A hard year's end

Dearest dragonfly,

I'm home safely, checking email by the pillows where I often work, and the first thing I notice is that it smells like you. I re-read your last few messages, checked the discussion board and looked at pictures, but right now my so recent memories of you seem so much more real than these pics.

I'm just feeling numb--and I know I'm very tired, even though I'm not entirely feeling it. As you were finishing with security, the guy next to me says, "It's hard when they leave, isn't it?" "Yes," I replied, "It sure is." I watched the spot where you left to go to your gate for a while...I don't know why...I guess it was just hard to let go. I used the men's room and walked back to the car, in no hurry at all. Back at the car, I set down the food bag, pulled out the Play It Again Sports receipt, checked for the parking ticket, and headed slowly for the exit. I waited in the cash lane. "Three dollars even," the attendant said. I fumbled for the three dollars, and handed them over. I set my wallet back, a bit dazed I guess, because the attendant said politely, "You're set. Happy New Year." I nodded and pulled away with tears starting in my eyes. This was it. I was leaving the airport.

I collected myself, but a quarter of a mile later I was sobbing. A few breaths, and I again collected myself just before turning onto South Bay Road to head to return your skis. I almost considered not doing it. I missed the same turn we did before (well, it WAS dark this time), and made the same backtrack.

Inside, the lone sales attendant was working on something in a corner, machinery running, so I had to wait. And wait. And wait. Skis sitting on the counter. Finally he came back, remembered the phone call, and we step by step completed the return, tears appearing as quickly as I can try to suppress them. "Happy New Year," he says. I thank him, walk to the door, and the tears win.

On the way home, I think of taking Shanti for a run somewhere, but I gradually admit it will be too dark, too icy and too late before I'm home and can go somewhere. Besides, I'll have to shovel the driveway. I'm glad of this--some simple, physical activity sounds just the ticket. Chocolate is there most of the time I'm shoveling, as she's waiting for a dog bone. Shanti, at the bottom of the driveway, whines for one too.

Bones dispersed, bags brought in, I fed the cats and check email.

"Throw yourself into work first thing in the morning!" I think, and imagine getting in skiing, some outside repairs, some cleaning, and jumping into my course work. "Get a good night's sleep--get an early start tomorrow!" I think, knowing the snowstorm is likely to influence that, remembering the snow blower needs the shear pins replaced, and knowing I probably won't be able to sleep.

But now I'm just numb, my brain a fog. Perhaps this is a good time to return my sister's call. Probably going outside and loading that wood into the leanto is a good idea too. Work and picking up pieces will have to wait for tomorrow. But first I email you.

And nothing, nothing would ever have prepared me for watching you walk down the security line, tears streaming down your face, aching to just hold you and tell you everything will be all right, feeling so much longing, desperately wanting just to comfort you, and to never again watch you have to face anything alone.

Writer

Why doesn’t college work better? An Introduction

As much as I like teaching, it’s often frustrating, seemingly relentless (part of why I’m buried and not blogging as much these days) and short of tangible rewards. On top of that, criticism of higher education is common, from employers to students. Why? What prevents colleges and universities from performing better?

I’ve thought about writing a series of reflections about this for over a year. At that time, however, I was also angry at a handful of related issues, and it wasn’t the time for clear thinking. Now that I’m merely buried in work, though, I’m ready to explain. The problem, in no particular order, is students, professors, high schools, parents, taxpayers, administrators, government, employers, guidance counselors, economics, culture, and society at large. Did I leave anybody out?

As I find a moment here and there, I’ll explore these areas one by one, labeling them when I do as part one, part two, etc. But here’s a start.

Higher education exists for one purpose--to continue. Seriously, no irony. It always has, since its inception in the 12th century. Sure, if research occurs, if education happens, if knowledge expands, terrific. But the system is set up not to reward those endeavors, but to continue. In fact, not only have many new ideas originated outside of supposed intelligentsia, but also those institutions often opposed the new approaches. Despite its more recent “liberal” label, college is a thoroughly conservative institution.

All the other stakeholders have much the same focus--to survive. Admittedly, lots of people throw themselves into endeavors for lots of commendable reasons. But the bottom line is survival, not growth. What growth does occur is a byproduct. Add a healthy dose of self-justification, and we have a system of higher education.

So join me on an exploration, and I look forward to your comments along the way.

Writer

The Healthy Balance Game

In Hermann Hesse’s "The Glass Bead Game," the young Joseph Knecht asks his mentor, the Music Master, for advice. Knecht is uncertain about which direction to take his career, about how to best respond to the events around him, and about difficulties he sees in official positions.

The Music Master tells him of a time, when he himself was young, that he likewise sought the advice of a respected elder and mentor, a Sanskrit scholar known as “The Yogi.” As the Music Master described his concerns and woes, the Yogi instead asked several questions about his meals, about his bedtimes, about his meditation practice. Instead, the Music Master had let good practice slide in each of these areas, largely because his concerns were so important and pressing.

But the Yogi points out not only the slip, but also that just when we most need to address health concerns (meals, bedtimes, meditation) during periods of stress, we are least inclined to correct our faults and return to normalcy. Ironic to be sure--we ourselves know we are off-balance (hence the stress), but leave behind balancing elements, even ferociously defending the counterproductive choices.

I am guilty as charged of this offense. Overwhelmed as I am, though, with work, home matters, personal challenges, and many, many projects for the future, some of them immediately pressing, I shall strive to remember to seek balance.

As another yogi tells us at the end of the novel, all is maya.

And welcome back to my blog!

Writer