During my freshman year in college (a long time ago), my buddy and I took a road trip with his older brother and friend to the Southwest for our Spring Break. After traveling over a thousand miles from Michigan to Colorado, we hiked up St. Mary's Glacier, mountain bikes on our backs, sweating in the sunshine. The journey was draining, but wow what a view when we reached the top!
credit: Jon Cook
credit: alierturk.deviantart.com
As if we hadn't had enough adventure on our trip already, we traveled through Mesa Verde National Park (Spanish for "Green Table") with its ancient cliff dwellings, settled into a relative's house for the night in Rehoboth, New Mexico, and during dinner, decided to climb the random mesa we spotted in the distance the following morning. This isn't the mesa we saw, but you get the picture.
credit: indigenousknowledge.org
Sure enough, we got up early, drove over, and parked at the bottom. I don't remember the climb that well, except that it was grueling. I do remember the "table top experience": we were in the midst of a significant, green expanse of trees, and we ambled across the flat top of the mesa from one side to the other, exploring what we'd never known before. Arriving at the far edge, we viewed the awe-inspiring landscape spread out before us. What a sight!
This is the journey we're on. We put in the work, often times with blood, sweat, and tears, as we groan with the effort to reach new levels in our teaching. Doesn't it seem to always be an upward climb? And there really is no guarantee that our students will follow our leading. Will our children climb with us? Will they hike up the mountain, often with heavy loads to carry? Will they click through the correct gears for the ascent? Will they use the handholds and footholds we're pointing out to them?
I continue to climb that wall with my class so that we can look with faith at our world.
I hope you've all had your table top experiences--your rewards for all your painstakingly hard work. Remember that view! When you stand on your particular wall, take note of how far you've come, and make sure your students know what they've accomplished. Rejoice in your reward.
I've had days in my teaching when I've scrambled and clawed my way to reach that summit, taken a breath, and looked out at the wonderful scenery below. I've turned around and noticed the steep road I conquered and felt proud. Those days it seems I can do anything I set my mind to. But where do we go from there? We've got to descend.
That Colorado glacier wasn't all that solid. As I biked down, my front tire kept sinking into the snow, causing me to flip over the handle bars...not once, but many times. That multi-mile road descent from the height of Arches National Park was exhilarating but extremely nerve-wracking at the speeds we hit. And that climb down the mesa was the scariest experience of my life. To make a long story short, I envisioned my youthful 19 year-old life coming to a rocky end with one mis-step and was frozen with fear for a good 10 minutes before I braved the next foothold down. But I survived and am better for it.
The descent takes courage. After the difficulties of the research, the prep, the plans, the implementation, the assessment, the management, the communication, the standards, you know...that upward climb...you just might gain the well-earned perspective you've been striving toward with your students. Take your time breathing in the beauty of it all. And remember how you got there. Then you can descend with courage, knowing that you can do it all over again.
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