Checked out a post at Students 2.0 that was a response to an earlier post about the benefits of doing nothing. In the earlier post Arthus praised such actions as reading a random paragraph in a book, writing “letters to yourself in the future,” and “getting a crazy idea, then forgetting it.” Obviously, each of these activities is not doing nothing. They may seem pointless in the grander scheme of things, but that is their allure to him. They have a very clear point in NOT having a clear point. Arthus writes,
In our fast-paced society, we do a bit too much of everything. As the long days of summer approach, now is the best time to do nothing.
I can identify with this. I offer the following example. At the beginning of the summer I read “Of Love and Other Demons” by G. G. Marquez and then “The History of Love,” by Nicole Krauss, which is one of my wife’s favorite books. Because the whole summer was ahead of me, I was able to read books that had absolutely no possible use for my teaching (they weren’t about pedagogy, they weren’t faculty summer reading books, they weren’t student summer reading books, they weren’t books that I was planning to teach) without the slightest bit of guilt. Now the fact that guilt was involved at all in the process of choosing a book to read during the summer might be my own problem—I’m just THAT dedicated of a teacher! Go me!—but it might also have to do with that “fast-paced society” Arthus spoke of and the belief that if we aren’t doing something that will have a clear benefit for our job, our family, etc. then we’re shirking our responsibilities.
Anyway, I finished the books (quite excellent—will certainly be able to recommend them for an outside reading selection (yikes! Maybe it did have a purpose beyond me own personal reading enjoyment (which by the way we’re trying to inculcate in students!))) and then was left to decide on my next one. I hit The New Yorker to buy some time. I was going to start “Water for Elephants” but then the voice in my head spoke up: “It’s July. You have the faculty read and the adviser read. You could reread the summer reading books you’ve taught for the past five years and have reread each summer. You could go out and buy the novellas you’re considering using in a literature circle book choice unit.” I fought the voice and started “Elephants.” It’s my summer! I told myself. And it’s a book! It’s not like I’m deciding between “War and Peace” and catching up on old episodes of “Who’s the Boss?” I found the opening chapter of “Elephants” very intriguing. And then it happened. I went downstairs to the bookshelf and grabbed “All Quiet on the Western Front.” Another tenth grade teacher uses it. I’m not planning on teaching it this year but might next year. It’s a classic. Now, I happen to be enjoying “All Quiet” very much (in the way you enjoy a story about war and death) but I wonder if I somehow compromised myself by choosing it.
Which is why I bristled at Anthony Chivetta’s response to Arthus’s post, entitled “Never Stop Doing.” He allows for time spent thinking and tinkering but he suggests that this can lead to the “intellectual void” where presumably people fall forever past spinning clocks and hourglasses. Ultimately I agree with Chivetta’s premise that we should lead a purposeful life of action and take advantage of every (or almost every) opportunity to create, learn, pursue and discover. Chivetta allows for wandering, but he feels we should wander somewhere. Now Chivetta himself wonders (as do some of those commenting on the post) if they’re actually arguing two sides of the same coin. But it’s when Chivetta writes about “working towards some end” that I think he and Arthus separate. I think the implication is that at the end of an activity there should be some clear outcome that has practical applications or relevance. And here’s where “Water for Elephants” vs. Book I Should/Need to Read comes in. In the end it may be that I love all the books I should/need to read. But I have this gut sense that choosing “Water for Elephants” would have been the healthier choice. It may also be why required summer reading should be a subject for debate.
A related (?) story…
I was sitting at the computer yesterday trying to quickly check email (school email at that!). I had put my son down on the floor in the hallway and figured he could entertain himself for a few minutes. I heard him crawl off to the kitchen but then got caught up in reading and responding to a particular email. A small voice in my head said, “Make this quick, dude, do you have any idea how much trouble that little one could get into in five minutes?” Still, I sat there and continued my reply. In the distance I heard the sound of a splash and knew that he had made his way over to the dog’s water/food bowls.
Here’s the thing. My son holds up a finger and makes the “No-no” sign when he approaches the bowl, but there seems to be a disconnect between the concept of “Touching the dog’s food is a no-no,” which I do think he grasps, and the reality of it being very fun to make a mess, watch the kernels expand in the water, and take an occasional bite. This is what I knew he was doing as I continued to sit at the computer. Still, I didn’t get up.
Was I tired? Not really. Was I being stubborn? Maybe just a bit. Stupid? Certainly, as the longer I waited the longer it would take to clean up the disaster zone. Was I feeling naughty? Perhaps. I like to think that I was being curious, that I was putting a positive spin on the proverbial “good man doing nothing.” And really, how many times had I pulled him away from the bowl? How many times had I made my life easier and his life less fun by saying “No-no.”
I kept on reading as I heard a splash here, a crunch there (hopefully my dog taking advantage of his good fortune and not my son dining on kibble), a laugh here, another splash there. I do think I hung my head and groaned when I heard the sound of food being dug from the bowl and cast across the floor. It sounded like he’d knocked over a box of Mardi Gras beads.
Finally, I decided to check out what my son (and I) had wrought. I walked slowly into the kitchen, passed the island, and turned the corner. There he was. Sitting on the dogfood bowl like an emperor, hundreds of kernels surrounding him like his minions. It was a veritable aureole of lamb bites. I laughed, because he had such a satisfied grin on his face, and for all the other obvious reasons. I lifted him up and his entire bottom was soaked because he’d obviously tried the water bowl first before deciding on the food bowl as a more comfortable throne. It was only when I put him in the highchair and strapped him in that he started to cry. Hopefully he wasn’t anticipating a long and boring future where you don’t get to sit in dogfood unless you’re pledging a fraternity or you’ve had too much to drink at the company party. Perhaps I should have comforted him by saying there are other fun things to do in life that are a bit naughty and not entirely socially unacceptable. It was a real mess, I have to say. Took me about fifteen minutes to clean up. But it was worth it. The sight of my little boy sitting on his dogfood throne. I felt like I’d come down on the side of tactile wonder. Of absurdity. Of freedom.
I tell you. It wasn’t nothing.
I only wish the camera hadn’t been in my wife’s purse.
The bowls a day later? Such neatness! Such cleanliness! Such quiet desparation!
