Discovering the Buried Life

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;                      
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.


When I first encountered Matthew Arnold's poetry, "The Buried Life" struck me--a rather lost-feeling college sophomore at the time--as tremendously apt in its description of man's shallow self-knowledge. A revered professor-turned-provost illuminated Arnold's genius so thoroughly that I couldn't deny his brilliancy of insight.   "How easily influenced we are!" I thought, "How little time  we give to contemplation, to genuine self-discovery. We so rarely delve below the surface. What a SHAME." And, concluding these thoughts as quickly as possible, I hurried off to my next meeting, next class, next tea-time with the girls. 


Now, nearly three years out of college, Arnold's poetry impresses me less. His style feels too cold and correct to contain much sincerity. His imagery seems conventional and uninspired--all the typical critiques of Victorian stylings apply. (Sorry, Dr. Whalen.) "Dover Beach" will always have a special place in my heart, of course. The progression of thought detailed within "The Buried Life" is much more formulaic than that of Dover. But the ideas contained within this poem strike me differently now. 


I still feel a bit lost, though I lack the excuses of a college sophomore. Turning twenty-five last month stung more than I expected. The temptation to compare my life with the lives of my peers was too strong to resist: There's Hans running for State Representative. There's Alyssa writing for a cultural magazine in New York City. There's Amy and Alicia and Marcy and Kjerstin supporting fantastic husbands and bringing new souls into the world. There's Megan finishing up law school.  There's Neal introducing his new line of designer jeans. What am I doing? What have I done?


The litany of questions doesn't end: Why do I teach? Do I even WANT to teach? What else am I fit for? Where else could I go? Can I really start over again? Should I pursue the career I've begun? What will I do when my desire to change the world becomes subservient to my desire for a better salary? How will I pay for grad school? What sort of person have I become? What sort of person do I want to be? 


And my unbearable answer is always: I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.


Arnold's response, though, surprised me this time around.

Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,                                            
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.


It seems that knowledge doesn't come from earnest self-analysis and it won't come from comparisons with the success stories of others, or through new year's resolutions.  To know yourself, you have to know and be known by another.  Isolation and independence have no place in this quest for truth. A hand to hold, a face for the eyes to rest on, a heart to discover---having these, I have all the answers I need today.

Booklust, Bloodlust and Teen Romance

This year my school began as Sustained Silent Reading program. This "research-based" technique requires all students (and teachers) to spend about thirty minutes every day in silent pleasure-reading. This is not time for studying, emailing, or socializing: just reading.  I was skeptical at first, especially since this schedule change pushed the beginning of the first class from 8:00am to 7:45, but SSR has become my favorite part of the day.

My reading group is a batch of 12 students, a mix of freshmen-juniors, and I really don't know anything about them. After all, there's not a lot of discussion going on during SSR: they arrive, sit, open books, and read. Occasionally, the intercom instructs us to rise for the pledge of allegiance, but that's the extent of our conversation most days. So one morning, in an attempt to foster some reading camaraderie, I offered to let the kids picked out my next book. Naturally, they chose:

I suppose I had it coming to me. But I must own to having a bit of curiosity about the series. So one weekend, I brought the chunky paperback home and dove in.

My expectations were low from the start. A number of students have enthusiastically recounted the origins of the story: Ms. Meyer had a *dream* one night about this blood-sucking family, and wrote the series without doing *any* research on vampire legends. "Isn't that inCREDible, Miss S?"  (This attitude of delighted wonder at "spontaneous composition" probably explains the quality of my students' essays, and their reluctance to edit. Ah, if we all had a muse...)

Even though I didn't go in expecting impressive quality, Ms. Meyer still managed to disappoint on multiple levels. Though she creates effective suspense, the writing lacks subtlety. In fact, Meyers is so loath to imply anything in her prose that she communicates the thoughts of her characters by having them constantly ask one another what each is thinking. (This tedious type of conversation is enabled by the handy plot device of the main vampire having the impressive quality of being able to read most minds---EXCEPT the mind of the girl that he finds most attractive.  Shocking.)

Sadly, the best passages of the book are devoted to mildly pornographic descriptions of vampire physique. In Meyers' world, vampires are especially attractive to their prey, so glowing skin, chiseled musculature, and stunning features are typical of the species. On the plus side, I think Meyers may eventually be responsible for a renewal of the idea that fair skin is attractive.

(Edward, 118 year old vampire and Bella, 17 year old rebel)

What disturbed me most about this book, though, was the assumption that a century old, flesh-eating monster with super-hero-like strength, and model-quality features could be endlessly fascinated with a seventeen year old from Phoenix. First of all, the statutory nature of the relationship raises a few problems. But legality aside, what could a creature with the wisdom and experience of 100 years find interesting about an average high school student? Meyers never clarifies that point. The initial attraction of Edward (Mr. Vampire) to Bella (Boring Teenager) is explained through pure carnality: the "scent" of Bella's blood is especially delicious to Edward.

This bloodlust/romantic curiosity leads him to engage in a variety of stalker-like behaviors, including watching her from the woods surrounding her house, spying on the minds of people she talks to (thanks to his random telepathy), and following her around town as much as he feels like it. My students seem to accept this invasive, aggressive, obsessive behavior as a normal sign of genuine love. Vampires can be scary, I guess, but this blind acceptance is terrifying.

I don't support censorship in any capacity and I do encourage my students to "read promiscuously", as Milton would have them do. But their apparent inability to discern worthwhile fiction from emotionally manipulative escapist literature bothers me deeply.

Advenio Velocito!

I am keenly aware that this advent season is one of waiting and that I OUGHT to be putting off the celebration, but I was overcome by my roommate's enthusiasm yesterday. Grace made a trip to Hobby Lobby and Eva and Jacob went to the mountains and chopped down their own tree. When they both returned laden with decorations I gave in, poured the hot chocolate, put on the Christmas music, and joined them in decking the halls!

It's delightful to curl up on the couch with a mug of delicious and a good book. Typically, I don't have much time to indulge, but Mother Nature sent me the gift of time (via snow storm) so I have the day off from school.  My intense excitement is probably the only reason I'm blogging before 6am on a Tuesday... But, then again, who doesn't love presents?

Finishing

"My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now."

- Robert Frost, "After Apple Picking"

The problem with teaching (she writes, knowing full well most educators would quibble over which problem, of the thousands we face, ranks highest tonight), the problem with teaching is that one never achieves the satisfaction of feeling finished. Every night I have to choose to be done, to set the books and papers aside incomplete, to cook or shop or rest a while. I can't remember the last time I've actually checked every item off of my (admittedly, optimistic) list. Prioritizing takes energy. And no matter how hard I work, undone tasks linger in the corners of my mind, coming out at night to fester in my dreams. 

I've improved, if you'll believe it, since my first year of teaching. I used to keep myself up until 1am and rise at 5am in order to grasp the elusive sensation of completion. Acknowledging the impossibility of this task has let me keep a better sleeping schedule, but not by much. Those of you who know me well know that I'm no Scrooge when it comes to self-indulgence. I take breaks. I procrastinate. I sleep in once or twice a month. But these brief  mental vacations are about as satisfying as a soma-holiday. The guilt never really disappears. There are the papers to read, to grade, to enter into the grade book, and of course the lessons to plan and the books to read and I really should do more research on the author this year.

 All I want tonight is complete freedom of mind.

But instead I am going to pack my teacher tote bag up and head to a coffee shop for the next three hours. 

"For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is."