A new blog and some entries for this one

A couple of months ago, being off on my own at school, I started a blog to post thoughts and poetry and news. It's called Old Path, New Feet, if you want to look (name and location subject to change). I'm still off on my own at school, but after some thought I've decided to continue posting most of that stuff here as well. Over the next few days, I'm going to bring old posts from my new blog here to Rusticanda, and thenceforth I shall be cross-posting a lot of entries. Post-dates may fluctuate in the meantime, since I'll be posting old posts from the blog here and then editing their post-dates to match the days I wrote them.

(The moral of the story: scroll down!)

An All Hallows' Eve Tale

Once upon a time—a time not so unlike our own—there lived a man who, like all men, was a traveler. This man loved a maiden, as many men do; and the maiden loved him in return, which is more than many men can say. Nor was she an ordinary maiden, though she was a commoner, for she was as fair as autumn and as faithful as the seasons. But there are other powers in the world than Love, and not all are powers for good. So it was that the man and maiden were parted, and both were laid under binding spells that they might not go and seek one another. They remained many days in duress; but upon All Hallows' Eve Day, the man broke the spells that bound him and set forth upon a journey to find the maiden again. Twice a hundred miles he traveled, through misty mountains and over dark rivers, until he came to a town in the midst of a forest.

That was a strange place, for the town lay upon the borders of Elfland, and heavy were the enchantments that held it there. No time passed in those shadowy marches between our world and the other, but each morning dawned upon the same day, so that the folk grew no older, and the land did not decay. The force of the spells about the town was such that it was often hidden from human sight; at such times, any who found it would find only empty buildings and whispering streets. Indeed, only a few days in the year could that town be found by mortals; but All Hallows' Eve Day is of all days the most potent.

In that town, under the veil of enchantments, the maiden was hidden. Resting as it did on the border, the town had become a meeting-place for the worlds, and men named it Fairhaven, for within its walls humans and elves alike found refuge. Through its streets passed lords, ladies, peasants, pickpockets, fairies, elves, merchants, craftsmen, swordsmen, scholars, knights-errant, stranded seafarers, traveling jugglers, wandering minstrels, and others so many that the tale of them would last seven days in the telling. Among these the maiden took her place, living by her music upon the streets, and waiting for her love.

The man stopped before the gates of Fairhaven. The guards that keep the gates looked him up and down and muttered amongst themselves, for they let none pass that have not the welcome of the town's governors; and the man was a stranger. So he stood without the gates, gazing with wonder into that elfish place. Hard it seemed to have come to the gates of Faerie and be denied entrance; and harder still, for the man knew that the maiden had passed through those gates; and now only a single wall lay betwixt them; yet it was an impassable wall. Still he was patient, and waited for something to happen; and, as usually happens, something did.

For, by some way of magic, the maiden had learned of his coming. When she knew that he was without the gates, she ran thither as swiftly as her legs would bear her. And there in the doorway of the elfin city those two long parted met again, and in the twilight between Earth and Faerie the man found the end of his journey, and the maiden the end of her waiting. After a time she led him through the gates, for she had a word of passage from the governors of the town, and once within she became his guide through all the wonders of that place. The sights that she showed him there, musicians and players, merchants and craftsmen, jousts and processions, and more beside, must be left for another writing, for there is not space nor skill here to describe them. Through all these things she led him; and all that day he did not leave her side.

Yet, when the day ended, and All Hallows' Eve had passed, the enchantments that had bound the man once more summoned him away. All Saints' Day was come; the day of wonder was gone, and the man returned whence he had come. Once more the man and the maiden were separated: she went again to the town of Fairhaven to await his return; and he was borne back to a far-off land of thick and dreary enchantments. Yet even there, at times, the memory of Faerie, and of her who waits, returns to him in waking dreams. And it may be that they shall not remain thus parted: for there be other days in the year with potency against dreary enchantments; and there be other powers in the world besides those that strive with Love.

(I, Owen Locksley, son of Sir Reginald Locksley, servant of the Crown, do attest to the truth of this tale. Yet it may be that some find the story dark, and think the right shape of things hidden by the telling, and the facts obscured in webs of words. For those that make such complaint I say merely that this account is true to the utmost, as far as it goes; and for a clearer telling of the facts, they must wait for some other day. For tales take long in the weaving, even such tales as be reworkings of things already past; and a knight's son has scant time for tale-weaving.)

New Book

I'm starting a new book. For the moment, I'm just going to paste a couple quotes from its Preface without even divulging the title of the book...

Having now had an opportunity to study schools as a headmaster as well as a teacher, I would argue that the teacher, not the curriculum, needs to be the focus of reform. The greatest value of the curriculum proposed in this book, I now believe, is that it sustains and nurtures teachers as practioners of the art of learning while discouraging non-learners from entering the profession. (What non-inquisitive, discipline-bound person would want to teach in such a school as I have outlined in the second part of this book?) The classroom should be no place for teachers who are afraid of change, who are willing to talk about ideas ad nauseum but unwilling or unable to act on them, to experiment, to grow, to absorb new disciplines, to teach beyond themselves, their college lecture notes, their State-approved lesson plans, their textbooks.

[My book] presents a formidable challenge to schools controlled by administrators and teachers who simply want to be left alone and allowed to maintain old habits in the midst of a rapidly changing world. Some will defend their traditionalist stance as a means of protecting time-honored values or of avoiding educational fadism, but underneath, I suspect, indolence and insecurity have not a little to do with it At any rate, this type of conversation is contrary to the spirit of learning. Schools are places where students learn because they are places where teachers learn. Only a school (and by extension a curriculum) that encourages teachers to be always learning will keep its teachers fresh and fearless and its students happy and motivated in their studies, ready to test their lessons against life.

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There is a disturbing trend these days, in this era of hyphenated Americans, to seek to motivate students and to build their self-esteem by devising ethnocentric studies tailored to their race or creed or to some high-sounding social agenda. Until now, the American school -- for all its shortcomings -- has embraced the idea of a common American culture and has acted as a powerful centripetal force in American society. The new craze for ethnocentric studies, however well intentioned, erodes the school's power to help our nation forge out of many, one.

American culture is, like all cultures, derivative. Its sources are sundry and varied, but they are not different for Latinos and Afro-Americans and Euro-Americans. It is one culture characterized by racial and ethnic diversity and, yes, by predominantly Western and European influences, but none of these sources or influences is as worthy of study as the common landscape and history, the shared political creed and social identity, the mutual aspirations and disappointments of the American people. Intellectuals, the media, and ethnic leaders tend to dwell upon our differences, which are often more interesting (for some reason) than our similarities. This makes it all the more important for schools to define in their curricula a common American culture and in this way to frame the debate that will naturally arise in a pluralistic society like our own.

One must ask, if our schools fail to believe in a common American culture and to teach it, what will become of us? This question would certainly perplex the ancient whose language, perhaps wisely, could not distinguish between education and culture. It is -- as this book attests -- the sacred duty of the school not only to believe in our common inheritance, but to teach the unfolding truth of that inheritance. Respect for truth -- not the self-esteem of our students or our regrets about the past or our hopes for the future -- must guide us in the quest for that common inheritance and in our definition of the curriculum.

Song of the Valley

To be sung in the manner of Chesterton

Splendid rides the sunset o'er the garden of the Lord
Where summer spreads its colors on the hills like emerald wine
And the mowers raise the incense of the grass and of the soil
And the ponds and trees and houses gleam like grapes upon the vine
In the sun that smites the valley with the brightness of a sword:
In this cool and quiet garden in the center of the world
Where the people's death and living makes a song of righteous toil
In this precious piece of nowhere in a corner of the world;
In this garden of the people which is sacred to the Lord.

Summer's End

I'm sitting on the lawn outside my dorm at school. That may sound lifelessly urban, and I suppose it would be in a lot of schools: but my school is settled right in the middle of a country Tennessee community, without a fence and sometimes without even a road separating them. There is beauty in this place and moment. The sun has set and the sky is glowing russet and pale blue. The woods are so close across the road that I can hear the cicadas humming. A flock of geese just flew overhead, calling the evening bugle of summer as they sped southward. I guess this is really my Beginning of Autumn post, which seems to have become something of an annual tradition. I didn't intend it that way; but for some reason there is a day or a set of days as summer ends that remind me of the season changing and make me want to write about it. Perhaps it is because, as Chesterton said, you realize how much you love something when you begin to lose it. I don't notice how much I enjoy summer until a cool evening or a red leaf on the ground reminds me that it is passing. Perhaps that is why I love autumn so much. After the peace of summer, it is a reminder that the seasons change; that the years turn; that time passes. And that reminder makes me enjoy the seasons, and the years, and time itself, all the more.

Mystery Eggs

Miss M and I were looking in the yard for caterpillars and instead we found a leaf with some black spots on it. I once found a leaf with red things on it - and after I looked it up, I determined that the red spots were a growth from a fungus or something. I thought this was the same thing - a fungus that makes tiny tumors on the leaf. But then I looked under my Radio Shack 30x lighted magnifier and they look like tiny raisins; some even have tiny hairs stuck to them. And each black raisin has its own smaller spot of what looks like mud next to it. So I think they're eggs, and the hairs are probably from some kind of caterpillar.

This is the leaf:

And this is a close-up of the black spots accompanied with a smaller brown dot:

Maybe if I keep them all winter, they'll hatch in the spring.

Ah, life.

Well, here I am back in my school dorm room again with the semester's first classes waiting for me in the morning. A great deal happened this summer, and I wanted to blog all about it all before the summer ended, but there you have it. Life waits for no man. And it's too big to fit into a few blog posts, no matter how thorough your writing is. Some things will always slip through the cracks. In my case the cracks just happen to be several months wide...

There was the Taming of the Shrew, for instance--rehearsals, and production week, and the performance in our backyard, and the reception and cleanup afterward--which all ended more than a fortnight ago. There was the ChildLight conference, of course, which happened months ago; I wanted to blog about it in more detail but I still haven't. There was my sudden sightseeing trip to Washington, D.C. last week, with visits to the National Gallery and the National Cathedral and the Shakespeare Library and more. And above all there's a story involving Regency dancing and midnight Poe readings and lots of prayer and a rainbow for good measure, which if told in full would be quite tolerable evidence that gentlemen and ladies still exist--and still end up together.

So, yes, that was my summer. The Unblogged Summer, one might call it, except I can think of so many better names for it.

School Schedules

It's that time of year again!

I've finished L's schedule for next year; he'll be doing AO Year 7. I broke his readings and things down into 180 daily increments and posted it here. J's is still to come.

Update: Here is J's schedule; he'll be doing Year 10. And here is Miss M's K schedule.

Maybe there are some good ideas buried in those textbooks, after all.

I was doing homework for my (summer school) speech class today, reading from a textbook about how to improve one's listening skills. The writing for the most part is efficient, scientific, and dry as dust. As I read, however, I realized that some of the ideas sounded familiar:

There are four major techniques [for remembering information]. The first is organization. Find a pattern, structure, order, plan, format, or framework.

Of course, I said to myself, because the mind feeds upon ideas. If you understand the overall structure of a thing, every detail of it will make more sense and you will be able to remember the whole more easily, because you will know how each piece fits within the whole. CM knew that: she didn't hold with the classical method, which taught facts first and ideas later; she started with ideas, and let the facts follow them. I thought to myself, "Ha! A CM reference!" and kept reading. The next sentence:

The second is association. Make the things you want to remember relate to each other or to categories you already understand. Group them, if possible.

Well, certainly, I said. Education is the science of relations, after all.

The third technique is vizualization. Picturing what you want to remember creates a strong, vivid memory of it.

This sounded quite prosaic and scientific until I got about halfway through and realized that all it means is use your imagination. I began to get curious. Were there any more good ideas beneath all that scientific language? I read on:

The fourth is repetition. When you repeat ideas, you burn them into your memory.

At this point I threw up my hands and laughed--or at least, I would have if I had been the sort of chap who does such things. An old truism, and one that sounds suspiciously like habit formation, to boot. I suppose I must reassess my position on textbooks a little. I still hold that they are mostly dead and require Miracle Max or a reader trained in CPR to breathe any life into them. After today, however, I must admit that they at least know where to go to find good ideas. Even if they do it unintentionally.

A proposal

My mother suggested it, and I really think it is an admirable scheme. One merely needs three hours of time to reflect for every fifteen minutes of life lived, and one would get along quite well. Why, say I, cannot so simple a proposal, whose benefits are so obvious, be adopted? Difficulties arising from hasty decisions and pressing deadlines would almost disappear. The increased volume of poetry alone that the scheme would occasion should be enough to recommend it to anyone. I think I shall contact the People In Charge and see if such a thing can be arranged...