I have become more contemplative in the past ten years. Writing has been a kind of therapy for me as I look back on my own life and life in general. I am certain that my father’s death represented the most traumatic event I ever experienced. Even though I eventually moved on from the pain and fear induced by the suddenness of his passing, I realize how this one event influenced my thoughts and my decisions for decades to come. I walked through the days and months and years after my father’s death in a kind of fog. I was not continually sad or even thinking about him, but his influence over me had been imprinted on my heart and whether I was conscious of doing so at the time, I made choices based on what I thought he would have expected of me.
Just as I had found joy in sharing my father’s love of reading when he was alive, I sought comfort in books and learning after he was gone. School was a place where I felt normal and in control. Whenever my anxiety for my family raged, I was able to calm it with my studies. I suppose that I unconsciously used the gift of curiosity that my father had instilled in me to maintain a sense of direction and calm in what might have otherwise been a childhood marked by uncertainty. Learning gave me a higher purpose and a goal that diverted my attention from sorrow and worry. I was unable to dwell on my loss when my brain was engaged in the tasks of reading, writing, and analyzing.
When I became an adult and things began to fall apart once again with the diagnosis of my mother’s mental illness, teaching others would become the panacea for my worries. I channeled my anxieties into my work and never failed to find the calm and the happiness that I needed. Somehow I have always been able to turn off the random thoughts that lead me to silly obsessions with worry by donning my armor of learning.
I have been formally retired from teaching for a dozen years, but in that time I never stopped being an educator. Any thoughts that I may have had about leading a life of leisure soon changed when the school bells rang again and I had no place to go. I was longing for students who were not there. I felt as though an integral part of my happiness was gone. I reached out for opportunities to continue my work in small ways and soon found that the need for my services was still there. Since then I have had more than enough connections with young people wanting to learn mathematics and each August I return to the routines that have seemed to calm me since I was an eight year old child trying to make sense of a world without my father.
This year I will have a dozen or so students working on mathematics from the basics of fourth and fifth grade the foundations for Calculus. They are sweet and eager souls who look to me to demystify the algorithms and theorems developed by the geniuses of history. I do my best to help them to feel comfortable as they attempt to master concepts that sometimes seem to be irrelevant to them. I show them how the many strands of mathematics all work together in every aspect of their lives.
I’ve been planning for my classes since the beginning of July and gathering the supplies and tools that my students will need for the coming lessons. I look forward to seeing them again. I suspect that they have little idea how much joy they bring to me. They would never guess that they energize me and keep me from growing old too soon. They would be surprised to learn that they make me continue to feel close to my father. I feel his spirit within me when I am teaching. They are also the best possible medicine to tamp down the worries that threaten to overwhelm me when I have nothing to do but think too far into future about possibilities that probably will never happen.
My mother was also a teacher for a brief time. It became too much for her to be responsible for a classroom when her recurring illness became a constant feature of her life. It made me sad that she had to leave her career behind because it had brought her a special kind of contentment. Sadly the cycles of depression and mania that hit her with great regularity did not allow her to plan ahead or lose herself in her work. It was a loss to the world when she was no longer able to be an educator. There are few who have the devotion and stamina that it takes to be a great teacher and she had once possessed those traits. I suppose that she had inspired me as much as my father had.
The parents of my students are always graciously thankful that I am guiding their children. I suspect that they have no idea how much their children give to me. As I think back on my own time as a student and the many decades of being a teacher I now realize how incredibly fortunate I have been to have memories of education that still vividly bring me comfort. I can honestly say that I found my true purpose in life and I’ve never had a moment’s regret. The joy that has saved me all began when I was sitting next to my father as he explained to me how everything worked. Somehow passing that knowledge on has kept his memory alive.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 