky and the roofs, the trees are covered with a band of perfectly lovely deep orange light from the setting sun. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
* * * * *
Yesterday I spent a beautiful morning with my grandson, Noah. Jaimie brought him down for the day, and Jan and I met them at the Mystic Aquarium for a few hours of happiness. Noah bounced from exhibit to exhibit, utterly enthralled with everything. I was enthralled, too, though far more by this remarkable little boy than by the sea creatures in tanks.
* * * * *
The weather turned piercingly cold today. I went for a shortened walk in the park, struggling against the frigid winds as I climbed my usual steps. I was out for only about 20 minutes before I headed back – panting and shivering – to the warmth of my comfortable apartment.

Journal: 1/14/06

A dense fog slowly settled down across southern Connecticut yesterday. It was slightly hazy and damp in the morning, and grew more so as the day progressed. The grounds of the school seemed more shadowy and strange with each hour. Walking from building to building, I felt like I was part of a mystery story. I drove up to Westfarms Mall in the afternoon (to get an iPod), and that’s when I really noticed the fog. It had grown very thick, so much so that the headlights of other cars seemed to be advancing toward me out of an ominous cloud. I drove cautiously, guiding the car along the slick roads and squinting into the foggy darkness ahead. It was worth it, though, because I found the Apple store, purchased the iPod, and drove home anticipating many hours of happy listening. Interestingly, I barely noticed the fog on the return trip.

Journal: 1/13/06

Yesterday we had a most wonderful assembly to honor Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the students perform so seriously and responsibly. Each piece of the program was carried out in a smooth manner, as though they had been practicing for weeks. I was especially impressed with one 8th grade girl, who gave us, with great emotion and elocution, a portion of Dr. King’s most famous speech.

* * * * *
I came home right after school and took a delightful walk in the park. The winter daylight was still bright, though growing dim and golden as the evening came on, and there was a balmy, April-like feel to the air. I went up and down the steep steps with youthful fervor.

* * * * *
I’m thoroughly enjoying Dickens’ Dombey and Son. Somehow he manages to create characters that I genuinely care about, and that also help me understand my own life better. For a few minutes each day, I live in their world, not mine, and in doing so, I, by some means, learn more about mine.

On Teaching: "A Comforting Thought"

In the midst of the turmoil of teaching English to adolescents, it’s comforting to remember that my students are in the very early stages of their lives as readers and writers. Most of them will live well into their 80’s and even 90’s, which gives them abundant time to develop the finer skills related to the use of their language. For at least 75 years, the boys and girls in my class will be reading and writing – and probably getting gradually better at it. This is a reassuring thought, one that always slows me down, enables me to take a deep breath, and helps me to remember that there’s no hurry. It’s not imperative that my 13-year-old students master the art of visualizing while reading, for they have decades ahead of them in which to practice. It’s not a major disaster in their lives if they don’t become superior readers of Dickens in 9th grade. Perhaps they’ll discover his greatness, as I did, in their 40’s, or even in their 80’s. Life is long. There are zillions of days left for my students to reach ever higher plateaus in the practice of reading and writing. This is not to say that I shouldn’t continue to be the best teacher I can possibly be. I need to carry on with taking my work as an English teacher seriously – just not too seriously. My students won’t be condemned to a life of lousy reading and writing if they don’t master the use of transitions and reader’s journals in my class. After all, they have something like twenty-nine thousand days left.

Journal: 1/12/06

I’m continuing with my (very) early morning studies, and also with my evening outdoor exercises. Yesterday morning, as usual, I arose at 3:30 (after 6 ½ hours of good sleep) and studied and wrote for two productive hours. I truly love that early time. My mind seems fresh and rested, and I find the silence of the dark morning stimulating. I feel like I’m preparing myself, in a serious and almost ceremonial way, for the journey through the forthcoming day. The last thing I do before leaving for school is sit in my comfortable chair under the lamplight for thirty minutes of reading. I’m just getting into Dickens’ Dombey and Son these days, and it’s a joy to follow the adventures of his appealing characters for a half hour each morning. I think I carry some of his graceful sentences and profound wisdom with me throughout the day. I also love my evening walks up and down the long, steep hill of Granite Street. It’s lit by streetlights that send down a pleasant golden glow, and the sidewalks are amazingly wide. It’s as if I’m walking on a parade grounds or in an outdoor stadium. The cars rush noisily past me, but I’m almost oblivious to them, my thoughts being lost in absorbing meditations of one sort or another.

On Teaching:

I came upon the word "salute" in the dictionary today, and of course it led me into thinking about my work as a teacher. The first definition -- "to greet or address with an expression of welcome, good will, or respect" -- caught my attention immediately, because it seemed to capture an important mind-set that I need to develop and maintain. When my students come to my room each day, I should "salute" them, meaning I should unmistakably show them that they are welcome in my room. I should make it a point to specifically greet or address each student as he or she enters. They need to know that their entrance into my room is a significant event in my day, one that deserves my strict attention. By greeting them in an attentive, even somewhat ceremonial, way, I not only let them know they are welcome in my room, that I want them to be here, but --as the definition suggests -- I also make it clear that I want only the best things to happen to them. I have "good will" toward them. My "will", or wish, is that today's English class will bring them important rewards. To that end, I will have carefully planned a lesson that has a good chance of being beneficial to them, and my heartfelt greeting, or salute, lets them know that. Finally, my greeting should be the kind that tells my students I have the highest kind of respect for them. They are fellow human beings with astonishing powers and talents, and I can only be a good teacher for them if I thoroughly value what they are. Hence, my daily greeting should never be silly, capricious, or condescending. It should, indeed, be a salute -- a greeting to a group of young people for whom I have immense esteem.

Poem: "An Invitation"

Please join us
for a very ordinary day.
Don’t think anything special will happen.
The sun will be its usual
fair-haired self,
the sky will unroll
its everyday magnificence,
and the earth beneath your feet
will follow its customarily perfect path
through the paradise of space.
Don’t expect
anything extraordinary.
Above us, a zillion stars
will sail together
like a silver fleet,
and the blood of our bodies
will send its ships
to all our zillion cells.

Please join us.
It will be
an unusually commonplace day.
The present moments
will make their characteristic
exquisite music.

Journal: 1/11/06

Yesterday I came home from school early to take Matt’s car to the shop, and it gave me an opportunity to enjoy a late afternoon in winter outdoors, instead of inside my classroom. I drove the car to the shop, and then walked back the few blocks to my apartment. It was a chilly afternoon, but I had my heavy sport jacket on and I tucked my wool scarf close around my neck, so I was comfortable as I strolled along. I got a glimpse of the golden sun low down among the trees in the park, so I decided to change clothes and do my daily exercise walking in the park while the sun was setting. It was a good decision. I climbed the steps by the pond eight times, and I was enthralled, as I climbed, by the lovely look of the park on this winter day. I wished I had brought my camera, because the sights were something to behold. The pond, with its silveriness and its shining reflection of the sunlight, was especially beautiful. The surface, as I saw it from the hillside, seemed completely motionless, which created a perfect mirror effect. It looked like a huge piece of miraculous glass someone had set down in the park centuries ago. I glanced over at it many times as I trudged up and down the steps. I walked back home breathing heavily, but happy that my walking had brought me the satisfaction of seeing the park dressed up for a winter afternoon.

On Teaching: "Peeling a Book"

Browsing through one of my dictionaries today, I came across the word “peel” and was immediately intrigued by it. The first definition was “to strip or cut away the skin, rind, or bark from”, and I thought instantly of the way my students and I are reading A Tale of Two Cities. The book is like a large piece of succulent fruit, and we have picked it from the tree and are carefully peeling away the layers to get at the inside “juices”, the interior themes of the book. We are taking our sweet time about it, because, as with any tasty cuisine, we want to extend the enjoyable experience as long as possible. (I’m sure my students don’t find the book nearly as “tasty” as I do, but...oh, well, at least I can hope.) Many people read books in a different way. Following the fruit analogy, they don’t take the time to peel a book and get to the luscious insides; rather, you might say they just hurriedly scrape away at the skin, get as much as they can as quickly as possible, and then toss the book aside, largely uneaten. Often the best parts of the book – the beauty and wisdom that lie beneath the surface – are left completely untouched by these hasty readers. If you’re reading a fluffy beach book, that approach may be acceptable, but with a large, delicious piece of fruit like a classic novel or a Shakespeare play, a more meticulous approach is called for – one like my students and I are employing. We realize that there’s no rush, just as there’s no rush in eating a scrumptious orange. We’re painstakingly peeling the layers of the book away and are beginning (I hope) to discover some of the secret, flavorsome inner parts. It’s a slow process, but that’s the way it often is with the truly profound experiences in our lives.

Journal: 1/10/06

Yesterday there was a touch of spring in the air – in early January! It was somewhat mild even in the morning when I drove to school, and I could feel it in my first few classes. That may be why I was unusually effervescent as I was teaching. I felt utterly loose and satisfied. At one point, I leaned back in my chair, popped in a Junior Mint, smiled, and said, “Life is good, boys and girls. Life is good.” The lovely weather continued all day. When I walked down the walkway to the library or the gym, I glanced out at the field, and there seemed to be a spring-like haze hanging over everything. The day seemed to be shining the way they sometimes do in May. In the late afternoon, just as darkness was coming on, for my daily exercise I climbed the Granite Street hill many times, and again I felt the pleasant quality of the air. I was in the heart of winter, with weeks of frozen days and nights ahead of me, and yet I could sense the springtime standing not too far off. As I walked, I swung my arms with special enthusiasm.

Poem: "Listening"

He heard
his mighty heart
holding itself steady
in his chest.
He heard a tree
telling its story to a storm,
and the tires of cars
singing the songs of open roads.
When we walked,
he heard coins calling out in his pocket.
He heard heaven
quietly opening its doors
every moment of his day.
He heard happiness
sailing in his bloodstream
like small boats.

Poem: "Writing in the Early Morning"

He was privileged
to hold his cup in his hand
and sip the coffee.
It was an honor
to have another day
driving up to his house
in its fancy car. It was
a mark of distinction
that his toast had turned
the perfect shade of brown,
and that butter
was shimmering on its surface.
And he was fortunate
to find a word
just when he most needed it,
shining like a special award.

On Teaching: "Pace"

I must confess that I have rarely thought about the importance of pace in my teaching. I guess I'm like a runner who just goes out each day and starts running, with little or no thought given as to how fast to run. I make careful lesson plans for each class, and I think I'm generally a hard-working teacher, but, as far as pace goes, I just sort of blindly push ahead. Each day's pace is about the same. I set out my plans, wait for the starting gun, and then run for the finish line. What would it mean for a teacher to "pace" himself, and to pace his students? Well, it certainly would mean taking a long-range view of the teaching now and then -- looking ahead on the road of days and weeks to see what the "course" looks like. (It's interesting that we call English a "course", as if it is, indeed, a race of some sort.) If I think of a single week as a separate "race", it might mean starting the week slowly, so that we can end the week on a fast-paced, energetic note. Thinking about the entire year as one long endurance race, it might mean planning week-long "breaks", when we slow the pace and refresh our energies. I could even think of each day as a race the students run, in which my 47- minute class is simply one stage. Thinking of it this way, I would plan for a relaxing, reenergizing, slower pace for at least a few minutes of the class, knowing that the kids are in the middle of an all day race. I might whisper to myself now and then: "Pace yourself, Ham -- and pace these hard-running kids."

On Teaching: "Inventing in the Classroom"

Since I’ve always wanted my students to be “inventive”, I decided to do a little dictionary work concerning the word. It’s interesting that it derives from the Latin “venire”, which means “to come”. Hmmm...does this mean that, when we invent something, we don’t actually create it, but simply “come to” it, as if it was already existing and we simply found it? In that sense, is inventing actually more like discovering ? The more I thought about it, the more I liked that idea, especially as it relates to my teaching. I have often told my students that writing and reading is like making, or building, something, but perhaps I should also introduce them to the idea that writing and reading is like discovering something. Instead of thinking of themselves as builders laboring away at an essay or an interpretation, perhaps they could see themselves as explorers searching for beautiful paragraphs and deep understandings. What I like about this notion is that the paragraphs and understandings are already there, waiting to be found. That suggests that my students, instead of trying so hard to be creators, deep thinkers, and hard workers, should focus more attention on being alert and circumspect searchers. The truths are out there. Like lost lakes and hidden valleys, the beautiful essays and profound interpretations are waiting for my students to come to, discover, or “invent” them.

Journal: 1/08/06

It’s been an utterly comfortable weekend for me. I almost feel guilty to have spent so many hours in total liberty and wellbeing. I did nothing that I didn’t want to do, and nothing that I didn’t enjoy. From watching good football games to reading some chapters in Dickens’ Dombey and Son to working quietly in my classroom, everything I did had the feel of harmony and rightness. It was a cold weekend, but that didn’t bother me at all. Actually, I didn’t go outdoors much. I had five good days of hill-climbing exercise during the week, so I took the weekend off and enjoyed the warm indoors. How fortunate I am to be able to slightly nudge a thermostat and feel instant heat rising around me! The only regretful thing about the weekend is that I didn’t get to see my grandson. Jaimie and Jess were busy with friends, but actually, it worked out pleasantly for me, because it gave me still more hours to enjoy my peaceful solitude. Next weekend I’ll spend some exciting hours with young Noah; this weekend was for tranquil and productive hours by myself.

Journal: 1/07/06

Yesterday I completed a good week at school – well, half a week, since we started back to school from the vacation on Wednesday. I wasn’t a perfect teacher, by any means, but I did a few things right, which always cheers me. First of all, I managed to write a reflective paragraph about teaching each day before I left school in the afternoon. Despite wanting to get home as soon as possible after a long day, I took about 20 extra minutes to think and write on an aspect of teaching. I found a topic for the paragraphs by simply browsing through my dictionary until I hit upon a word that seemed to speak to me. On Thursday, for instance, I wrote about the word “ignite” and how it relates to teaching. I enjoyed writing those paragraphs, and I hope I can do one each school day. This week I also managed to maintain a composed and gracious mood during all my classes. This is probably the area in which I’ve made the greatest improvement in my teaching over the years, and I’m pleased with the change. I’ve grown increasingly able to accept whatever happens in the classroom. Not that I necessarily like whatever happens, but I can accept that it happened and calmly move on. For instance, now and then the 9th graders started giggling about something slightly off topic, and, instead of resisting it and causing a commotion, I accepted the giggling, giggled a little myself, and then we all got back to work. I think my students see me as a relaxed, calm, patient, and confident person, and that’s good. That’s exactly the kind of teacher I want to be.

On Teaching: Looseners and Untie-ers

Since this is the time of year when many people are thinking about resolutions for the new year, I've been passing some time considering how resolutions might be important for both my students and me. As I usually do, I went to my dictionary first and discovered, to my surprise, that the word derives from the Latin "resolvere", which means "to loosen or untie". That puzzled me for a bit, but soon it occurred to me that when you make a resolution, you do it because you have "untied" the knotty problem related to what steps you should take in your life. You've "loosened" the log-jam of questions, puzzles, and decisions, and now you know exactly what you need to do -- so you make a resolution. You resolve to take some definite steps. This makes me think of my students and me. In our academic work we often feel utterly "tied in knots" by all the bewildering tasks we face. As a teacher, I sometimes feel as though I'm stuck in a mental traffic jam, with dozens of ideas pushing up against me and causing a numbing mental gridlock, and I'm sure my students feel the same. What we all need to do is make a decision, a resolution, about where we should be going next, but we can't really do that until the knots of our minds are untied and the traffic jams are loosened. Instead of making quick-fix suggestions or mapping out plans for myself and my students, I should be quietly helping them -- and me -- sort out the details of English class so we can "see our way clear" and make some decisions about what to work on next. Instead of being a drill sergeant, pushing us ahead to task after task, perhaps I need to be more of a loosener, an untie-er. If my students and I are going to make resolutions about the next few months in English class, we first have to resolve our confusions -- untie and loosen them -- and then the proper course of action will probably become clear.

Journal: 1/06/06

I wore a new light blue v-neck sweater to school yesterday, with a tie, and received a surprising number of compliments about it. Every so often, someone would suddenly say something like, “Ham, that sweater looks so nice on you”, or “What a pretty color that is.” It occurred to me, toward the end of the day, that nothing like that had happened to me in years. I just go about my business as a teacher, not expecting anyone to notice my clothes, so receiving effusive compliments, especially so many, was a startling, and very pleasant, experience for me.

On teaching: Ignite or Dampen?

In my long teaching career, I'm sure there have been any number of times when I have probably said, or thought, that I would like to "ignite" a class, but lately I've been musing about the ramifications of that word. It means "to light a fire", and it suggests, to a teacher, a roomful of students whose thoughts and feelings have been aroused by the content of the lesson. Every teacher, I suppose, wants to have this happen in his or her classroom. It's what we sort of vaguely hope for day after day, year after year -- a classroom where excitement is constantly flaring up into bonfires. However, I wonder if we give much thought to the opposite process of dampening. I wonder if tamping down fires might be as important in the teaching process as igniting them. I guess my problem with "fires" in the classroom is that it's very hard to control them, just as it is in nature. As I write, there are wildfires raging across the Southwest, destroying everything in their paths, and there are countless teachers, I'm sure, who have somehow ignited classes to the point where feelings and ideas are flaring every which way, and neither students nor teachers are sure what, if anything, is being learned. It may be that, if I want to become a truly excellent teacher, I need to focus some attention on learning how to occasionally dampen the inner fires of my students, so they can burn in a harmless, productive, and even beautiful manner. Fires, after all, can be lovely and inspiring things in our lives -- carefully controlled hearth fires, for instance. Perhaps I can think of each of my classes as a room filled with the quietly glowing flames of my students' thoughts and feelings -- thoughts that have been carefully considered and expressed, and feelings that are not blazing wildly, but are instead burning healthily and beautifully, with the help of a little judicious dampening, now and then, on my part.

Meditation: Reading and Doing

My spiritual reading each morning is a tranquil and inspiring experience. I usually listen to some soft classical music as I read, and there are typically a few candles burning in the room. The silence of the night is still present, giving me the feeling that I am preparing myself for the coming day before it arrives. I often finish the last sentence of the reading with a burst of joy, knowing that I have been in contact with some of the great truths of the universe. However, reading is one thing, and doing is quite another. To paraphrase a popular saying, I can read the read, but I can’t always do the do. I often completely forget about my morning reading as I go through the busy minutes of my school day. It’s as though the reading fills my pockets with valuable coins, but the pockets have holes in them and the coins slip quietly out during the day. Perhaps today I can wear pockets without holes. Perhaps I can remember important truths I came across this morning, like the simple fact that the universe (including my students and I) is a spiritual creation, and that all power is spiritual, not material. Maybe today I can do what I read about. After spending an hour or more taking in glorious truths in the morning, it would be foolish not to bask in them throughout the day.

Journal: 1/05/06

Yesterday, Pine Point School, all 300+ of us, gathered again at 8:23 to begin the new year in our classrooms and offices. I felt jubilant, really, to see everyone again. I had a wonderful life during vacation – traveling to see my extended family in St. Louis, relaxing with books, working on writing projects, and enjoying the wintry outdoors whenever possible – but I was ready to get back with my students today. I was actually thrilled to see the first group of kids walk into my room this morning. Oddly enough, I don’t really think I was an especially efficient teacher today. I seemed to sort of float through the classes in a hazy and distracted way, even though I had planned them fairly carefully. Still, I might have been a at least a good teacher, because I somehow felt that a good deal of learning was happening throughout the day. (It reminded me of an old truth I’ve learned – that “I” don’t really do the teaching.) I felt somewhat little indolent during the day, having had a restless night, and I was contemplating skipping the faculty meeting. But luckily I decided to fulfill my obligation – and I’m glad I did. We watched a distressing film about child abuse, and it served to remind me of exactly why I’m proud of my profession. We teachers guard, as the film put it, “our country’s most precious natural resource – our children.” I’m honored and grateful to be entrusted with such an important task.

OIn Teaching" "Mosaics in Room 2"

I was thinking today that my students and I, as we work through the English curriculum, might be somewhat like a mosaic. One of my dictionaries defines a mosaic as "a picture or decorative design made by setting small colored pieces into a surface". I had fun, as the early winter evening was coming on today, picturing my class as a picture or design -- something that might be called beautiful and that other people might like to look at and admire, as they might look at and admire a work of art. All of us, students and teacher, are in the design in just the best place, all coming together to make a truly unique work of art. I like the idea that my class makes up not just a design, but a "decorative" design. My students and I are not plain, not ordinary, not simple, not drab. We bring the extraordinarily vibrant colors of our lives to class each day, and, one way or another, we find our special and proper place in the goings-on of the class, and the result, day after day, is a lovely mosaic. I guess I could pretend that I am the artist that puts together this mosaic each day, but that would simply be foolish pride and nonsense. The truth is that, no matter how carefully I plan my lessons, a power way more potent than I is the one that settles the design into its beautiful pattern. Often the final pattern at the end of the class is not at all the one I planned, but, in some (often unfathomable) way, it's always right and always beautiful. I wish more visitors would come to my room and see the mosaics slowly come together in each class, each day.

Journal: 1/04/06

Yesterday a soggy, thick snow was falling all morning, and fortunately it was heavy enough, and hazardous enough, to earn us teachers and students a day off from school. I was up early doing my reading and writing when I received the call on our automated alert system. I quietly cheered, changed back into my casual vacation clothes, and proceeded to have a serene and useful day. I had received a gift, and I made the most of it. I spent some time reading, of course – a chapter in Dombey and Son, as well as some spiritual reading – and worked at school for awhile. I intended to go to the gym for a workout in the afternoon, but instead I fell into a pleasant sleep for about forty minutes. Later, I met some friends for dinner at our favorite restaurant, where we share conviviality and well-prepared food. I was home early, and was soon asleep. I recall lying in bed and peacefully drifting off to unconsciousness, letting my thoughts go where they would. Sleeping is one of the finest pastimes that life affords all of us animals, and I do it quite outstandingly.

On Teaching: Information or Inspiration?

It’s interesting to consider the difference between informed students and inspired students. I think I have, for most of my teaching career, been far more interested in producing informed students than inspired ones. I have wanted to give my students information that would help them perform various functions, like writing papers and analyzing literature. In a sense, I have thought of my students as “forms” that I could alter and shape to my own design by giving them correct and significant information. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this approach, as long as it is combined with the understanding that students are not actually "forms", but are, in fact, unlimited and indefinable participants in a boundless and indescribable universe. I can certainly continue to offer them information that will be helpful to them in their everyday lives, but I must also see clearly that their minds are vaster and more complex than I can ever imagine. Their minds, in fact, are constantly being infused with inspirations that I am totally unaware of and have no control over. This is where it becomes clear that inspiration is more important than information. The universe, in fact, is powered by inspiration, and all the great things accomplished by the human race have been accomplished through inspiration, not information. Infinitely powerful ideas are pouring into my students at every moment, and they have little or nothing to do with information. My job as a teacher is to continue to inform my students, but to be always aware of the underlying, overlying, and all-encompassing power of inspiration.

Meditation: "The Gift of Suffering"

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

Journal: 1/02/06

A small, wet storm descended on us yesterday. When I drove over to school in the morning, the trees in the park were wearing slim coats of snow, and cars along the streets seemed to be moving extra slowly under their loads of snow. It was a wet and warm storm, however, and most of the white stuff had melted away by this morning. I spent a few hours today working on some last minute items at school, puttering around and listening to soft background music. It felt good to be back in the classroom. I have a lovely home in Westerly, but there’s no place more comfortable or welcoming to me than my little classroom at Pine Point School. I think I’m ready for the kids tomorrow. I have some good plans laid out, but of course I’m always ready for surprising twists and turns. The roads of teaching go in infinite directions, and I must be prepared for anything.

Meditation: "The Web of the Universe"

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

Journal: 1/01/06

I’ve had a quiet weekend – not much New Year’s celebrating, but a lot of much needed peace and quiet. The week in St. Louis was wonderful but exhausting (non-stop fun is always tiring, I guess), and I have appreciated, during these last two days, the silence and calm of my small apartment and the empty school. I’ve watched a little football, read some spiritual articles, and messed around in my classroom to get things in order for the coming week. Matty left early Saturday morning for 14 days in Guatemala with his girl friend. He has worked diligently for 12 months to earn his Masters in Teaching (with straight A’s), and some time off is a proper prize. Since he and Stacey haven’t seen each other in 18 months, I’m sure their reunion will be a momentous one for them. Right now, it’s 6:41 p.m., my apartment is cozy with burning candles, a close game is on TV, and I’m settling in for a comfortable night.