On Teaching: "Allowing, Like Water"

It occurred to me yesterday that I spend a great deal of time resisting, and very little time allowing. In fact, I probably resist, in some way or other, most of the present moments that occur in my life. There’s always something just a little wrong, a little unsatisfying, in each moment, and so I resist it. Because it doesn’t seem perfect, I struggle against it and try to move on to the next moment, which I hope will be more satisfying. Earlier in the day, for instance, a couple of girls in my class started giggling at an inappropriate time, and immediately I went into my best resistance mode. I bristled up, put on my stern face, and spoke somewhat harshly to the girls. It was as though their behavior was a physical enemy of mine and I was out to destroy it. The problem with this approach is that, in trying to resist their behavior, I only added strength to it – and this is precisely what resistance to any present moment always does. By struggling to eliminate their behavior, I only intensified the effect of it. By flashing my angry look, I actually made the problem seemed stronger rather than weaker. Perhaps this is what Jesus understood when he encouraged his friends to offer no resistance to evil. He wasn’t suggesting that his friends be weak and passive. On the contrary, he wanted them to demonstrate the greatest power there is – the power of allowing. He knew that by allowing any present moment to be exactly what it is, they could actually eliminate any ability of that moment to control them. The ancient sages of the East also understood this, which is probably why they were so drawn to water as a subject of meditation. Water never resists, and yet it is one of the most relentless and majestic forces on earth. If you try to “fight” with water, it always yields, gives in, and thus wins the victory. Drop a heavy rock on a lake, and the lake simply allows the rock to enter and sink harmlessly to the bottom, where it rests in peace. However, this doesn’t mean that water is weak. Anything that can support enormous ships weighing thousands of tons is definitely not weak. Perhaps I need to think of myself, as I’m working with my students, as an ocean that is both yielding and strong, both gentle and compelling, both resilient and steadfast. No matter what types of “ships” my students may be on a given day, I can allow them to be what they are, and quietly support them, as the ocean does. No matter how many rocks, or behaviors, they drop on me, I can gently yield and allow them to sink peacefully away into the quiet depths. It would be a sweet and powerful way to teach.