There are days in the classroom when even a white piece of paper seems polished with light, when even the smallest blossom outside shines with an unusual strength. Admittedly, this doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it tells me again what a gift I’ve received by being a teacher. Somehow I was shown, 45 years ago, that I would find a fortunate kind of life if I followed the path of an educator, but nothing prepared me for the everyday satisfaction I’ve experienced. Almost all my days in the classroom have been like choosing cheerfulness and comfort as a way of life, but there are those extra-special days when my teaching world seems suffused with an even more intense rareness. Just yesterday, a boy who usually brings only silence and moodiness to class actually carried the discussion along for a length of time. His face was bright with his wish to share his insights about some lines from Shakespeare. Even his gray shirt seemed strangely pressed and fresh as he spoke, and I remember noticing that the pictures on the wall where he sat stood out like spanking new ones. It was a moment like a little miracle, and it made me grateful, once again, that I am given this good life over and over, year after year after year.