During class, I sometimes find myself fretting because I’m missing something special in my lesson plan, but usually I settle down fairly quickly when I remember that everything is special, and at all times, and all I have to do is make use of the “specialness” that’s all around us in the classroom. For instance, if, in the midst of what I thought was a well-planned lesson on Romeo and Juliet, a drowsy lassitude lets itself down among the students, I can make use of the always-special look of the sunshine on the windows. “Shakespeare’s like the light on the windows,” I can say. “His lines are not always intense and spectacular, but there’s always light among the words, like this ever-present sunshine on these windows. Let’s look for the light.” Or, if a lesson on commas comes to a tiresome standstill, I can perhaps point to the spaces between each student and say the spaces are like commas, places where I pause to notice the individuality of students in a classroom or phrases in a sentence. The world itself is made just for teachers – not just the world of my sometimes insufficient lesson plans, but the wide world of windows and spaces and carpets and cups of coffee on the teacher’s desk. If I use the world to work some occasional wizardry in my classes, I’m just making use of what’s freely offered in Room 2, moment by special moment.