Three Poems about "Choice"...

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening: My 2015 seniors graduated yesterday. They represent the first class that perhaps signals the start to the second half of my career. It was a genuinely lovely day, great weather, smiles and cheering, well written and delivered speeches... I get weird on these days, feeling a deep relief as those I watched for years are delivered from my portion of watchful care, but also feeling sadness as I have to let go. The best part of their journeys are just beginning and for the most part I am left here to try to take ownership of another young bunch next year. My school swims in the small pond...

The Armful: There is no way to hold on to all of them, and they need us to let go long before we actually find the strength to do so. Yet so many of my hours are spent with and for them. Sigh. I get to teach around 3000 different souls in my career. I get to learn from 3000 different attempts at success, and I get to learn from 3000 different mini teachers who never cease to surprise and inspire me with their journeys. After around 1500, I am starting to forget names and blur stories. I try to keep it all straight in my head, but it's all starting to slosh around somewhat. But no matter how elusive those memories are, or solid, each has helped make me what I am today, and that is a pleasant thought...

The Road Not taken: Some years ago I was asked to teach 8th grade in addition to my usually 9th and 10th grade fare. I have also been afforded the opportunity to have several classes that draw 11th and 12th graders. Two young ladies managed to get slotted into my room for five consecutive years starting in their 8th grade. I have joked that this will lead to their immense need for prolonged therapy, but it is merely my preemptive joke that I worry they missed out on other, maybe better, experiences while doing time in my room. (See, there I did it again.) In reality I feel grateful for those special relationships that go beyond teacher/student and approach mentor/mentee or life coach/apprentice. (There were others in this graduating class who I taught three and four times, and with this class that crazy possibility is done). They have become such interesting people (they always were to give full credit). I have to steel myself to remain patient to learn about what paths they might choose...

I do take some sense of solace that I get to visit over the years with those who return one way or another. The meetings are sometimes a little awkward as my grown-up charges realize that they have grown up and that their teacher of old swims in such a small pond. But their realization is such an amazing perspective gift. The digital landscape offers additional paths to bump into each other as we tool around our lives. Pictures shared from world travels; observations on life and news and love and loss. No matter in what form, these meetings after the graduations... I love those little moments...

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Robert Frost is one of my poetic loves, and I love to offer advice to students when I can. I found a blog entry by another writer that offers three Frost poems as a collection on "choices". This is what I wish for all my departing charges; choices to make decisions and find a path that is most helpful, enjoyable, productive, and fulfilling... I offer this New Englander's wisdom as a parting lesson for the class of 2015...


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.



The Armful

For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns—
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with, I will do my best
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road.
And try to stack them in a better load.



The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.