I had 1 banana in there as it cooked in the rice cooker, and then stirred in some honey and cinnamon when it was all done. Not too bad. Presentation-wise it’s nothing great though.

And then, getting a phone call from M was all that I needed to make this the best of Sundays. Why is it always so easy to see the shortcomings of other people, while completely overlooking our own?

All of these things, and everything else, I had been saving for a special occasion.

Something changed this break though. All of the saving-it-for-a-special-occasion thoughts vanished as I read over and over again in little notes here and there that there will never be a special occasion during which this should have been saved; the special occasion is in the everyday, in the mundane.

This is what it is all about: the joy in the small things, even as all of life seems to be full of the little things without not enough drama, not enough excitement.

Part of the thoughts are revolving around the fact that the case report for the practicum still needs to be written, but it all seems so much more manageable with the candles and the thought that I could also finally write that letter to J., to tell him what has been happening in this mind of mine.

But, of course, there is always the fear, but then it all seems distant when there is so much to also be thinking about. I am a worrier, after all is said and done.

This morning, I went back into that class with that student, with a completely, intentionally positive mindset that I was going to be nice to the students today, because I got to teach them, and I got to have the pleasure of watching them grow, and learn, and mature.

Total change.

I came out of the class feeling like I had really achieved something quantifiable, although I would be the first to say that teaching cannot be measured: a good teacher, who cares about their students, and watches out for them, and tries to meet their needs in and out of the classroom, making use of technology and Differentiated Instruction, cannot be assessed for what they do, exactly. No, good teaching is much more non-linear than that.

And it’s something I’m always working towards, because it’s impossible to glean from books, or even from good mentors.

I went through some of the photos of me on Facebook, to find one of me teaching, and spent a while smiling at the pictures students took of me. Can’t decide on one that shows me teaching ‘well’ though; so here is one that is most recent:

Charming.

I’m so sick of being sick.

That’s all.

Do you know why people loved college so much? Or high school? Or their childhood? Because it was back in the days when you didn’t have to bear the burden of your life on your shoulders. People could direct you and lead you, and you would just be faithful with what was handed to you.

Good news: this is the life of a Christian. My Father is working everything out. He will provide for me. Today, I have everything I need for life and godliness. Today, nothing good has been withheld from me. Today, He is ordaining every detail of my day for my good. Today, I don’t need to be anxious about anything because He will take care of me.

I do believe I have a great deal of satisfaction from being single. Alone, but not lonely. Because if it is God’s will, it will happen. Until then, peace.

All told, I have perhaps had more teachers than 14 people have digits to count with (that took ages to calculate, just so you know – Maths is not my strong suit in any sense whatsoever), but the ones I remember are those who ran to extremes.

• Mrs. Shepherd was my P.1 teacher, and she was really nice. She gave me a plaster when I stupidly ran my finger along a piece of sugar paper and didn’t even laugh at me.
• Mrs. Green had the worst finger- and toenails. She constantly gnawed at her fingers, and all of her nails were yellow and cracked. We dreaded being touched by her, but she loved to lick her fingers before distributing the next worksheet. That was P.5.
• Mr. Widger taught me Music from P.4 I think until I graduated from primary school, and he was mean.
• Mr. Wright told us on the first day of Year 7 that he, too, was new to the school, and we would “learn the ropes” together. Clive, James, Katie, and I took that to heart and learnt where the best place to sneak cigarettes without being caught would be, and came close to being busted in no small way when some construction workers came onto the roof. We dodged them by finding various hiding places which, in hindsight, should have offered no refuge at all, but which was sufficient that day. Mr. Wright had knees that cracked a lot, and he wore shorts more often than not.
• Mrs. Holland, our English teacher, read Conrad the Factory-Made Boy with us in class, and taught us to spell ‘library’ by imagining a brassiere in the middle of the library, guarded by Mrs. Ho, the librarian.
• Mrs. Ho, although not a teacher per se, watched over the library with a hawk-like pair of eyes, spotting the trouble-makers, myself included, and whisper-shouting a SHHHHH that chilled to the core. As I grew older, she and I became friends, recommending to each other the best books and I took to spending more time in the library than anywhere else during my free periods as it was the one place I could go to escape from things outside. Whatever that meant, at times. She recommended Life is Beautiful (1997) to me, and I cried unheeded until she came in with a box of tissues and an understanding smile, and we spent many an afternoon discussing films that she recommended or had heard about.
• Drama was perhaps the only subject I ever loved for the sake of the subject, rather than the teachers, who I never ‘clicked’ with, or responded to.
• Mrs. Byrnes was my form tutor for several years, and her love for us was clear in the way she spoke to us about History, Psychology, and through her showing us the infamous Buns of Steel aerobics video during form period one day. She was the only one who ever called me Van, and I didn’t mind so much. Her hugs were legendary in my mind; they felt like the most comforting thing in those days when I was so consumed by depression.
• Mr. Campbell stood by me, and gave his time and energy to the text I needed for my A-Level English exam. His humour carried me through quite a lot of desperation that year.
• Drs. Ford, Richards, Slethaug, and Stanley were some of my American Studies and English professors, and they taught me more than just ‘book’ knowledge, for which I will be forever grateful. They taught me to be a decent scholar, but more than that, to have integrity and passion for what I do.

The house system of 6 colours was kicked off, and the enthusiasm and friendly competition was a wonderful thing to witness, a far cry from the aggressive chanting and in-fighting that went on when I was in school myself.

During the Talent Show, a group of boys from the senior year danced to a Korean pop song, and I was asked to sit in front to witness it. It was glorious, and one of the many, many reasons why I love this group of students:

The boys also serenaded the girls, a long-time tradition at the school:

After the serenade by the boys, it is customary for the girls to sing a ‘response’ at breakfast the following morning. These senior girls did theirs shortly after the allotted time for breakfast so they could have a lie-in. I can’t find a video of the girls’ response, but will post one when I do.

One of my favourite photos from the whole camp experience was taken on the morning of the first day:

At least, that is the impression that I am getting from the school I am teaching at.

The current heartache I am feeling is a result of one of the conversations I had with a student today. This particular student is close to my heart, and I see in them a helplessness that is so reminiscent of us all: in our need for help, we become desperate, and long for… something more than this. Hearing the student’s difficulties, with myself feeling entirely inadequate at providing any sort of guidance or relief, this afternoon has felt very much like the following video, in which Dane Cook talks about those days when nothing will suffice but a good cry:

The thought that I am pondering right now, then, is what to do with the gratitude of “passion and compassion” that I feel for this student’s situation, but, more importantly, how I can fully know that I “did my best”… something to pray about then.