In that second grade classroom, Mrs. Circle said

each of us carries an ocean inside

bigger than we are, like happiness, and full of

fish that live nowhere else in the world

and tides that are pulled by our heartbeats, and low tide

sand bars to wade far out in the bright sun.

She taught us we can learn to swim there by jumping

out into the water where the water is still

and shallow, holding our breath and moving

our arms and legs gently, gently—try

for yourself she suggested, and we all closed our eyes

sitting there at our desks, while the snow fell outside

and the radiator whispered. I could hear the clock tick

as we held our breath and swam without really

moving our bodies, like jellyfish, across

the beds of coral that were filled with many-colored fish

whose names didn’t matter, Mrs. Circle said,

as long as you let them come to you—

they are like angels—and nibble the tiny

air bubbles that cling to the hairs along your legs and arms.

Feel how they tickle, she said, Take a deep breath,

dive down underwater as far as you can.

Do you see your shadow down there on the sand,

following your body? That’s another form of you,

a kind of memory, swimming down below

your only solid body. Don’t forget it. Then she clapped her hands

and we all looked up, happy to be sitting there

with our young teacher in that drafty classroom

in the age of extinctions and nuclear bombs

we hadn’t been taught about yet.

Did a teacher ever fill you with a sense of wonder? If so, how? When? How did it change you? Journal your reflections.
What would you teach a class of young people about life? Write a list of one to ten things and then turn it into a poem.
What was your most magical experience of the natural world when you were young? Turn it into a poem or journal entry, and remember to include all the sensory details. Ask yourself, how did that experience shape who you are today?

THE LESSON BY MICHAEL HETTICH

EXTRACTS FROM MIDDLE OF THE WAY BY GALWAY KENNELL