Teaching, Tests and Always Being There

Photo of the Salt Lake Temple in SLC, UT.  The inside is even more
inspiring inside . . . and I appreciate that wonder because there are guidelines
I have to follow to be allow the privilege of entering in.

Version of nitrogen cycle that I made on my iPad 

I have just finished an on-line final for a Botany class. (I got 85 out of 102 points . . . two stupid mistakes, three others I just didn't remember.)  It was a fun test--kind of a weird thing to say I suppose.  I like tests, though.  They give me a chance to see how well I have learned the material . . . and sometimes a small thrill that I can still recall information that was a challenge to acquire. 

My dad taught me about appreciating tests.  At 26, as a teacher of college English classes, I actually hated grading papers and essay tests.  They were boring like nothing else I could name.  At that time I had two toddlers (or, a little later, two pre-schoolers and a baby), and after a long day I would have to fight to stay awake.  I was complaining to my dad about it, and he pointed out that tests were an indication of the ability of both the student and the teacher.

Rose hip before it's mature.  I love all the tiny fibers that were there--and that only one seed formed.

I took this observation to heart and changed the way that I thought about teaching. 

Brent took this of me in Central Park, NY.
It was cold--with a strong cold wind . . . thus the tear.

From then on, I began each semester by introducing myself and telling my students that I was there to have a good time.  If I had to be there, so did they.  If I had to read their papers and fell asleep, then the paper didn't get a passing grade.  

I also promised them, though, that if they would attend class and do the assignments as I taught them to, that they would finish the semester having learned how to write interesting, captivating prose that would engage and challenge their reader (or at least me) to wonder about the ideas that were presented--and to stimulate him/her to think about his/her world differently.

At that point, there were a number of people who usually slipped out the back of the class or slumped down in their chairs--if they had been able to they would have begun texting their friends or surfing the net for a good place to go drinking that night.  I am talking, though, about a time that was way back when the best phone was the smallest phone--and when all that phones did was call people.  

Back to class . . . from that time forward I had only myself to blame if someone was able to foist a boring, wandering essay on me to read.  

Something else happened to me as I did this.

The underside of the leaf of a lavender--all that intricate faceting is beautiful to me. 

I began to believe what I was teaching.  I had only my own perspective--my own history as a reference for all that was going on around me every day.  When I helped these people to write well, they were able to show me things I had never thought of as interesting in a new light.  They helped me find new meanings for words that, before then, were one-dimensional and bland.  They taught me about what was important to them and why they believed it was of worth.  

Close up of common Florida weed.  The flower is actually about the size of the nail on my pinky finger.

The essays were short--I'm talking about Freshman Composition classes here--but they learned how to decide what they thought about their subject before they handed in a paper.  They learned how to limit their subject so that what they had to say actually meant something.

Photo that I took a few years ago in my side yard--mallow plant.
I think of this as an example of the first statement below--the details are assumed because
the writer hasn't allowed the reader to see the details that she/he does.

Rather than start with "My mom is really cool.  She is always there for me.", they began to see and express their ideas so that I could enter their worlds:  "There is no other person who listens as well as my mom.  When I got a D+ on a math test, she didn't yell at me for being so stupid.  Instead, she let me rant on for awhile and then offered to look at the test with me.  It took a couple of days, but by the time I had told her about each problem I got wrong, I was able to teach her how I should have done it.  By the time we got done, I understood the math.  She took a lot of time to listen to me.  I still hate math, but now I know how to add, subtract, multiply and divide fractions."

Way different ways to express a feeling that, to that writer, was saying exactly the same thing.

This--an example of the second writing above . . . focused on one thing, but also put into context.

I am enjoying the classes that I am taking right now.  Mostly they are horticulture classes.  I just finished taking Nathan through a pre-calculus class--taking notes, doing homework with him.  It has been a long time since I have taught.  

I guess I do miss it.  What I miss most, though, is the combination of teaching and taking classes at the same time.

As a graduate fellow, I was able to do that.  Taking and giving tests at the same time.  If nothing else, it always made me feel more compassion for the people I wrote for--and who had to write for me.  

It was a good balance.

Getting Things in Focus

This week has been about getting things in focus.  

Three weeks ago, I underwent cataract surgery on my left eye.  I'd been having constant headaches and my left eye wasn't able to focus.  The ophthalmologist told me that I could get glasses--several pair.  I could get one for close up reading, one for computer, one for seeing the music when I played the piano, one for seeing far for when I drove the car.  

Never one to go the simplest route, I asked if there was something that could be done.  He explained that one possibility was to have the cataracts removed from both eyes and new lenses put in place.  

The chance to see again without glasses made me feel light headed with relief.  Brent battles with two pair of glasses--one for reading, one for computer work.  I don't know how he does it.  About three years ago I had two pair of glasses made up--one that would allow both eyes to see close up and one that would give both eyes far sight.  

I know that I used them--especially the ones for reading--but I have no idea of where they are now.  

But back to my subject:  focus.  

I was rather disappointed that I didn't have perfect sight in my left eye a few days after the operation.  When I had LASIK correction about 9 years ago, I was able to see clearly the next day.  Of course it was a little different then.

Because of my astigmatism, the doctor gave me mono-vision:  left eye for reading, right eye for seeing distance.  That meant that the muscles in both eyes didn't need to move in order for me to see.  In essence, by the time that the cataract was removed, my eyes didn't know how to work any more.

When I complained to my doctor--he told me that I needed to exercise them--do "pencil pushups."  Since that visit, I have been purposefully trying to practice focusing on things distant, then close up . . . again and again.  I was in the car on the way to Lowe's (or Home Depot), Brent was driving.  I put my index finger up as if I were pointing to the sky.  I held it at arm's length and then brought it up close to my nose.  Back and forth, back and forth . . . until Brent glanced over and asked me what I was doing.  

I then explained everything that I just went through in the last few paragraphs.  He remarked that his eye muscles must also be atrophied since he'd had LASIK done on both eyes about a year before I had mine done.  

So now the both of us periodically stop and use our index finger to make our eye muscles become stronger.  

For the last 7 years, I have been receiving shots in my lower back for a lot of reasons.  Surgery, as it is now, is not an option to relieve the constant pain.  After a shot I got about a year ago, I asked my pain management doctor if I could have a script for physical therapy--in the hope that strengthening my core muscles would lengthen the time between shots.  

I began therapy with a full time physical therapist, who was accustomed to working with patients 25 to 30 years older than me. By his standards, I ready to graduate from his care in about 6 weeks.  But instead of releasing me completely, he introduced me to a Pilates instructor who had worked with patients of his before.  

She began a year long process of strengthening my lower and mid-back muscles as well as my stomach and oblique muscles.  I cannot remember my last pain shot.  I am stronger and fitter than I have been . . .  ever.  Bonnie (my instructor) had the experience and skill to begin slowly and then to emphasize larger and larger groups of muscles.  

I do have pain still--mostly after a long airplane ride.  My core muscle group is resilient enough, though, to allow me faster recovery and release from pain.

I look at my eye exercises in the same way.  With my goal to see clearly both close up and far away with the same eye, working my eyes, it may take time, but I will be able to focus as I want.

Focusing on the ability to focus . . . working to be able to see what is around me without impairment . . . involves effort I have never made before.  It is a constant, enduring kind of thing--kind of like what I need to be doing to live the Gospel principles that I know to be true.  

I am trying to focus on people around me, too:  stretch the boundaries that have gradually built up around me to look at people and what they are, who they are.  

The Church sponsors a kind of AA program, Addiction Recovery Program.  We meet once a week for an hour.  I am there to work on my own addiction to safety and reclusion.  I never know when my body is going to begin to deteriorate, to hurt in new and terrible places.  I do not have control over a my manic depression will spiral out of the reach of my med's effective range. I have been in situations where I have become involved in social and school and Church activities--and then crashed.  I pull myself into my shell and wait to begin to heal.

I have learned patience.  

When Relief Society Sunday lessons focused on becoming more patient, my reaction was always to pray that each day would require no more patience than I already had.

As with my back and core muscles, it has taken a very long time for me to attain a level of patience that is able to meed the needs of each day.  Without focusing on it, patience has snuck up on me and claimed my heart.

I am working on stretching that ability to face things that were impossible before--to turn my focus from myself and my needs to those around me, without worrying and holding back in case my body or mind surrender their strength.  

The photos above were taken after a Botany lab class last Tuesday.   One shows that collection of ideas and things that lay about me as I finished class.  The other shows the composition I was able to refine after looking closely and focusing my attention on what was most enchanting, most piquant about what we had done and seen that class.

A choice to focus--choosing what I focus on--both inside and outside of myself.

Continuing to focus on what is important--I still go to Pilates Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 7 to 8 in the morning.

I still take my meds for manic depression and narcolepsy, hypothyroidism, (and now cholesterol).  I still read the scriptures and make a conscious effort to pray more meaningfully.  I still look for something I can do every day to make the world better--even if it is just picking up a few pieces of discarded plastic off the ground and putting it into the trash or recycling bin--thanking the grocery clerk for working so late when I shop after 9 pm--watching for Brent and Nathan and Lauren and Megan to do things that I can thank or praise them for.  I am trying to make friends with the other students in my classes.  My calling as a Cub Scout (Webelos) is now constantly at the back of my mind--what to focus on--how to encourage them to stretch their physical and mental and spiritual muscles.

Focus.

See more clearly.

Focus.