rest
So, how’s the sabbatical going?
This is the third time in my life that I have taken a sabbatical. On average, I’ve taken one about every eleven years. My first sabbatical was from a position as a campus minister, and I used it to begin graduate school. There was no obligation for me to return to that position afterwards, and I wound up not returning. Instead, I continued with grad school and eventually became a professor. My second sabbatical, which I’ve written about here, was after I first earned promotion and tenure. This current one might be my last.
Sabbaticals are a great idea. I wish everyone could have sabbaticals. Some countries have long service leave, allowing those who stick with a job for a given number of years to take some time of rest and renewal. Etymologically, “sabbatical” is supposed to be a time of rest. In most cases today, I’m not sure it still means that. Some companies offer leave for study and upskilling, which is great, but it’s usually about coming back to work as a more efficient worker. Sabbaticals seem to be more and more about efficiency. The committee that reviewed my sabbatical request sent me a letter letting me know that my sabbatical was approved, and that they expected me to write and publish the things I said I’d like to work on. If memory serves, there was nothing in there like “remember, this is mostly about rest and restoration, so don’t neglect that.”
And I find that my first impulse on sabbatical has been to use time away from the office and the classroom to catch up on all the things that get neglected when I’m working hard at being a teacher. Inbox zero is a tempting goal, even if the only way to achieve it is to mass delete emails. In other words, I am tempted to use time away from the office to catch up on things that I should have done at the office if I weren’t so damn busy.
We impose work on ourselves. Productivity is the watchword. Our discipline has monastic roots. We still wear the robes and still have our cells (offices), but the daily office of readings, the hours of resting and praying are a thing of the past. We dress like monks but we still punch the clock like everyone else. It feels like we’ve lost something big, and we’ve told ourselves the loss was freedom from outdated antiquity. I’m not sure that’s true.
A few years ago I took my students to visit a monastery in Greece. The sisters there told my students about their lives, and about their daily work and prayer. They wake up in the middle of the night and gather in their little chapel to pray, then return to bed for more sleep. When they wake up, they pray together again, and then throughout the day they return to the chapel to pray and read and sing. In between that, they do the things that make their life together possible: they grow food, harvest it, store it, prepare meals, and eat them together. Clothes get washed, floors get swept, and the work of caring for the needy in their community goes on at a steady pace. Not with breakneck urgency, but at a pace that can be maintained—that has been maintained—for centuries.
When my students heard all this, one of them asked with a look of exhaustion, “When do you take a break?” The sister looked at her with some confusion, and replied “Take a break from what? Our lives are lives of leisure.”
For most of us, including teachers at most of our nation’s small colleges, our lives are not so much lives of leisure but of busy-ness and constant work. One of the appeals of teaching used to be the possibility of leisurely conversations with students and colleagues. We spoke in lofty terms of “the life of the mind,” and of a “great conversation” that included both the living and the dead who left their words for us to contemplate. The trade-off was we teachers would accept low pay in exchange for a long tenure that included time to reflect so that we could both model good practices and teach “sound learning, new discovery, and the pursuit of wisdom.” (That line is from theBook of Common Prayer.)
The last decade feels like it has been a decade of increasing urgency at the expense of contemplation, greater push for efficiency at the expense of conversation, the replacement of teaching with instruction, the rise of software to “manage” courses for teachers (and to do homework for students), the gathering of data that will satisfy the professional accreditors.
I have more to say about this, but I’m going to stop here for now because I’m going to go do something else. Or rather, I’m going to take a little while to do very little, intentionally. One of my practices during my sabbatical has been to pay close attention to what is right before me. I do this by sketching and by writing, not with the intention of publishing my essays or of becoming a great artist, but rather in order to be more attentive. I think that’s a good model for my students, and hopefully it helps me to rest and to return as a more attentive and more caring teacher. Because teaching is not (for me, at least) about handing over information but about fostering lives of contemplation, conversation, and commentary.
How to Make the Most of Studying Abroad
A new short article I've published on Medium, about making the most of re-entry after you've studied abroad. It's the same advice I'd give anyone who has traveled, if they want to keep getting the benefits of travel even after they've returned.
I've written a few other posts about this topic here on Slowperc. You can find them here.
If you want to subscribe to my Medium articles, here's a simple way you can do so. A portion of your subscription fee goes to support my writing, so thanks in advance.
Advice To My Son: Play, Rest, and Sing
My son just left for college a few weeks ago, and I mailed him a letter so he'd have something waiting for him in his mailbox when he got there. I won't print the whole letter here; most of it was just between the two of us, though if you need to know what I said, here's a summary: I already miss you, but because I love you, I'm glad to see you leaving home and becoming your own man. You make me proud.
These two paragraphs from the end of my letter to him are things I often say to my students, too, so I'm reproducing them here not only for my son, but for all my students, and for anyone else who might benefit from them:
Take time off every week. I mean that. It’s my favorite commandment: get some rest. College can be high-pressure and high-speed. Take a few hours every week, even a whole day, to decompress and not to try to get ahead. It’s like taking time to sharpen your tools; sharper tools cut better, and a rested mind will think better. To put it differently: take time to play every week. I think that John Dewey, Bronson Alcott, and Maria Montessori are all right when they affirm that some of the most important parts of our education are the parts in which we play. I’m not saying you should neglect your classes, of course! Do well in them, and give them serious attention. But then be sure to take time off so that you have time to enjoy life, to reflect on the bigger picture, and to be fully human.
Speaking of rest and restoration, I have to say something about music. You used to wake up singing, and still one of my favorite sounds in the world is the sound of your singing voice. My advice here is simple: make music. Make whatever music gives you joy, just keep making it. Sing or play or whatever, but I think a good life has got to have some songs in it. And dancing. Dancing is good. Rest, and joy, and music, and dancing. These are really good things, things worth having for their own sake. As I write these words I am praying something I have often prayed for you: that your life will be filled with these things.So there it is: Take time to rest each week. Some of our best learning happens when we play. Keep singing. And dance a little, too. Not much matters more than that.
I have no doubt he knows these things already. He's one of the most playful people I know, and his life is a musical one. I wrote these things as a reminder of what's already so good about his life.
It was so good, so very good to have him under my roof for nineteen years. And it's so good, so very, very good to see him going off to live under a roof of his own making. May that roof always be a shelter for rest, for play, and for many joyful songs.