Saturday, April 3, 2010

A Meditation on Teaching from a reminder by H. D. Thoreau

When we reflected that this was not a solitary phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and ever an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still.   (H. D. Thoreau, “Walking” 1851)
That this could be a place to look forward to is not lost on everyone. To take for granted is not to hate, and, contrary to the belief of many of the famous among us, it is not worse. Of course, it would be better if they all arrived ready, daily, to be brilliant, to be brought to new heights, to be dropped, to fly.

No one counts the sunsets or sunrises seen, nor do they grieve the ones they’ve missed. Perfect attendance is no longer cause for award. But the days when the light streams for their eyes only, when the crowds disappear, ear-buds, iPods, and cell phones stay in backpacks and laptops remain unnecessary, when the blue sky of possibility does not fade to the starry false-night of day-sleeping but streaks with the color of new thought, then being awake, being alive, being here is worth more than the pieces of paper suitable for framing. The good days, hours, and minutes are worth counting one by one, and not crossed out like days on a calendar between paydays and until vacations.

There is much forgetfulness to be remembered and much to be memorized and then erased, but the moments of real learning remain constant; the rest cease to have existed. The good hours, landmarks between the monotonous minutes and are the frustrating weeks, are never passed over unnoticed. When the sleepers in those awkward desks are awakened by a miraculous moment they remain just a bit more awake, and that much closer to the path that inevitably leads to the glorious and perpetual glow of a lifetime of searching towards an education of their own. It is this daily ritual, often faked, ignored, or just plain missed, that gets us up early on a cold, winter morning, that keeps us from walking away on a bright, spring afternoon, and that makes summer’s never-quite-long-enough recovery only temporary. 

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