One bulb at a time. There was no other way to do it. No shortcuts—simply loving the slow process of planting. Loving the work as it unfolded. Loving an achievement that grew slowly and bloomed for only three weeks each year.
Jaroldeen Asplud Edwards, The Daffodil Principle
Hanging laundry on the line is one of my favorite summer luxuries. With the extra time that summer affords, I don’t need to race through my laundry duties, tossing fistfuls of wet clothes from washer to dryer, knowing the elasticity in my best running bra will degrade in the heat, sorry that the color on my favorite T-shirt will march another step away from true navy toward bargain-bin blue.
On the perfect drying day, watching my clothes flap in the breeze has all the qualities of what pop psychologists suggest makes a person truly happy—a simple pleasure related to slowing down, being in the moment, with a tangible, intrinsically satisfying result. No one will recognize the difference between my line-dried and dryer-dried shorts, but I’ll know I saved them from shrinking and fading. I’ll remember the sun-fresh smell that no bottle of fabric softener can imitate.
I have to admit, though, that my tendency toward efficiency, toward knocking another task off my to-do list, often sneaks into the Zen of simple pleasures. It happened the other day when I was hanging laundry. I realized that I could fit more clothes on the line if I was really strategic about the order in which I hung them, overlapping the shoulders of T-shirts, for example, and using only three clothespins for two T-shirts where others might use four. Voila. No gap in the clothesline, thus avoiding having to hang two different loads, and I’d saved wear and tear on my clothespins!
Really. I get so jazzed about efficiency and economizing that prolonging the lifespan of a clothespin spring makes my day.
All shortcuts carry a cost, though, and anyone who has tried to economize on laundry line space and clothespin use by overlapping the edges of clothes knows that when you take down your laundry, those T-shirts will have damp, pinched spots on the shoulders where the clothespins squeezed the cloth and the sun couldn’t quite penetrate the layers. The dampness goes away, but when you wear the T-shirt, the telltale wrinkle is an irritant caught in your peripheral vision all day long.
The idea of taking shortcuts in the midst of a simple pleasure started me thinking about the special touches I give to my teaching and how I often have to resist applying a “system of efficiency” that would make the task quicker but less true to the intent of the action. For example, when I taught fifth grade, I always wrote a mid-August letter to the families of my incoming students asking if they would take a few minutes to write to me about their children. I wanted them to tell me something I shouldn’t wait to find out about their son or daughter, a positive aspect of his or her character, a special interest, or a recent achievement that would give me some insight into the child and help me in my quest to make substantive connections with each person in the class. I was proud of that idea, mostly because the “family notes” that came back to me were heartwarming, rich in admiration and love from parents or caretakers toward their children. Every year I got the sense that families had been waiting for someone to ask them to write this kind of tribute to their children.
In this case, taking the shortcut that tempted me would have saved time and money, but I resisted it. In every one of my letters to families I included a self-addressed, stamped envelope to make returning the letter trouble-free. Inviting families to brag about their children was like hanging laundry on the line—a simple pleasure with intrinsic value. Including that self-addressed, stamped envelope was like using extra space on the clothesline or being profligate with the clothespins, but the rewards outweighed the blow to efficiency. I was making positive connections before the year even started, and families were wrapping up the summer with proud notes that reminded them of how their children were special and capable.
I have other examples of shortcuts I’ve resisted in my teaching practice. In addition to a colorful folder, a pad of paper, and a special felt-tip pen at each student’s desk space on the first day of class, I put a clementine and a square of chocolate.
When I’m preparing for a nonfiction writing craft lesson, I’m thoughtful about selecting mentor texts to give my students. Each book will have an example of the craft we’re studying, but the subject of the book will have some connection to a child’s interest, making it more likely that she or he will engage with learning the craft by already having a connection with the content.
When I’m going to teach a class of preservice teachers, I send out an email before the first class, welcoming everyone and giving them a sense of what they have to look forward to during the semester. The content of the letter is the same for each person, but I take the extra time to write individual names in the salutation and send separate emails rather than a blast to the entire list with just “Greetings!” or “Dear All” in the beginning.
Maximum efficiency? No. Building early connections and establishing expectations for individualized attention? Yes.
In her article “Beyond Words: The Relational Dimension of Learning to Read and Write,” Judith Lysaker writes about the relational aspects of teaching and learning, those small, intentional acts with big rewards, including ritual, physical closeness, shared objects, shared meaning making, and celebration. Slowing down and resisting the shortcut is one of the most challenging assignments a teacher faces—we pride ourselves on our multitasking talents; in fact, it’s a trait that makes professional survival possible. Yet discovering the inner satisfaction that comes from “dialing it back,” as my husband says, hanging laundry instead of using the dryer and using as much clothesline space and as many clothespins as you want, is restorative. It’s yoga for the brain.
