“The world is too much with us; late and
soon,
Getting and spending, we
lay waste our powers”
(William
Wordsworth, 1807)
I
got up early, or rather early for a Sunday, due to Xena’s mournful petitioning
for food. After feeding Xena, who, for the record, has access to dry food all
night long, I took the dogs out to the fields while the sun was still rising.
The dogs were cast in a golden haze as they roamed and galloped after each
other. At the corner of the first field, they pushed their noses
through the thin layer of ice to get at the small spring that bubbles up all
winter long.
The
world was relatively still, though I knew my neighbours in the farms all around
us had probably been up for hours, including our neighbours at Shady Grove
Maple Farm, who were preparing for another day of families eager to see the
maze of blue sap lines zig-zagging through the sugar bush, or to taste the
sweet syrup after watching it boil down in the sugar shack.
While
the dogs dashed around me, I tried not not to think about my to-do list for the
day: clean the house, rake the leaves, go for a run, shop for clothes for the
marathon, and mark, mark, mark. It doesn’t matter where you put
marking in the sentence, for a teacher it is always looming, and this brings me
to the dual nature of Sunday, or rather to the ambivalence that many teachers
feel towards Sundays. It is certainly a day of rest, but it is also
the day before you get back in front of the class again, so you better have
those tests or essays marked, because the students are going to ask, at least
those students who can’t help themselves, because they can’t decode that mildly
annoyed look on your face when they do ask, or the greatly annoyed look when
they ask for the third day in a row. Not only is Sunday about
marking, it is about preparing your classes, because most of us aren’t that
comfortable standing in front of a group of people with nothing to say. Sure
there are those teachers who talk about themselves or their families or their
pets ad nauseam (for the record I barely mention my cats or dogs), but you
don’t want to be that teacher.
Therefore
when you wake on Sunday, you can hear a faint voice, and if you’re lucky,
you can keep that voice at a very low volume for a few hours, but after that,
it doesn’t matter how grand the distractions might be, that voice is going to
get louder and louder until it says in a strikingly rude fashion that it is
high time you got down to work, you sad, slothful creature. You
might argue with this voice, you might sneer at it, or even barter for a time,
but ultimately, as Robert Frost said, the only way out is through.
This
morning, the voice spoke in hushed tones, allowing me to witness the world
waking up, and I tried to pay attention the way animals do. In our
house, the cats spend their time charting the movements of the dogs, while the
dogs spend their time charting our movements. If I even lift my snow
pants from the railing in the front hall, as I did this morning, the dogs are
at the ready, tails wiggling wildly, as snow pants mean we are going for a
walk, and we are going now. Griffy, who a minute before had been
reclining on his bed, seemingly suffering from excessive revelry on Saturday
night, was at my side within seconds.
As
I stood gazing at the smallest filaments of frost, the world grew noisier.
Birds exchanged song with one another while in the distance, traffic on highway
24 created a soft shushing sound. Overhead, a bright yellow plane circled under
a lingering moon. As the sun rose higher, I grew hot in my snow pants and
jacket, and it was time to return to the house to put on my running shoes and
train a few more miles before Boston.
I’d be lying if I pretended I was incredibly
serene all day long; no, the caffeine coursed through my veins, the voice
got louder, and then I began bartering: just let me finish this post and I will
start my marking, really, I promise. And so I must.
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