FLOWING
She had flowing silver hair,
so one morning she decided
to see what else was flowing.
She saw the streets
surging with people,
and a person standing by the bank
with brightness streaming all around.
She said some words
and they spilled out into the air.
As she drove to school,
she felt a river
running beneath her
all the way to the sea.
I realized this morning that I want my students to feel “stretched” during my classes. I came to this conclusion after checking the etymology of the word “intense”, and finding that it derives from the Latin word for “stretch”. I’ve always hoped to have “intensity” in my classes, where the students are deeply involved and even filled with fervor for the work at hand, and now I know a little more about what that actually implies. In order to help them be truly intense in their English work, I must encourage – perhaps force – my students to stretch themselves to the farthest limits. “Extreme” is another word that would apply here. My students, if they want to be really fine readers and writers, must be attentive during class to an extreme degree. They must use extreme effort in concentrating on their assignments. They must feel the emotions in a poem or story in an extreme way. This is being a truly intense student – a student who goes “the extra mile” to reach the farthest and most extreme achievements possible. It’s possible for all my students to develop this kind of intensity, but only if I encourage it, push them toward it, and absolutely insist upon it. I guess that means I have to be as intense – as stretched – as I want them to be.
I saw a tiny miracle yesterday. She was resting in her mother’s arms in a small hospital in
THE UNIVERSE TOOK A TURN
Ava Elizabeth
was born yesterday.
It was a young day,
a childlike time
of cheer and daylight,
and the universe
took some turns in its travels.
Somewhere there were streams
taking pleasure in their early days,
and there must have been stars
just starting out in the heavens.
In the silence of hearts
there surely were feelings
finding their way into life
for the first time,
and pencils placing spanking new words
on pieces of paper.
In Putnam, a small present
was given
just as the sun was giving way
to the stars assembling
above the hospital.
“It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long
a speech, but his happiness had the effect of
mountain air: his eyes were bright, and the
words came without effort.”
“Mr. Farebrother left the house soon after, and
seeing Mary in the orchard with Letty, went to
say good-by to her. They made a pretty picture
in the western light which brought out the bright-
ness of the apples on the old scant-leaved
boughs--Mary in her lavender gingham and
black ribbons holding a basket, while Letty in
her well-worn nankin picked up the fallen apples.
If you want to know more particularly how Mary
looked, ten to one you will see a face like hers in
the crowded street to-morrow, if you are there oil
the watch: she will not be among those daugh-
ters of Zion who are haughty, and walk with
stretched-out necks and wanton eyes, mincing as
they go: let all those pass, and fix your eyes
on some small, plump, brownish person of firm
but quiet carriage, who looks about her, but does
not suppose that any body is looking at her. If
she has a broad face and square brow, well-
marked eyebrows and curly dark hair, a certain
expression of amusement in her glance which her
mouth keeps the secret of, and for the rest feat-
ures entirely insignificant--take that ordinary but
not disagreeable person for a portrait of Mary
Garth. If you made her smile, she would show
you perfect little teeth; if you made her angry,
she would not raise her voice, but would proba-
bly say one of the bitterest things you have ever
tasted the flavor of; if you did her a kindness,
she would never forget it.”
“A human being in this aged nation of
ours is a very wonderful whole, the slow creation
of long interchanging influences.”
change in his expression. "I mean, for myself.
Except that I should like not to have so much
more than my share without doing any thing for
others. But I have a belief of my own, and it
comforts me."
"What is that?" said Will, rather jealous of
the belief.
"That by desiring what is perfectly good, even
when we don't quite know what it is and can not
do what we would, we are part of the divine pow-
er against evil--widening the skirts of light and
making the struggle with darkness narrower."
"That is a beautiful mysticism--it is a--"
"Please not to call it by any name," said
Dorothea, putting out her hands entreatingly.
"You will say it is Persian, or something else
geographical. It is my life. I have found it
out, and can not part with it. I have always
been finding out my religion since I was a little
girl. I used to pray so much--now I hardly
ever pray. I try not to have desires merely for
myself, because they may not be good for others,
and I have too much already. I only told you
that you might know quite well how my days go
at Lowick."
"God bless you for telling me!" said Will,
ardently, and rather wondering at himself. They
were looking at each other like two fond children
who were talking confidentially of birds.”
A FLOOD
One day
he was driving to school
when he suddenly started laughing.
He couldn't have told you
why he was laughing.
The daylight along the lovely fields
wasn't especially amusing,
nor was the wind
that was running
among the limbs of the trees.
True, he had been talking to himself --
small, positive sentences
that might become parts of poems,
but the sentences
weren't even worth smiling about.
Still, there he was,
coasting along
in a car filling up with laughter.
Oddly, it filled so full
that the laughter finally
flowed out the window
and followed a wind over a field
far from his school.
I was moping around my apartment this morning, harassing myself because I didn’t seem to be accomplishing much, when this thought came to me: The universe is accomplishing quite a lot, thank you very much. It was undeniably true. While I was living in a personal dream-world where “I” have to plan, bring about, and complete all necessary tasks, the grand, infinite Universe was harmoniously going about its innumerable duties. While I was sulking in the middle of my living room because I hadn’t achieved anything this morning, the Universe was actually quite pleased that I was sulking in my living room, since that is precisely what it had planned. I was sulking as perfectly as the sun was rising outside at that moment. My brooding and pining were as important to the Universe as any accomplishment by the president of a huge corporation, as important as the shining of the stars. The Universe was functioning perfectly this morning, and I was flawlessly playing my important part.
After thinking this way for a few moments, I actually began to enjoy my moping. It was, in fact, some of the best moping I had ever witnessed.
HIS THOUGHTS
One day he realized
that all his thoughts are young.
They sometimes seem old,
but they are actually
as youthful as the puffs of air
that unfold in the morning.
They make merry in his mind
as they make their way through.
They are mellow
and light-hearted and hard
to discourage. They dance
rather than slog,
these living things
that pass through his mind
like the playful youth
of the universe.
It’s amazing how comfortable I feel in my college class. As I go about teaching them what I know about literature and writing, I feel completely at ease, as if I’m hanging out with friends rather than teaching adults I had never met before the start of the course. We do a lot of serious talking about the course materials, but we also do a great amount of laughing and kidding. We enjoy each other’s company, which adds to the relaxed atmosphere of the class. Last night was a good example. As I looked around the room during class, I saw smiles on almost every face. Was this really an evening college English class, this class in which everyone seems to be having a rather enjoyable time? I’m not sure how much the students are learning in the class, but it’s clear that most of them feel fairly free from anxiety during class. They seem as comfortable as I am. And here's a question: Is this called work? Is this what I get paid for doing – spending time with good people who are actually becoming my friends? It seems like robbery to take money for doing a job that brings me such a sense of comfort and wellbeing.
PRECIOUS
His name is Precious.
His mother was presented
with a sunny spring day
on the morning of his birth,
so she said he was precious,
and he’s been so ever since.
The sunshine sits on his shoulders
as if he’s a prince,
and raindrops race
to be the first to feel his skin.
A day becomes a dance
when he’s around,
and coffee feels its way
softly down your throat
if he’s beside you.
If you’re sad,
Precious can present you
with something simple
worth smiling about.
I'm sure my students don’t feel like English class is a “celebration” of any sort, but I wonder if I could, or should. After all, a celebration is an occasion for special festivities to mark some happy event, and surely, for me, every English class should be a happy event. In each class I have the pleasure of being the teacher for approximately 12 bright and caring young people – kids whose parents have sent them to me because they trust me to suitably guide and instruct their children. I've been given the honor of teaching these students, and that is definitely worth celebrating. A celebration can also be thought of as a public performance of a solemn ceremony, and this, too, applies to my English classes. The students certainly don’t think of class as a “ceremony” of any sort, but I often do. We perform many of the same routines, or rituals, each day, and I maintain a sense of dignity and seriousness throughout each class. In addition, I have a sign on my door welcoming all visitors – the “public” – into my classroom. I love to have guests join us for our daily “celebrations” in English class.
SECURITY
She almost never felt secure.
Security stayed away from her
like sunlight stays away in a storm.
All her days were storms,
streaks of lightning
that lit up the sorrows in her life.
She sometimes let her cat
come to her lap
and listen to her sad story.
The cat understood everything.
The cat never stopped purring
in its perfect way,
perfectly sure that the lap
it was lying in
was a dependable one,
that the lamp in the room
would stay lit.
One of my hopes as a teacher is that my students will perform their various academic duties with aplomb. I’ve always loved that word (perhaps as much for the wonderful sound of it as anything), and I recently discovered, interestingly enough, that it derives from the Latin word “plumbum”, meaning a lead weight. We get the word “plumb line” from this – a line from which a weight is suspended to determine verticality or depth. Only when the lead weight at the end of the line hangs utterly motionless is the measurement taken. I think of my students as they labor away at their English tasks, and I hope they can remain, in a sense, as motionless, calm, tranquil, and composed as the lead weight on a plumb line seems to be. The weight and its line are totally at rest as they hang in space, and I’m hopeful that my students can learn to practice a similar kind of restfulness as they go about their work as students. That is true aplomb – the ability to, at the same time, work hard and rest easily, the ability to simultaneously labor and relax. These have always been the kind of people I have most admired – those who accomplish much but do so in a serene and almost blithe manner. The plumb line performs a vital task for engineers, builders, and others, and it does this by remaining totally still. Perhaps I can help my young students practice the same kind of stillness in the midst of the demanding whirlwinds of school.
WRITER’S BLOCK
He couldn’t think of anything
to write about, so he bought
a big hat and went to the beach.
The waves were bending over each other
like friends, and the clouds
were carrying soft-looking loads.
It was perfect.
The sand let everyone feel fine,
and the breezes followed
and found each other.
His hat held his head
in its soft hands.
Intersting thoughts swam
with easy strokes
through his mind.
PERFECTION
He found perfection today
at four-fifteen in the afternoon.
There was dust on his desk
precisely where it should have been,
and the pictures on the wall
were hanging
in an impeccably crooked way.
Outside, the SLOW sign
on the telephone pole
was being a proper SLOW sign,
and an old blue car
was old in a wonderful way.
A woman walked by
with a woeful look on her face,
as sad as she could possibly be.
As I was scanning the internet the other day, I came upon a page devoted to “The Magic Eye”, and before long I was thinking about how it applied to teaching. “The Magic Eye” requires you to stare carefully at a picture, after which you can magically see a previously hidden, three-dimensional image inside the picture. Where there was formerly just a jumble of colors and shapes, a clear portrayal now appears. It’s almost as if the shapes and colors are transformed into something totally new right before your eyes. I wondered: Couldn’t something like this happen in my classroom? To be honest, what I often see before me as I’m teaching is a jumble of colors and shapes – a collection of shirts and pants and faces that sometimes doesn’t seem all that special. In the daily routine of teaching, I often fall into the habit of seeing just a blurry image of my students – the same fuzzy picture day after day. What would happen, though, if I stared at my students like I do at the “Magic Eye” pictures? What if I really focused on my students with all my powers of concentration, as “up close” as I could get? If I did that, would I gradually see the class transformed into something I had never seen before – into an image that was astonishingly new? Would something beautiful and thrilling emerge out of the hodgepodge of youthful faces in front of me?
WINGS
He heard the rustle of wings,
but that made no sense at all.
It was just a spring morning
made from sunlight
and wafts of wind,
just a day doing
what it’s supposed to do.
It made no sense.
His was a simple existence,
a small, softly-lit life
in this universe of moments
that modestly present themselves.
Why would invisible wings
be whispering everywhere?
Odd as it may sound, I hope to become a more defenseless teacher. I hope to totally give up the need to defend my point of view in the classroom, or protect my position as the students’ guide, or guard my self-image in any way. I want to throw down all protective devices that I have used in the past to defend my position as a separate, well-educated, forceful person. I want to give up all distrustful and self-protective attitudes. I guess I want to be more open in the classroom, more ready to accept whatever happens, whatever opinion is expressed, whatever strange road the class seems to be traveling. I don’t mean that I will give up carefully planning each lesson, but just that I will give up seeing it as my personal lesson that must be defended and protected. Any lesson I devise actually arises out of an infinite store of ideas the universe provides me with, and I want to stay open to all of those wonderful ideas, even while I’m in the act of teaching. I guess I’ve grown weary of the defensive way of teaching – the way that requires me to always be on the alert to defend my position as the wise leader of the class. I’m just one part of the vast and mysterious process called “education”, and I don’t need to defend anything any more that one wave needs to “defend” the ocean. The wave needs to relax, do its job, and see what happens – and so do I.
THOUGHTS
In the morning his thoughts
are as light as feathers.
He feels them floating
just above him
as he sits at his desk.
Each thought that comes to him
floats effortlessly up
to join the others.
He keeps typing,
and the thoughts continue
to ascend
and drift near the ceiling.
They stay with him
all day long,
these hovering thoughts,
every so often
lifting him
just off the classroom floor
as he’s teaching.
The unruly spring storm has finally blown itself away, but we’re still dealing with unseasonably chilly temperatures. Yesterday felt like a day in mid-November. Students and teachers hustled from one building to another through the frosty air, and at recess I noticed many of the children simply huddled in corners to hold the warmth in. Many of the kids were wearing “flip flops” (the shoe of choice in April and May), and I’m sure their exposed feet were feeling the touch of the wintry air.
ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
One way or another,
something will happen.
Perhaps the wind will roar
around someone’s windows,
or an orange fall open
in a person’s hands.
Maybe a voice of fulfillment
will sing a song for a friend,
or lamplight will land on a desk.
A car could carry
a promising life past someone’s house,
or a man might make a pancake
for the person he loves.
One way or another.
Sunshine may simplify this day,
or a storm could cause the trees
to talk and clap.
It occurred to me recently that what happens in my classroom, and in every classroom anywhere, is utterly transformative. In any class on any given day in any school, teachers and students change the way they think, and this transforms them literally into new persons. Even in a class that might be termed “dull”, the transforming process of thinking is continually at work, recreating mental frameworks and generating brand new outlooks on life. Inside the lives of all students and teachers, an astonishing development is constantly occurring: new ideas are making new people. Unfortunately, we teachers are not always alert to this on-going, miraculous activity. To us, it often appears that the classroom is filled with fairly inert and static people (including us). Standing in a classroom is sometimes like standing on the shore of a calm sea: everything appears steady, stable, and – truthfully -- pretty uninteresting. What we need to keep in mind, though, is what’s under the surface. Just as the sea teems with infinite kinds of power and activity, so all students and teachers abound with life-changing thoughts. What seems to be a quiet student sitting in the middle row is actually a highly-charged dynamo of ideas, and what appears to be a tired, tedious teacher is really a part of a universe of constantly evolving systems of inspirations. Today in my classroom, all of us will be remade each moment, whether we realize it or not. The universe of ideas will be ceaselessly revolutionizing itself, and my students and I have no choice but to do the same.
Ah, the storm seems to be finally over! The winds and rains have ceased, and signs of clear skies coming are everywhere. It’s still chilly and damp, but hints of warmer spring days are showing themselves. Right now, before dawn, I hear some sweet-sounding birds singing outside. Perhaps they’re constructing their new nests and whistling while they work.
COMPANIONS
Two books open on a desk,
two pens resting side by side,
two hands fastened together
in friendship, two clouds
carrying fresh loads of rain,
two streets he can follow
to find coffee and a paper,
two days of dreams-come-true,
two hours when help
is all around him,
two moments of mighty power.
This morning I was reading the gospel parable of the Pharisee and the publican, and it started me thinking, once again, about the importance of humility – of absolute selflessness – in teaching. If we can imagine the men as two types of teachers, they are at opposite ends of the spectrum. The one considers himself to be the all-important center, hub, heart, and axis of the classroom, from which every thought and activity emanates and around which all learning circulates. The other type of teacher, represented by the publican, thinks of himself (his “self”) in the exact opposite way -- as utterly unimportant, as merely a part of an infinite and incomprehensible force called “learning”. The first teacher “prayed thus with himself” because the self was all he cared about, was what he actually “worshipped”. The second teacher, in contrast, didn’t even lift his eyes up, realizing that he was in the presence of an overwhelming power. I hope I can always be like the publican when I’m teaching. More and more each day, I realize that the “self” is the biggest obstacle to good teaching. It’s the grandest of all delusions, this notion that a distinct, separate person called a “teacher” creates the learning. The first teacher in the parable believed that fantasy, which is exactly why he would be a disaster in the classroom. Conversely, the teacher represented by the humble publican is the one whose classroom might be totally energized by learning, precisely because he knows that he is not the energizer. He knows an immense power runs everything in the universe, including his classroom, and all he can do is step back and allow the power to do its work. As one Bible translation has it, this teacher “stands afar off”, away from the spotlight, and in doing so helps to create extraordinary teaching and learning.
One day not long ago, looking for inspiration, I took a short walk through the school where I teach, and, as usual, I found what I was looking for:
* A small group of pre-K children were rehearsing a song about spring with Laurie. They were in her office/classroom next to the teachers' room, so I stopped in for a moment. The room was buzzing with excitement, and Laurie was enjoying it as much as the children. I guess I was their first official "audience", and they performed the song with gusto. I was pleased to see young Tyler Flynn (the soon of John, my former student) singing and cavorting around, and I noticed Hunter and Erica were among the lead dancers and singers. What I noticed most was the excitement and joy in the children's faces, and I left the room hoping I could bring a little more of that to English class.
* I then walked down to the
Finally, I want to share some excerpts from 6th grade poems which I found on the bulletin board outside Carol's room -- wonderful tributes to National Poetry Month:
"The owl and I
Always alert and careful about things
Buzzing by…
Quick with thinking
The owl and I."
--Billy
"I am a buttercup
Tiny, sweet, and bright…"
--Julie
I am a tree…
On rainy, wet days, I blow, and bang my branches…"
--Sophie
Today my goal as a teacher is to look more carefully for the harmony in my classroom. I deliberately didn’t say “create” harmony, because harmony’s already there, always. By the very fact that my students and I part of the infinite, harmonious universe, we must always demonstrate that harmony, in the classroom and out. We have no choice. Just as sunshine must harmonize with shadows, and winds with other winds, my students and I are always in accord with one another, though I’m sure we rarely realize it. Indeed, that’s the strangest fact I know of – that unity and agreement is all around us, but we almost never notice it. Our lives are created out of, and saturated with, harmony. Everything in the universe, from the tiniest atom to the largest star, moves in strict accordance with everything else, and yet we are nearly always blind to this beautiful harmony. We’re like people surrounded by blissful, spring-like weather, but who think a wild winter storm is raging around them. Today, I don’t want to be one of those people. I want to keep my eyes open for the friendly concord that always exists in my classroom. Everything that happens will be part of a seamless, unified plan created by the universe. Each spoken word will blend with every other spoken word, and each action will flow into all the other actions. It will be beautiful, and I just hope I’m not too blind to see it.
Stacey and Matt joined me for tea yesterday afternoon in my apartment. A wild nor’easter was raging outside, but we were quite comfortable as we sipped our Bigelow decaf tea (with a hint of lemon). While the spring storm blustered against the windows, we talked and laughed together. The dark afternoon seemed to make my lamps glow around us in an especially kindly manner.
* * * * *
I’ve set aside my audio tapes of Middlemarch (at least temporarily), and have gone back to reading the old-fashioned way. Yesterday I read a chapter without listening to the tape – just reading slowly and marking passages with my highlighter pen. Somehow, I enjoyed it more. Perhaps it was because I could read at my own pace, stopping occasionally to re-read and mark passages. I seemed to be more involved in the reading, as though reading the words without the help of the audio tape’s voice forced me to focus more carefully. Here are a few quotes from my reading:
“To ask her to be less simple and direct would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light through.”
“Our tongues are little triggers that have usually been pulled before general intentions can be brought to bear.”
“Each looked at the other as if they had been two flowers which had opened then and there.”
