On Teaching

From James Matthew Wilson's "On the Overweening Pride of the Professorial Class" in Crisis Magazine:

     The proper life of the scholar and the teacher is one of drawing together the wisdom of the past, of keeping it alive, of developing it where it can be developed, and of passing it on, from the hands of the old to those of the young, as a tradition and inheritance. It is fundamentally an activity of conservation and cultivation, edging forward while looking backward, so that the wisdom in one’s care will not be lost. Again, as a great inheritance, its content is like a precious treasure that we already love for its accumulated glory and which we wish to pass down intact in a decided act of piety, reverence, and love. 

         The research of the professor should therefore be dedicated primarily to keeping something alive rather than to adding something new. The new supervenes on its own, left to itself, simply because the loving contemplation of what is good will always be by its nature fruitful. That is just the way with goodness. For my part, I have found I am at my best as a scholar when I seek specifically not to claim anything new at all, but only to explain what is old, what I have received in the common tradition, in terms inevitably distinct, because spoken in a new moment, but always in continuity and indeed intimate contact with what has gone before.
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         The scholar of the Christian-Platonist tradition, whether in ancient Athens or medieval Paris understood himself not as in possession of knowledge but as standing before it in awe. Truth is one; reality constitutes a coherent whole; and all true education is a progress ever further into the depths of that whole. But, as we see in Plato and St. Augustine, for example, the philosopher is always the one who knows nothing. He knows he knows nothing, only because the truth is not his to possess, but rather is his to love. The true philosopher therefore looks on in perpetual wonder, staring into a truth that transcends us all, that is never to be comprehended, though our heart beats with intensity as we come within the corona of its beauty. The whole truth lies not in the mind, but rather the mind comes to rest in the truth.
          As the theologian John Cavadini argued in a lecture at my own university, some years ago, what is peculiar about modern inquiry is not that it is obsessed with a desire for new insight, but for the way it understands the nature of knowledge and the relation of the knower to the known. As my comments have already intimated, the ancient and medieval universities understood the cosmos, the whole of creation, as intrinsically wonderful. It was a cause of wonder, in itself, and also because of its origin as a gratuitous fruit of the generosity and love of God. To study nature was to sing the praises of the supernatural as one strolled down the road toward it. To study what was above nature—to contemplate God—was to enter in awe, wonder, and love, into perfectly intelligible mystery. Study was itself an act of devotion, a loving act where the mind comes to stand in intimate relation with that which is at one and the same time forever beyond it and always and already within it.

A quotable

After long experience I am convinced that the best place to study nature is at one’s own home,—on the farm, in the mountains, on the plains, by the sea,—no matter where that may be. One has it all about him then. The seasons bring to his door the great revolving cycle of wild life, floral and faunal, and he need miss no part of the show. At home one should see and hear with more fondness and sympathy. Nature should touch him a little more closely there than anywhere else. He is better attuned to it than to strange scenes. The birds about his own door are his birds, the flowers in his own fields and wood are his, the rainbow springs its magic arch across his valley, even the everlasting stars to which one lifts his eye, night after night, and year after year, from his own doorstep, have something private and personal about them. The clouds and the sunsets one sees in strange lands move one the more they are like the clouds and sunsets one has become familiar with at home. The wild creatures about you become known to you as they cannot be known to a passer-by. The traveler sees little of  Nature that is revealed to the home-stayer. You will find she has made her home where you have made yours, and intimacy with her there becomes easy. Familiarity with things about one should not dull the edge of curiosity or interest. The walk you take to-day through the fields and woods, or along the river-bank, is the walk you should take tomorrow, and next day, and next. What you miss once, you will hit upon next time. The happenings are at intervals and are irregular. The play of Nature has no fixed programme. If she is not at home to-day, or is in a non-committal mood, call to-morrow, or next week. It is only when the wild creatures are at home, where their nests or dens are made, that their characteristics come out.

The Library of America • Story of the Week From American Earth: Environmental Writing Since Thoreau (The Library of America, 2008), pages 168–71. Originally published in Field and Study (1919). From "Nature at Home" by JOHN BURROUGHS

https://loa-shared.s3.amazonaws.com/static/pdf/Burroughs_Nature_Home.pdf

Field trip

We bounced on bubble horses.

It's my birthday! I'm celebrating by taking a minute to catch up with blogs. I've been indulging all day - my husband stayed home from work to go to Mass, and I let him chase the toddler. Then we got coffee and donut holes at the local diner and enjoyed them at the park. The big kids offered to babysit tonight, but it is the only night this week that we don't have something scheduled, so I told them all I want is someone to do the laundry, wash the dishes, and rub my feet. We'll see if it gets done!

In between end of the year awards ceremonies, field trips, field days, and band concerts, the toddler and I recently went to the local children's museum. It's a bit different than some we've visited. Instead of a play store, a fire engine, and a train room, this one had a creating space with paint and clay, and a sound and light room with relaxing mood music playing in the background and colored lights shining on sparkly sand. It had some gross motor skills play areas, a ladder house to climb, and a science station. My friend described it as an art therapy major's dissertation. With the poured cement walls and floors and open stairwells, the architecture is very modern. The spaces don't really connect in a logical way.  You wander around and then come upon something new. Oh what's this!

But LCJ LOVED it.  We tried to go back last week on a Tuesday, and it was closed. She had a meltdown in front of the door, and I had to manhandle her flopsy body back to the car. We later went to a different children's museum, quite a drive away, and the contrast was vivid. This one had the little dress up stations, a pirate ship play structure and slide, a bubble station, a water play area, a music making station, and a chicken pen.  The vibe was more of a Waldorf school play date than museum. Definitely for the under-7 set.  The toddler was absorbed, but it would have been more fun for both of us with a friend.

After visiting children's museums every place we've lived, I still have to rate the one in Indianapolis, where I grew up, as the best. First of all, it is enormous, but the layout is intuitive. Space leads on to space in a spiral design. The center of the museum is a carpeted ramp leading up the four or five floors. It has something for all ages, and the carousel at the top pleases everyone. It engages the senses and motor skills and has places to create with cultural and historical lessons tied in.  I don't remember it being as sensory overloading as the Houston museum which had lots of glowing flourescent lights, loud music, echoing chambers, and interactive computer stations, which I can do without, and which get boring quickly. We loved to visit the one in Portsmouth, Virginia, to play, especially on very hot or very cold days. It had the little town, a real plane cockpit and a real fire engine to climb on. The upstairs was mostly trains and a few physics displays. (bike and turn on a light! Balance the beach ball on the air stream! Touch the static ball!)  The price was right, and it was something to do, but I'm not sure it was actually educational.

We played with clay.

I've been feeling nostalgic lately, as the baby grows bigger, counts, sings "We're all in this together" with the nine year old, and sort of knows the alphabet song. She prays in the Mary chapel, "Hail Mary, hail Mary, hail Mary," and sings the Gloria at church to charm the old ladies.  She welcomes everybody home by asking, "How's school, Claire?" or "How's work, Daddy?" The other day, she was sent to sit in the naughty chair, and she held out her hands and asked, "Why, Daddy, why?" with enough drama to suit a soap opera director.

Meanwhile, her oldest brother is still at college. School is out, but he is staying to play in a couple rugby tournaments and work on campus. He survived his first year. Although he failed his Calculus final, he still pulled off a B in the class, his only B. He'll be home for his brother's high school graduation and his sister's eighth grade promotion.

We painted a wagon.

We made faces in the funny mirror. 

I couldn't be prouder of those two, who had to come into new schools When everyone was finishing. The senior was especially bitter and unhappy about leaving behind his old school and friends, as I have mentioned.  But yesterday we went first to a Mass for incoming Notre Dame students and their mothers, where we met some nice kids and got excited about the future. Then we went to a scholarship ceremony where he picked up $5000.  Last week he received a really nice faculty commendation from the AP government instructor, with whom he debates politics from different sides of the political spectrum.  His boss at the pizza parlor goes to our church and told us how much he loves him.  We go to another awards ceremony in a couple days at the fancy hotel for academic honor students, for both the high schoolers.  And a couple days ago, he got a call about a $5000 renewable scholarship that he won. Finally, yesterday evening we went to the confirmation party for a friend who asked him to be his sponsor for confirmation. He was greeted with high fives and cheers and immediately was subsumed into the pack of teenagers, while we mingled with grown ups we didn't really know, except the priests. But we met a lot of nice new people and were impressed with the beautiful back yard and good eats. We have a hard time believing him anymore when he pulls out a complaint about how miserable we made him when we forced  him to move.

The eighth grader also has done well, earned academic honors and has gone from being one of my shyest kids to being a socialite. Fortunately, her friends are the ones winning the mental attitude awards at the sports banquet and starting "Best Buddy" clubs that pair students with other students in special ed classes for lunches and outings. We still butt heads about hemlines and high heels (she wants wedges for the promotion ceremony), but that's to be expected when it's incredibly hard to find junior sized clothes that are a decent length without looking Amish. She's tried new sports and is keeping up in Algebra and Spanish, two classes that used to give her trouble, and is willing to read the books I push her way by Peter Kreeft and saint biographies, if I give her freedom to read the books she picks up, which are usually stories about friendships or parents or pets dying.

The other three kids are also surviving and thriving. Sports are over for the spring for everyone, finally, so we have a brief lull in our schedule, other than my online classes. I've offered to sign everyone up for one summer camp, and promised to do some crafts and visit the water park. Summer stretches ahead like a blank slate, but it will fill quickly.

I've been reading a memoir of a priest's Camino de Santiago, To The Field of Stars, for my book club. The author is Kevin Codd, I think. I'm enjoying it much more than I thought I would. It could probably be edited, but now that I've grown familiar to his voice, I look forward to the detailed evening updates of his journey. He's my new friend. Yesterday I read the section where he talked about meeting a man from Argentina who couldn't believe Fr. Kevin was American. His Spanish was too good, and he didn't seem haunted by fear and anxiety like most Americans. This Argentinian criticized the American tendency to go, go, go, and to worry about the future and to fail to balance those highly intense personality traits with any family time, get togethers and celebrations - times to relax with friends and family. The Americans are no fun and don't want anyone else to have fun either.

To a certain extent we resemble those Americans. We have a lot going on. I can't keep up with my to do list. I worry a lot about the future. But we do celebrate. We do have moments when we sit down in the evening with all the kids and at least cram in one decade (and someone rubs my feet or braids my hair). Angel food cake and salted caramel gelato await me after dinner.  I am grateful that the toddler makes me slow down and explore museums again. Although friendly companions would make the trip more fun for everyone, happy memories keep me company when I tire of building castles in the sand.

We relaxed in the sand, light, and sound room. 

Giants of the North

A few weekends ago we were able to escape the Busy and go camping in Santa Clara county, where our college son was playing in a sevens rugby tournament, which is very different from rugby played with fifteen players. Happily, it is not as rough. And the games are very short!  This tournament was the "Jesuit Cup," and so we stopped in Los Gatos to pick up our friend, a retired Jesuit priest to watch some of the tournament with us. He really enjoyed it, I think, as did we all, although our team, Notre Dame (not Jesuit but still invited), placed second to Boston College.

Since this was a spur of the moment trip, we budget-traveled, and spent two nights at a county park that was absolutely beautiful. In the middle of a redwood forest, the sites were somewhat isolated and the park was nearly deserted the first night. A few more campers surrounded us the second night, including a guy and his pit bull in the spot two sites over. My husband and nine year old were ready to pack up and head home when they saw the pit bull, but he was pretty quiet and was kept tied up.  The only stop the camp ranger made on his nightly tour was at our campsite to politely remind us to keep our fire from getting out of control. (We had bought some old dry wood to burn).

I didn't take many pictures. We arrived during a light mist, spent the day at the rugby pitch, took only one short hike, and left the campground early for Mass. But we did have two delicious dinners of hotdogs, beans, and s'mores.  It was a very short, but sweet trip, reminding me of how much I love the intensity of connection around a campfire.

Reading notes and other news

Spring! So lovely and yet so busy!  Our town had its annual flower show a few weekends ago. It was a lovely event, well attended, but not crowded. The highlight for me was the book sale by the Friends of the Library. I really intended to buy nothing, but walked away with a few of the little green Beatrix Potter books we didn't have, the first five of the Children of Green Knowe series, an Anthony Trollope book, and a Kate Greenaway nursery rhymes book.  I almost, almost bought an old copy of Henry Greene's Loving, a book I have seen recommended several places, but I haven't read. If I knew that I actually liked Henry Greene, then I might have splurged on the $12 book, but I restrained myself, knowing that books that come into our house rarely leave, and I really don't have room for them.
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I was in a reading drought for a time while I have been busy teaching online, but got a spurt of reading done last weekend.  Finished Jason Evert's John Paul the Great: His Five Loves, which had some interesting history bits about St. JPII's near death encounters and his awareness of God's providence, something I am trying to be more aware of - because I struggle with the awareness of how little control over our lives we have, despite having so many decisions to make that seem life-altering.  Also, the perspective of the Cross as a door, and of suffering as an opportunity to both offer up and offer comfort and to become an opportunity for joy, is one that I hope, but fail, to use as my own outlook on life. Bring on the suffering!

Also finished Mr. Blue by Myles Connolly, an odd little book about an odd, saintly person. Meditations on the need for laughter, for living an "amiable, good life," for a new vibrant art alert to the world and the times, on embracing the cross (God's gift to his friends, as he quotes the Cure of Ars), on the beauty of poverty fill the pages.  The introduction, by Fr. John Breslin, compares Blue to Jay Gatsby and his story which was published three years before Mr. Blue. They definitely represent opposite personalities with contrasting hopes and longings.  But Connolly's little book never became as famous as Fitzgerald's, probably because it lacks much plot and has little romance - and what romance it has is spiritual.  It was a fascinating read because it is unusual and unsettling, but it is not a page turner.

Notably, Blue does not like books: "Books are for people who can not make up their minds or have no minds to make up."

I folded a lot of corners in Jacques Philippe's Interior Freedom.  I am meaning to copy down some of his advice, like "Often we may journey in darkness, but we sense that our lives are unfolding in a rhythm we do not control but to which we are happy to abandon ourselves and by which all events are arranged with infinite wisdom."  More soon.
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Good news of the week:  My husband was selected to be a captain in the US Navy! This promotion won't actually take place until September of next year, but it is a welcome relief to know that it will, in fact, take place. After twenty years of service, we are all happy his hard work has paid off. Of course, this means we may have to move earlier than expected - or stay here longer than expected.  Or we may actually get to finish the next two years of this tour. Yet another reminder that our lives are in God's - and the Navy's - hands.
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I just shared a picture on Facebook for Military Child Appreciation month. I'm not usually a frequent Facebook "sharer," but this image of a little boy hugging his mom's leg almost made me cry.  The caption was "Military children say goodbye to more significant people in their lives by age 18 than most people do in a lifetime."  Maybe I'm hormonal, or getting sentimental as I age, but as I think about all the wonderful people who have loved my children over the years, I overflow in gratitude and nostalgia.  I wish my kids didn't have to say goodbye to people they love, or to live far away from the extended family members who love them and form their identity, but I am so grateful that they have met people who have opened their homes and hearts to them. From the friends who watched them in the middle of the night as we were having other babies, the friends who let us stay for weeks while we were househunting, the friends who drove them around to activities, the friends who made them feel like they belonged even though they were outsiders, to the people who taught them in school, at church, on the playing field, in the art room, etc., we've certainly been blessed by the willingness of these people to take us in. I didn't share the Facebook post as a cry for pity, although it it is supposed to raise awareness about the challenges of military life,  but instead to recognize that they have had these significant people care about them.  I know I've said this before but, it doesn't get any easier to say goodbye, but knowing that we'll meet more significant people at the next duty station does offer some consolation.
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Meanwhile, although I am feeling flush with gratitude just now, I've also had a couple run-ins lately that make me titchy. I just want to carp for a minute, so that I can let go of my irritation. One was with a lady who, mentioning she was a newcomer, wrote a letter to the newspaper wondering why some people have signs in their yards that say "A Naval Aviator Lives Here." Why, she wonders, don't we recognize all heroes - the hospice workers, the school teachers, the firemen, etc.?  Well, I want to reply, she is completely free to do so - make signs for everyone! There's no limit to how many signs you can place in your yard! My husband deserves recognition, too, for doing such a great job as a public works officer that everyone's plumbing and HVAC systems are humming along grandly! But why begrudge recognition to the people who actually risk their lives for the safety of our country? These aviators may not be flying combat missions right this minute, but they are preparing for them all the time, and deterring our nation's enemies by being prepared.  But beyond that (there are also a lot of SEALS here, who don't want their homes pointed out), the signs exist here, not because they deserve a sign more than anyone else, but because Naval Aviation has a long and storied history in this particular community.  This place was a military aviation training station before World War I, long before it was a beach community, and many famous fighter pilots, including Admiral Stockdale, whose autobiography of his eight years as a prisoner of war graphically depicts why these guys are honored, trained here.  Anyway, it bugged me that she had to rain on someone else's parade.  Here is a moving article that tells about why the signs were originally posted during the 100th anniversary of military aviation.
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I hope someone writes back to her to share the history of the signs and naval aviation here, but it won't be me because I'm already becoming a nosy busybody myself.  At the most recent middle school track meet, I confronted first a high school girl, and then her pole vault coach about their language.  Some of the middle schoolers, whom I'm helping to coach as a volunteer assistant, were sitting on the edge of the pole vault mat. Apparently they've been asked before not to sit there, but the high school girl felt compelled to use a volley of f-words to ask them to get off the mats.  I went up to her to ask her to please use respectful language to ask them to move or ask one of the coaches to talk to them.  Meanwhile, her coach, a thin, sun baked, hard looking woman, went up to a couple of the 7th grade boys and called them "stupid retards" for not remembering that they've been told not to sit there.  My fourth grader reported this.  Normally, I do not like to act on a child's tattling on an adult.  Usually a kid who is complaining about an adult has done something wrong and doesn't like getting in trouble for it. Now I know those kids shouldn't be on the mats, but I couldn't believe that an adult in a position of leading kids would talk this way, so I asked her. Her reply was "Well, they've got to be either deaf or stupid not to know they aren't supposed to be there. They've been told a hundred times, year after year. It's the same kids..." Her tirade went on for a minute, before I said, "Well, the language you used was really offensive. You've really upset them."  Her response was a hardlipped, "Fine."

The truth is, she didn't really upset them. She really upset ME. I feel like the use of the word "retard," even though I know that when I was growing up, unfortunately, we regularly used it as a derogatory name, has gathered enough negative usage that it is now on par with calling someone the N word.  I wish I had said that to her. Or I wish I had said, "Are you either deaf or stupid because you don't remember your mom telling you a hundred times not to call names?" Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
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Anyway, now I've got that off my chest.  My last gadfly moment was when I wrote a letter to city council about the need for a safe pedestrian crossing at the intersection in front of our house.  The street that runs on the side of our house is a three lane, one-way street that is the main exit off the peninsula for all the employees of the Naval base. And 90% of them leave between 2-4, right when kids are getting out of school. The school is a couple blocks down our street.  A crossing guard is there most days. Some months back the council voted to reject an independent consulting firm's recommendation that stoplights be installed here because a loud portion of the community didn't want stoplights.

But about a month ago, an eighth grade girl was hit on her bike as she crossed the intersection on her way home from school.  I was sitting at home grading papers on the computer when I heard a noise that sounded like a cat dying.  It took a minute for me to register that it was an odd sort of noise, so I went outside. By the time I got out, the police had just pulled up and were leaning over a girl lying still and prostrate in the street.  Her mangled bike was on the sidewalk. Her friend was screeching.  A  young guy was standing next to his big pick up truck parked in the middle of the intersection.  It was obvious what had happened.  I couldn't tell if the girl was alive at first.  The ambulance came wailing up, and as the crew surrounded the girl, she regained consciousness and was responding to them.  Multiple police personnel were questioning witnesses, including the girl's friend who finally switched from wailing to just crying.  I was asked if I saw anything.  The little I saw left me shaking the rest of the afternoon.

The guy in the pick up hadn't seen the girl, and the girl wasn't using the crosswalk to cross, although I have had a crossing guard tell me bikes aren't supposed to use the crosswalk. The ideal is for bikers to dismount and walk their bikes in the crosswalk, but the reality is that even if she had done that, it is hard for the third lane to see pedestrians.

The end of the story is that the girl missed school for almost a month with debilitating headaches and blurry vision.  She didn't break any bones. Her helmet saved her life. I bought two new bike helmets that week for my older kids who don't wear properly fitting helmets. And I've become paranoid about the crossing. The city now has a large sign warning of pedestrians and has placed big orange pylons along the lane lines to slow people down.  I should write a note to thank city council, but it's still a dangerous spot.  Though we live in a small community that likes to call itself a village, this road is a highway.  On the advice of a friend, I've taken to giving each of the kids a blessing as they leave the house. The baby blesses them, too. They are in His hands!