After a day that has followed a week that has followed months of planning for school this fall (ok, I admit it, it seems in fact to be what I do all year round), I find myself unsure of whether I've actually accomplished anything. I can look at the specifics of what I did and feel happy that certain things are taken care of. For our first term I've chosen 4 of 6 Wordsworth poems, I've chosen our Plutarch life and printed it off all ready with the term 2 life chosen but not printed, I've gone through my sister's booklist and found the books I already own so she can borrow them, I've located in my shelves a science book we'll use this year. That's not bad really. And although I had thought to give you the list of things yet to accomplish I think I won't. I'll instead enjoy the feeling of satisfaction from the things completed.
But back to the idea that this is what I do all the time, this planning. I think some of what I describe as planning I should just rename research or teacher development or maybe even just for fun. Because this idea that I must always be planning drags me down since it means I'm never ready for whatever is upcoming. And most of it is fun. Especially those "planning days" that are combined with my friends as an excuse to read each other's books, pick each other's brains and share coffee and chocolate together. And then finish it all off with dinner out. I almost feel guilty for enjoying my work so much even if I don't get paid.
My final thoughts:
The Labourer's Noon-Day Hymn by Wordsworth 1834-1835
Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim:
Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then here reposing let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.
What though our burthen be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful Creature's power.
Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!
Each field is then a hallowed spot,
An altar is in each man's cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.
Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun
Already half his race hath run;
He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal Spirits may.
Lord! since his rising in the East,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course:
Help with thy grace, through life's short day,
Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.
la
