psychology dector

I have written before about Robert Frost and his love of trees. One of his poems in particular keeps coming back to me these days: I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to your dwelling place? We suffer them by the day Till we lose all measure of pace, And fixity in our joys, And acquire a listening air. They are that that talks of going But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor And my head sways to my shoulder Sometimes when I watch trees sway, From the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some day when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone. Sometimes, we must listen to the silences. We must wait for the angels to lead us home.

I’m northbound on the 405 heading up into the Sepulveda pass, and I am screaming. The wind matches my howling through the open window of my tiny compact car. It is the moment, the pause in the universe, when I feel my life change. A single instant, and nothing is ever the same again. Such a moment of singular transfiguration, and I know I will never experience anything like it again. On the passenger seat next to me are a stack of textbooks: social studies, English, math, religion, spelling, literature, science. I am a teacher. I am a teacher. The sky is the most amazing shade of blue on an early summer afternoon. There it is: St. Joan of Arc School. The iron letters line the concrete apron over the double doors. The playground, a kindergarten building—that’s new—the church hall, the asphalt parking lot, the old convent building. I walk up Gateway Boulevard to the doors and peer through the dusty glass. My old classroom to the left, the school office door on the right, but something ...