Time

               Maybe it is because I am shut off from the world of teaching, or because I have been re-reading The Hollow Hills by Mary Stewart, but I have been thinking about my sophomore year of high school this week.  My English teacher, Mrs. Sarner, assigned us The Once and Future King by T.H. White, a tome of a novel, written in Britain during World War Two. I loved the book, even the dark, dark sections when the Round Table was collapsing because men value Might over Right.  As a tenth grader, I picked up on some of the underlying fears and ideas for world peace and the removal of boundaries, and the hints of the United Nations, a future historian in the making.  When I was done, I began an hunt for all of the other versions of the King Arthur legend, which led me to the Hallow Hills, and John Steinbeck’s and Mark Twain’s  takes on the story,  and then back to some of the original work by Malory.  Then I moved outward to the Elder Edda, and Welsh mythology, and Conan the Barbarian.  

                What I had, even in my very excellent high school, was the gift of time. Sure, I had chores at home—I was in charge of cleaning the apartment and doing the laundry in our wringer washing machine every Saturday while my mother worked—and homework, which I did with various degrees of enthusiasm, but I still had time to read, and think, and dream of worlds far beyond Hampstead, New Hampshire. I had no scheduled lessons, or teams, or activities. Many of my friends lived half an hour away, because of the nature of consolidated high schools in semi-rural New England.  When we visited, we took our pillows, our books, our notebooks, and spent the night. Time.

                With time comes self-directed learning. When I wanted to know more about King Arthur, I had time to read as many books as I wanted, as long as the dishes were done when my mother came home. After I graduated from college, I realized I had not read many nineteenth century novels, so I spent a long, hot  summer with weird afternoon dreams of Dickens. I had time. Long hikes and road trips lead to self-discovery and education; we read Walden while walking around Mt. Rainier. My partner had the same experiences—he grew up roaming the woods, examining things under a microscope, and learning calculus in the back of his classroom. Different subjects, maybe, but the same concept.  Time.

                And so, many of us have time right now. My students certainly do, as school is still closed and I hope they have caught up on their sleep. Maybe some self-directed learning is in order. Mark has set up his microscope on the living room bench. During the downpours, I am taking another whack at learning perspective in drawing. I am looking for books on urban design for the 21^st century, rethinking the way we design communities. And, if I can get access to sources on-line, I want to answer the question: did people in 1930 know how bad it was going to get? because I think it will help me understand this time right now. Time. What do you want to learn?