Teaching to Learn.

Lesson plans, tentative lesson plans, possible lesson plans, neglected lesson plans, and improbable lesson plans tower and lean and sigh on my desk, my bed, chairs, and the floor. Years have passed since I last taught, and I didn't do it long enough to collect materials or ideas. I didn't expect to ever have the desire to teach again.

Now the last days of summer speed past, adolescents in swimming pools lengthen and tan and bronze and began to mumble about the encroaching scowl of the school year. Teachers other than me tap stacks of reliable old worksheets and projects and guides together into neat rectangles, place them in manila folders, and lie back to soak in the remainder of their limited days of freedom.

But I am starting with nothing. I've never taught World Literature or writing, for that matter. I have no xeroxed and foldered schedules or exams or sundry assignments. I have no clue what other teachers do. I have a vague idea of what I want to accomplish. I have stacks of ideas. Stacks of plans. And, alternatively, no reliable stacks at all. No ideas that I'm sure will work. No plans that aren't liable to be blown over as savagely as a little pig's straw house.

It's nerve-wracking. And it's thrilling. In a way, I imagine this first semester being akin to a soujourn through the wilderness with only my wit and endurance to keep me alive and/or sane. (Hopefully, both.) As neurotic as I am, as enamored with rules and organization, I have an equally strong urge towards chaos and disorder and fear and challenge. I suppose I might change my attitude if I ever get a nasty beating. We'll have to wait and see.