The Oracle of Walden Pond

I stayed in Concord after visiting a friend outside Boston. In Sleepy Hollow Cemetery rests such notables as Thoreau, Emerson, and Nathanial Hawthorne. Given the theme of our seminar, it was interesting how many inscriptions declared the deceased's support of the republic and the need for law and justice. Visiting Emerson's house, I imagined Thoreau carrying an armful of wood in as the Emerson kids let their "big brother" in the door and to the wood box (I'm depending on the tour guide for the authenticity of this info). A fellow conference member noted that Emerson's wife said something to the effect that she wondered how he could be called such a hermit when she saw his face in their kitchen every night. What fascinated me were the various wall hangings--prints from places where Emerson had visited, or pictures of friends, but so much of every wall covered with what could be seen as reflections of the various inhabitant's personalities, including Emerson's daughter.

A very different kind of house was reconstructed at Walden Pond. Spare, but attractive in its simplicity, the plastered cabin was supposedly a replica of Thoreau's. The original site is elsewhere and a walk around Walden Pond from the noisy beach where many families were gathered on this rather warm Saturday.

As I was hoping for some solitude, Thoreau-style, I decided to walk the trail around the Pond. The further away I got from the small beach that was anything but quiet, the more I could imagine Thoreau had walked here and how peaceful he would have found this large and placid pond (more like a small lake, reminiscent of many in Northern Michigan). By the time I was on the opposite end, I was only seeing the occasional person in the water or walking along the pond's edge. I found a spot where, as there were at points along the trial, a small opening was made in the wire fence surrounding the pond (yes, not as Thoreau would have found it, no doubt), and stone "steps" progressed into the pond. I sat down and took off my sandals, and plunged my feet in the water as I munched on my snack of an apple and cheese. I thought of Thoreau who I'm sure would have taken time to do just this. The water was clear and cool--I could see good-sized perch among the stony outcroppings.

And yes, dear reader, I knew they were perch. Not because I am such a fisherwoman, though, but because the Oracle of Walden Pond came paddling up to my quiet enclave and told me. A man in what I took to be his late fifties, fit-looking, his face half-hidden behind the large sunglasses with side and top coverage that elderly folks sometimes wear, came paddling up--"How's it goin'?" he asked in his gruff New England voice. "Lovely weatha we're havin'; good to be out in it." He proceeded to reflect on life, the weather, relationships, marriage, fidelity, health, the surrounding area, and, by this point it was of little surprise, me.

His comments and questions alternated. He was by himself because his wife's back was bothering her. Do I get out and do sports? What was I doing here by myself? Why didn't people from the conference I told him about come down with me? People oughta be together, he noted. Marriage is a funny thing; his wife had been away for a week with girlfriends in New York, the first time she'd been away so long. He puttered around the house, but it was quiet. Upon her return he said, "If ya die, I'll be married within the year! I can't take being alone!" He was married thirty years, but he knew many who had gotten divorced. After a number of example, he asked, "So how 'bout you?" and related questions until he'd learned I was divorced, for how long, a brief statement about why, that I had grown children, and that I haven't been dating lately. "Ya oughta find someone," he told me, because things are different the older you are--it's good to have a person to spend time with. A beautiful woman, "A real knock-out!" that he knew married a man who was "so darn ordinary!" he couldn't believe she'd even have looked at him. "Go fig-ya!" I should talk to everyone I meet; the person I'm meant to be with could be anyone. So, I said, recapping, I should find someone to marry, and he could be anyone, so I should talk to anyone, even men who may be what I would consider unattractive. There was a pause. "Within reason!" he said, and with that erupted in a loud voice with, "Love's the glue that holds the world togetha!"

More advice, included telling me of a man he met who looked to be in his 40's but was really 80. "I told my docta, and he agreed: a different species!" he growled, admiringly. How old was I, he asked; forties? fifty? Ah, 52, I responded somewhat grudgingly. He was no flatterer, or otherwise, he might have asked if I was forty, though he did follow up with "ya look like ya work out." I should continue to work out, he said, because there's a certain age one hits when the next day, "bam!, ya might not wake up," and I should find a guy who also worked out (story here about wife who can't keep up with his skiing, kayaking, etc.), and so forth.

My head was spinning as I looked at my watch and thought I should be heading out. The sky was clouding up, I was on the other side of Walden Pond and still needed to walk back, visit a few more sites in Concord, and then drive to Plymouth before the day was over. I'd better go, I told him. I laughingly recapped some of the points he had provided me with, "yeah, yeah," he agreed. "I'm 72 years old!" he announced, and proceeded to give me a few more words of advice as I stood up; at that point, a young man I didn't know (no, not a prospect; much younger than me) came to stand beside me as he seemed to be looking for friends on the Pond. It seemed a good time to go, but I admit I was torn: the Oracle kept paddling, and talking, I kept hoping I'd remember all he said. But he, too, was heading in; he was getting tired, he admitted. He'd been out there most of the morning. He said to enjoy myself, and I left him paddling there.

By the time I walked the rest of the way around the pond, I found the spot where many kayakers beached their kayak. His wasn't there. I peered across the lake, wondering if I could see him--no sign of him. It was a large lake; I'd walked back quickly. I assume he could have paddled faster than I walked, or that he was in some cove somewhere, perhaps advising yet another visitor. The rest of the day, I tried to say at least hello to everyone I met.

(Thanks to my friend Michele for the title of this; I'd noted the oracle in the kayak, but this has a much better ring to it.)

On Reality and Education

I heard from my friend Cathy who assured me that it was okay that I was slacking off in writing this blog; she was slacking off in reading it. What she suggested was writing things that are not necessarily true. Who would know? she asked. So beware that I may slip into sensationalism for the sake of keeping my audience. I won't announce it, however, so it will be your job to consider carefully what may be true and what is not.

In keeping in the mode of audience attention, I thought it was interesting to read reports from early U.S. educational reports. My colleagues and I labor over what can keep students' attention, worry that a decline in attention reflects on us or that students are changing. In an 1828 Report by the faculty at Yale, the observation is made that lectures are a needed part of the educational process so as to "give that light and spirit to the subject, which awaken the interest and ardor of the student." So are these early Yale-ites eager to learn? The warning is given that lectures alone are problematic because "they do not always bring upon the student a pressing and definite responsibility. He may repose upon his seat, and yield a passive hearing to the lecturer, without ever calling into exercise the active powers of his own mind" (I think we've seen those same students reposing.) Students were asking questions such as each should "waste his time upon studies which have no immediate connection with his future profession" and why all students should be required to take all the same classes since a student may have "no taste or capacity" for that subject (have we heard "I'm just not a Math/English/Science person?"). A liberal arts education was, by the way, nonetheless roundly supported.

And in case we think students were given tougher and better education back then--how many of us have heard that we should force students to memorize and recite--students remembered learning as boring: "No attempt was made to interest us in our studies" says one student of this time. "As only a few of the class recited well enough for us to learn anything from what they said, those hours were not only wasted, but put us in a condition of mental torpor." (Well, at least this former student knew what "torpor" meant.) Not much, apparently, was contextualized, and much "discussion" was actually recitation. On the other hand, recitation was also given as punishment--"two South Carolina College students who were discovered shooting their guns in town were punished by being forced to recite fifty lines of the Aeneid to the faculty." That-a-way to ennoble the text.

Some lessons can be learned for what faculty should teach, dare I say especially composition faculty? The Yale Report recommended faculty plus tutors (a bit like our grad students or recently graduated undergrads): "The professor . . . may be greatly aided . . . by those who are not as deeply versed as himself in all the intricacies of [the subject]. Indeed we doubt whether the elementary principles are always taught to the best advantage by those whose researches have carried them so far beyond those simpler truths, that they come back to them with reluctance and distaste. Would Sir Isaac Newton have excelled all others of his day, in teaching the common rules of arithmetic?" Okay, I'm not saying we're all Newtons, but it does say something about having grad teaching assistants.

And to my female colleagues, a few words of warning. Advanced public discourse for women was discouraged, "lest women appear 'threateningly insane and requiring restraint.'" (Yep, been there, done that.) One student at a college for women describes one of her teachers: "Miss Gilbert is rather singular. She is about 40 years of age. She has been quite a belle of New York in her younger years, but being reduced in affluence as well as age, she does not attract so many admirers as in former years, when about 18 perhaps; this consideration renders her rather petulant." Really, I haven't been petulant in at least a week.

I think it was Socrates that was reported to have said something about the youth of the day being lazy and unmotivated and not like youth used to be. I think Plato got it all wrong--there are no perfect forms out there: no perfect students, no perfect teachers, no perfect anything. It is what it is. That's reality. We take it, we deal with it, we act as if things can get better, but we shouldn't spend too much time and energy lamenting that it may not get better. We can celebrate when things work well, when the light bulb goes off over a student's head, when we refrain from going insane. All this is true. Or not.

p.s. in honor of anti-plagiarism rants and raves I provide in my classroom, all above quotes were either from the Reports of the Course of Instruction of Yale College (1828) or Caroline Winterer's The Culture of Classicism (2002).

On Weather

My friend Robbin who resides in Eugene Oregon would be proud of me. I am almost happily walking in the rain these days, sans umbrella. Back in Cincinnati, she'd chastise me for being tied to my umbrella and/or refrain from walking or running when it would rain. Get over it is what you have to do when you live in the Northeast or west, I now humbly realize, and getting over it is what I'm doing for good reason: it's rained since I got here (10 days) except for one day when the sun blazed hot and humid. The rain actually helps offset the persistent humidity, so that a rain or mist feels welcome during a long walk, even when the prevailing winds seem to be from everywhere.

Yesterday morning is a good example. I began a walk though I'd heard the rain spilling out of the gutters outside my window. A long-sleeved shirt and cap would protect me enough, I guessed. By the time I hit the end of the walkway to the main street in campus, it had stopped raining and instead a constant mist hung in the air--cool and refreshing as I winded my way around the neighboring streets that lined the ocean, admiring the cape cods and the flowers in their window boxes and the lush landscape that seems to harbor all varieties of trees and bushes.

I decided to take a path that led to the beach and discovered the huge expanse that is low tide. A changed landscape from last week when a narrow strip of soft sand was all there was to walk on; instead, a veritable parking lot of hard-packed sand dotted with the detritus of the ocean allowed me to criss-cross the beach as I walked and ran, finding beach glass, shells, and rocks that soon began to weight my pockets. Then the rain started, with wind from nowhere and everywhere. It felt wonderful and as though I were part of the ocean myself.

The part I haven't gotten used to yet, and as a Cincinnatian I should be used to this, is the humidity. Today's weather is finally sun and into the 70s--but with 100% humidity. Wet when I want to be, yes. Wet when walking to class just because there's no way to stay cool . . . . Okay, so I haven't jumped all the hurdles of being a Mainer; I have three weeks more to try.

The Weekend . . .

. . . is over all too quickly. Sightseeing in Portland, getting some inexpensive but fresh cod that tasted incredible when I cooked it up for Sunday dinner with the minimalist approach that comes with an only partially-equipped kitchen: sauteed in butter with garlic and red peppers over a bed of brown rice and black beans; a side of parmesan topped romaine and tomato salad. Quite nice. Kroger fish will never be the same. No wine--too much reading was yet to be done.

Happy Father's Day to all fathers out there, including my two in whom I am well pleased. (Yes, I've been immersed in religious studies to date . . . .)

The Rest of Week One

I'm not sure what happened to Day Four, though it and Five were rainy.  Today--our first weekend day since beginning the Institute--breaks sunny and promising.  I've planned to head down later today to Kennebunkport in search of a "real" seafood place.  

It's an odd negotiation when one is away at an Institute, purportedly for a particular educational focus and immersion, to also balance the urge to run off and explore and play and travel.  I am trying to reign myself in and consider this weekend one in which to catch up on reading so that with judicious use of my time during the week, I'll have next weekend totally free and can explore the coastline north of here, staying at a B&B on one of the islands.  I also had met an interesting attendee from a different conference with whom I was able to get away and do some beach explorations; a very nice diversion that I now miss as that conference ended and attendees went their various ways, as I will in another four weeks.  I'm not sure what that tells me except that time does march--it's carpe diem, I suppose.  

The other perspective is that of the student--sitting day after day with the same "classmates," starting to negotiate the who will say what and when (and whether) I should speak, wanting to contribute but not overdo, hoping to see the teacher nod "yes" in response and not that slight grimace followed by, "I see what you're saying, but . . . ", and, of course, trying to get the homework done when the beach and new friends and sleep beckon attractively.  And overall, not trying to let any of those things seem too important, even to myself.  Perhaps this coming week should be an exercise in not thinking too much about any of this and just being.  

Last night my roommate and I headed up the first official gathering of the conference attendees at a party in our suite and two adjoining.  We turned on my alarm radio for some musical ambience, lit my scented candle for a foil to the strange rotten egg smell that occasionally permeates this little Maine getaway, and scattered books attractively--poetry and travel books, of course--for that lived-in look.  We managed to rustle up some good appetizers and, with what others brought, it was what most considered a success.  I thoroughly enjoyed it with one large caveat:  I would have liked my family and friends to have been able to join in.  I do miss you all!

 

Day Three

Found a wonderful wildlife sanctuary on bluffs overlooking the bay, just across from Wood Island Lighthouse.   The lighthouse has been "lighting Maine's Saco Bay for 201 years!" or so says their webpage.  I'll be taking a tour of it sometime while I'm here.  No camera on this trip, so pics will have to wait for posting.  

The other memorable point for me today was when, in class (yes, I do things like this in class) I compared Paul (as in Paul, the writer of books of the Bible) to Jennifer Aniston--the commercial in which she notes to her boyfriend in that goofy-looking movie, "I don't want you to do the dishes, I want you to want to do the dishes."  My point being that it seemed that Paul wanted believers to want to do good, and not merely be constrained by laws to do so, and the ritualistic laws he was describing seemed to epitomize carrying out the line of the law without the embracement of the spirit of doing what was right.  

Good news:  they haven't kicked me out yet. 

Week One, Day Two

Actually, THIS is day two of the session, day three that I'm here.  It's an absolutely lovely day--warm during mid-afternoon, and then pleasantly cool in the morning and now as the sun is setting.  I'll be off for another walk, just because.  The "neighborhood" here is terrific--mixed deciduous and conifers, rhododendrons in full bloom, sails on the inlet, and the lovely salt air.  Before I leave, I think I'll ask Cathrine what the job prospects seem like . . . .

I am overcoming my initial shyness (yes, for those of you who know me, that is shyness I exhibit from time to time; okay, rarely,  but it's there) and speaking in class. I knew I couldn't be stopped for long.  Odd to be a student again, but rather freeing as well.  I don't have to be "on" for the full three hours--I can intermittently zone in and out, much as my students do, I'm sure.  But mostly, I'm zoned in, as my fellow institutionalites (is that what people who go to an "institute" are?) have all kinds of backgrounds--some in law, others in political science, economics, history, english--and bring a richness of knowledge I envy, but also appreciate.  The creative writer in me knows that we'll all begin to have our "tics" that may very well start driving us crazy by week five, but for now, it's still a sampling of different personalities, from the professor who says we are the same as pigs, to the creative writer who's finding his life work to be working with prisoners at Attica, to the woman from Georgia--the republic of, that is--whose husband, before they moved to the states a few years ago, was imprisoned four times for protesting the government there; she still works with an international human rights watch to help encourage free elections in marginal countries but wouldn't, she says, step foot in North Korea right now--too frightening and too remote.

And so on to the reading for later this week--Agememnon and The Eumenides, Aristotle's Politics, and more.  Can you say "the Greeks rule?"  

Quick Day Two Update

"Were they doing law?"  This repeated question was attached to a variety of scenarios as we were asked to consider what the rule of law is and what it means for teaching law in a liberal arts curriculum.  We were grilled by Law Professor Austin Sarat as we would be grilled as students (since, technically, we were), and you could sense the tension in the room as he called on folks.  I think I may be too old for this kind of anxiety, or I need to drink more coffee, or both, but tomorrow is another prof, another style, more information, and more reading to do.  

Tonight before more reading--I'm off to explore the campus in a waterfront walk since the sky is actually clearing.  I see blue Maine sky, finally.

Will try to take some pics.

Day One in Biddeford

For those of you who are on pins and needles wondering how the trip went, whether I like my roomie, what Maine is really like, you're in luck.  The low-down is just around the corner.  Probably can't give you all the info tonight; I'm tired, still have reading to do, and I also need to keep you in suspense so you will continue reading the further adventures of moi.  

So for now, some observations about the trip:

~~Bikers are almost as common as the cottonwood trees' fuzzies that have been blizzarding down regularly from Northern Ohio through most of New York.  At one point, seven cop cars were lined up along the highway, lights rotating, with cops waving motorists to keep on goin', don't slow down to look, nothin' goin' on here, as they had three bikers pulled over who did not seem to think this was nothin'.  No such escort for the fuzzies.

~~I would like to get a bumper sticker the length and width of my rear bumper, large capital letters preferably in day-glo colors, that would read (the timid should avert their eyes after the ellipses) "STAY RIGHT EXCEPT TO PASS . . . ASSHOLE"   This basic rule of drivers ed seems to be universally ignored by drivers across the country, though it gets a bit more frustrating on the autobahn of the US, the New York tollway.  At 80 mph, I was routinely passed, but I must recommend the trip.  Rolling hills, lush forests, wide skies, relatively sparse traffic--though with the caveat of the wished-for bumper sticker.

~~I felt absolutely Lilliputian for a good stretch of the road today:  gargantuan, fast-moving clouds of various shades of gray billowing up over the horizon and spreading across the sky while the background of higher streaks of whiter clouds provided a sense of a dome under which the tiny cars with their incredulous occupants sped in the opposite direction far, far below.

~~Best CDs to sing to:  Eric Clapton (from Unplugged), some of Carol King's songs from the Tapestry album, and one of Cathie Ryan's CDs; worst CD to try to sing to:  Janis Joplin's Greatest Hits (I can sort of follow on "Me and Bobby Magee").   Saddest, but great to listen to if you like to have a chance to cry about all your failed romances:  most of Dusty Springfield's tunes.  

~~Great weather most of the trip.  Poured almost all day today, and it's raining still.  A view of the ocean from the dining hall.  My roommate Jacky is from Boise State and Director of the Lit program there.  She provided decorating tips for rearranging the two twin beds and desks in each of our bedrooms so now each is now spacious and comfortable.  I think this bodes well . . . 

Tomorrow:  meeting the other "scholars" (or so my name tag says).  And meeting at George (the elder) Bush's Library for a reception later in the day; apparently, the former President has an office there and has been known to show up unannounced.  If you'd like me to pass along any messages, let me know.  

A note on the title of this blog.  I'm not sure what I'm in search of.  I'm ostensibly in Biddeford for a five-week NEH seminar to learn about law in the liberal arts undergraduate education.  But I was also thinking on the way over that it's a chance for me to see what five weeks is like where all I have to do is focus on a very limited number of things, in a place where I've never been before, at a time when my "babies" seem glad to see me go (actually, I take that back; the cat seemed a little sad).  So who knows what I'll be finding--perhaps it's what I think I'm in search of.  I'll keep ya' posted . . . .