Walking down the halls yesterday flashing glances into various classes in session, I felt a sudden pulse of regret and desire...or desire and regret - I'm not sure which comes first or whether they aren't one and the same thing.

Teacher at blackboard talking; students at desks - listening, writing, reading; teacher at overhead projector explaining something; students grouped around each other over work; whole classes in discussion; silent rooms with test or work in progress; teacher oozing enthusiasm and smiles in mid-lecture; students busy in labs; small group of students gathered around teacher explaining; students and teacher listening to a student presentation.

Out from this inner montage a question tries to wonder... Why aren't my classes.... Why can't I... What did I do... What didn't I do... If only we could... Where did it go... Oh, invidious comparisons. My ancient curse. It must be May.

I love teaching. I have even done it well at times, so well, it seems, that some former students - God bless them - are willing to forget the bad times and only remember the great moments when it all clicked - when it all made sense for them. My love of teaching may spring in part from those moments and the hope of more. But it is May, season of regret or desire or both.

If you have been reading this for a while, you might know that when things go wrong I tend to blame myself - that I even seem to get a kick out of beating myself up in public. Well, I suppose online journaling has always offered that masochistic possibility, but that's not what I'm really about here. I do tend to blame myself, but I also recognize something in some students which is perfectly, utterly their own: a remarkable - almost innnate - capacity for demolition. Some students have a preternatural sense of what is needed at any moment to defeat this teacher's best-laid plans. I'm not going to tell tales here (though I know you desperately want some). I haven't got the narrative energy that a colleague has brought to this same general material. I pefer to think of it as minor - but significant - evidence (as if we needed any) of the existence of Evil in the world. I am not saying that these students are evil. I am saying that some of their actions and attitudes clearly manifest the whimsical, carefully focused spite of the Lord of Confusion. We've each known him in our way.

If you have me now or have had me in class, you know that I am a poor disciplinarian. I let some behaviors and attitudes go way longer than I should. I call myself a patient man. This is a perpetual naiveté on my part, a foolishly hopeful imperfection. I regularly resolve to improve...and so I shall...again.

May is not a good time for teachers to make life-changing decisions. We are all a litle mad in May. But sometimes we have no choice - as was my case one year ago. Has it only been a year? Yes, one year ago I was beginning to realize that my days as a teacher in Joliet were coming to a quick, unhappy end. The suddenness of my departure and the equally sudden appearance of a job here at Carmel, the small harsh barely unspoken message of "we don't want you here anymore" and a flood of gratitude and respect and love, all seemed to keep me whirling in a weird gyroscopic dance that has continued throughout this past year. Yin and Yang. Life, thank you.

I'm a slow learner. It takes me about seven years to feel comfortable in a place, but it's clear to me that Carmel can be a good place to hang for awhile...maybe a long while. I just wonder how long my foolish patience will last. I used to think I had no allergies...until I raked out those old leaves down at Mom's over Easter. Things change. Bodies change. I change - usually without knowing it - usually not liking it. Funny, that at my age I'm still in Holden Caulfield's place (we're reading The Catcher in The Rye right now): I want it all to stay the same. I don't want life to change. I want more control.

So, let's all leave our kings in the back row, OK?