Halflife
I had dinner last night with some ladies — I have always called them ladies, even when not everyone thought they were — from a long time ago, from almost the very beginning of my official teaching career. Not all of them were there; the weather was full of faraway voices dimmed by the roar of time. They will always remain my very first batch.
I listened to their stories, and their stories of their friends. I see how much was lost, and how much more was gained. I laughed when I realised that my recent students would look at some of them and think the age-difference negligible; by now, the gap is a dozen years, a bridge probably (or improbably) too far.
The bright are still bright, the fire is still hot, the life in them undimmed. I felt a lot younger with them; I was ten years older than they when I taught them and they were only as old as my 'baby' sister. Now they have entered their thirties, and I am wearing the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
I am thankful for them, for all they taught me about the craft of life, the craft of building in the wasteland. They always have reminded me of that master of the English word who wrote in his 1934 opus, The Rock:
The lot of man is ceaseless labour,
Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder,
Or irregular labour, which is not pleasant.
I have trodden the winepress alone, and I know
That it is hard to be really useful, resigning
The things that men count for happiness, seeking
The good deeds that lead to obscurity, accepting
With equal face those that bring ignominy,
The applause of all or the love of none.
All men are ready to invest their money
But most expect dividends.
I say to you: Make perfect your will.
I say: take no thought of the harvest,
But only of proper sowing.
It is all half a life away for them; for me it is more like a third of my life, now gone to dust. But the dust remembers, and the dust was once alive, and life was made from dust. I thank God for all the great things He has given me, and among these great things, the memories of being a teacher, of having that privilege of teaching and knowing those I taught.
I listened to their stories, and their stories of their friends. I see how much was lost, and how much more was gained. I laughed when I realised that my recent students would look at some of them and think the age-difference negligible; by now, the gap is a dozen years, a bridge probably (or improbably) too far.
The bright are still bright, the fire is still hot, the life in them undimmed. I felt a lot younger with them; I was ten years older than they when I taught them and they were only as old as my 'baby' sister. Now they have entered their thirties, and I am wearing the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
I am thankful for them, for all they taught me about the craft of life, the craft of building in the wasteland. They always have reminded me of that master of the English word who wrote in his 1934 opus, The Rock:
The lot of man is ceaseless labour,
Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder,
Or irregular labour, which is not pleasant.
I have trodden the winepress alone, and I know
That it is hard to be really useful, resigning
The things that men count for happiness, seeking
The good deeds that lead to obscurity, accepting
With equal face those that bring ignominy,
The applause of all or the love of none.
All men are ready to invest their money
But most expect dividends.
I say to you: Make perfect your will.
I say: take no thought of the harvest,
But only of proper sowing.
It is all half a life away for them; for me it is more like a third of my life, now gone to dust. But the dust remembers, and the dust was once alive, and life was made from dust. I thank God for all the great things He has given me, and among these great things, the memories of being a teacher, of having that privilege of teaching and knowing those I taught.
Labels: Eliot, Life, Reflections, Teaching
etched with acid at 7:12:00 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home