Countdown

It's just hit me that I have exactly five classes left: four tomorrow and one next Wednesday. That's all, folks. Perhaps it could even be my last classroom experience for some time. Who knows? I am going to miss the students here at Koyo. Their charm, their willingness to listen, to try to speak English, and (most importantly) to grow is remarkable. Perhaps some of the suits higher up the ladder of social life could learn a thing or two from my kids about availability, in the sense of active reception. To make oneself open to others and make others to themselves.

The cicadas are back for a few months now, droning away like an endless troupe of samba drummers. In this case, each drummer is playing a different kind of drum. The combined effect of which is a "sheet of sound," composed of reverberations that stick together in the thick July air, an undifferentiated rhythm, an invisible wave that is soporific in its inimitable monotony. My clothes turn heavy and damp with sweat from the short walk between the air conditioned staff room to the air conditioned classroom.

I now revisit today from a long way ahead, look upon it with rapture and contentment, and never forget that it is now.