JOURNAL: September 20, 2006

Patience seemed to be the strongest force in my day yesterday. Nothing seemed to be rushing or running or dashing or pushing ahead. Whatever happened happened in a slow and purposeful manner. Whether it was me turning the pages of my lesson plan book, my students coming down the hall toward my class room, or the trees beyond the soccer fields swaying in the wind, everything was done with neither haste nor carelessness. That’s strange, because it might have seemed, to an observer, that there was much urgency at school yesterday. Kids could occasionally be seen running down the walkway, and probably a few of us teachers rushed to get through a lesson now and then. But, still, there seemed to be a sense of serenity at the heart of everything. Inside any rushing was an essential, all-pervasive peacefulness. Things sometimes happened quickly, but always carefully and perfectly and calmly. A wonderful symbol of this was something I saw at the end of the day, when kids were boarding buses and others were racing around on the athletic fields. I saw a Volvo parked in front of the main entrance to school, and inside it, reclining in absolute stillness behind the steering wheel, a woman was peacefully sleeping. Games were getting started on the fields and I’m sure cars were, as usual, speeding along the nearby interstate, but inside that car there was utter stillness. In a seemingly chaotic world, perfect patience reigned there. I passed by on the way to my car, wishing the woman a refreshing rest.