Honest Work

They were in my dreams again last night. My students, that is. They were there, waiting for what it was I, we, were going to do. I threw the curriculum out the window, so to speak (there are no windows in the basement classroom in which we meet), and said "Write what you feel and think about something important to you." Magically, we all got to work and began to have a real conversation. Oh, it messy, chaotic, and garbled, but something was happening. Students were up out of their desks, reading to each other, talking, laughing, having heart-to-hearts. I felt blood rush back into my extremities, felt tension drain out my hands, felt my brain spark with small flashes of lightning. I said, "Pick your genre; no, mix them. First a response, then an analysis, then a synthesis of the two: right and left brains, emotions and thought, heart and head. Tell a story. Let your words be the basis for action you dream of taking in the world. Work on our own; work together." It was a mess, I say, a tangled, glowing, beginning of something that would never be fully resolved. But we were on our way. The honor way.