For the next two weeks I’m embarking on a terrifying little journey entitled “13 Hour Days.” These days will be composed of things I find meaningful and satisfying: observing middle school classes and helping students one-on-one, grad school classes, homework, tutoring, and pretending it’s okay to replace exercise with chocolate and little sleep.
When I returned home tonight, I fell onto my rocking chair and resembled a lump of exhaustion in teacher’s clothing. I’m not even sure what that means. If a student used that analogy, I may encourage him or her to think more deeply about it. But that’s all I’m capable of delivering currently; I’m sorry.
The point is, I’m tired. And I won’t be posting much, but I’ll leave you with this poem for now. It was given to us during a reflective session at the university last week, and I think the sentiment will carry me through the more tiring times. I hope this finds you well and happy and resembling something far more attractive than a lump of exhaustion. xo, m
PS- Did I mention I’m loving it so far? Children are amazing.
A grand piano wrapped in quilted pads by movers,
tied up with canvas straps – like classical music’s
birthday gift to the insane -
is gently nudged without its legs
out an eighth-floor window on 62nd street.
It dangles in April air from the neck of the movers’ crane,
Chopin-shiny black lacquer squares
and dirty white crisscross patterns hanging like the second-to-last
note of a concerto played on the edge of the seat,
the edge of tears, the edge of eight stories up going over, and
I’m trying to teach math in the building across the street.
Who can teach when there are such lessons to be learned?
All the greatest common factors are delivered by
long-necked cranes and flatbed trucks
or come through everything, even air.
See, snow falls for the first time every year, and every year
my students rush to the window
as if snow were more interesting than math,
which, of course, it is.
Let me teach like a Steinway,
spinning slowly in April air,
so almost-falling, so hinderingly
dangling from the neck of the movers’ crane.
So on the edge of losing everything.
Let me teach like the first snow, falling.
Image via here.