Midlife Meditation

Unfortunately, it's actually "Yep." I thought I'd said all I needed to about how we're stuck with Donald Trump in the same way a public school teacher has no choice but to teach every student who comes through the classroom door: they're all my students, for as long as I'm at this school and they're attending it. I really thought that was a frame of reference I could apply to the unpleasantness of having this awful man become the leader of my country. Then I read that  Dylann Roof's mother had a heart attack at his trial. The name "Dylann Roof" may not immediately ring a bell, so here's a quick review: on June 17, 2015, Dylann Roof walked into the Emanuel AME Church of Charleston, South Carolina, to attend a Bible study. At the end of the gathering, as the participants stood to pray, he took out a gun and killed nine of them. He did so for one simple, powerful reason: to incite a race war. All the victims were Black, an...

One of my students just became a grandfather to two toddlers. This tells you two things: first, I have a private student who is a mature adult; and second, his first grandchildren have arrived by way of adoption. I'm proud of the progress this student has made, starting piano lessons two years ago at retirement, forcing his brain to rewire itself in ways that are far easier when it is young and pliable, pushing himself as the concepts and skills come slowly; and I celebrate every milestone he achieves. I can only hope that, ten or so years from now when I reach his age, I am even partially as gung ho about teaching myself new skills. One "skill" this student just acquired, that has come quite naturally for him, in fact, is the ability to play with these little boys who are suddenly part of his life. As he shared with me yesterday what joy he is experiencing being down on the floor with them, letting them climb all over him, playing the repetitive games small c...

"It's mine anyway. Why can't you give it to me now?" Simeon gazed out the window at the hayfield. It was high summer, and the hay had just been mown, lying in messy but straight rows all the way to the fence and the woods beyond. From a distance Simeon heard Abel's voice shouting out instructions to one of the field hands. Abel must be wearing a fine sheen of perspiration, bits of hay clinging to him, his shoulders bronzed by weeks spent in the fields, laboring side by side with all the hired men, refusing to assign them any task he would not share. Seeing the patterns in the hay, hearing his older son's voice, Simeon clutched the windowsill. He must not see me cry, he told himself, and somehow managed to postpone the sorrow brewing behind his eyes. "What's the hurry? You just turned eighteen. You've got your whole life to enjoy your part of the estate. Stay with us a little longer, help your brother bring in the harvest. Then if you still w...

There are a very few books I remember from my pre-reading days, books I'm sure my parents read to me repeatedly. The Bunny Book (written by Patricia Scarry, illustrated by Richard Scarry) was my favorite. It's a simple story with a surprise ending. There's some kind of bunny family reunion going on. It begins with a baby bunny being tossed in the air by his father, who speculates with his mother about what the baby bunny will be when he grows up. So do the baby's siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and maybe a few other friends and relations. They come up with the answers one would expect: a farmer bunny, a police bunny, a firefighter bunny. I can't remember all of those guesses because, in the end, they're wrong. The baby bunny knows exactly what he will be when he grows up: a daddy bunny. And that, I knew from my first memory of that book, is what I wanted to be. No, not a bunny; a daddy. I would love and nurture my children, playing with them, takin...