Infinite time, finite lives

Some for the table, some for next year's garden

Time is short again, a little shorter than it need be as I piece together various education acronyms and jargon that, when analyzed critically, show internal inconsistencies as wide as the smile on Marzano's portrait pic.

So long as I get to teach, to share the world with my students, I'll continue to play the game. (If you teach without sharing the world, it's called indoctrination.)

Yesterday I watched a few swallowtail caterpillars munch on dill--they'd pull one edge of a wispy strand of dill leaf, start at the tip, then gnaw down to the stem, holding onto the dill like a corn cob.  I'm not giving this up.

Where do they pupate?

I collected a few flowers for the kitchen, then stripped off a few hundred coriander seeds from the brown sunbursts of once vibrant green cilantro plants, some to eat, some to plant after yet another winter. I'm not giving this up.

We walked along the edge of the bay, stumbling upon shed horseshoe crab shells, a live sand flea, and a small marmorated stone that now sits with other stray talismans sitting on our windowsill. I'm not giving this up.

The edge of a horseshoe crab shell, found at the edge of the bay.

We sat at the edge of the canal and watched the sun set, then ate at a table surrounded by family, with food that took my Auntie Beth some time to prepare. We shared stories, some from yesterday, some from half a century ago. I'm not giving this up.

But a few things have tailed off--my assorted stringed boxes rarely vibrate these days, and I have little time to just sit and write. Some things I am giving up, if just for a little while....

What are your students giving up to finish up that work we define as important? 

Is that worksheet written by a stranger worth giving up a sunset in a life limited by death?