Students as Contemplatives

One misconception I have to tackle every year is the average student’s belief that she “has nothing to write.” Students think that because their lives are “normal” or “middle / lower / upper class” or “happy / sad” that they have nothing worth writing about. This is, of course, untrue. Good writing comes from our own lives—the sights, sounds, smells, people, memories, and feelings we all have swirling around in our minds and hearts. To write something meaningful, one need not live an “extraordinary” life; one only must look closely at the life he has. And age is irrelevant: As Willa Cather said, “Most of the material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.”

All year, my mantra is, ‘You have something to write. Your own life is profoundly interesting, if you look closely enough.’

The key, in writing, and in life, is looking closely. A writer’s life is a contemplative’s life. Most of our students will not become professional writers, but all humans can benefit from becoming a bit more contemplative. In today’s world, especially, it is vital that we teach young people how to slow down and notice. In the “old” days, there were contemplative moments built-in: waiting in line, waiting at the bus stop, walking home alone, or sitting in our rooms and feeling, perhaps, bored. These moments are few and far between now—children are rarely left alone outdoors; they seldom spend time thinking without electronic devices. We shuttle them from practice to playdate to game. I do it too—it feels unsafe not to. But the potential result is a generation of surface-level noticing.

Taking time in class to have students write about their own lives will not only engage them but awaken them. But we have to show them how to notice things. Merely instructing students to “write about a place / person / time you know well” will only produce a shallow summary. We must model how to search for imagery and how to remember with presence, and then we must give students time to think. This, perhaps, is the hardest part; we have our checklist of skills and little time for free-range thinking. But we must create this space in our classrooms and curricula. Talking through one of your own memories and listing as many images as you can is a start. I give my students blank charts of the five senses and ask them to imagine a place, for example (or later, a person or a time) and to mentally sit in that place for while, noticing sights, sounds, smells, textures, and even tastes. (For a basic Setting Sketch prewriting sheet, click here.) It is only after much imagining that we write.

Last week, in one of my smaller classes, a group who openly admits to disliking English and who struggles on standardized tests, we wrote setting sketches. One student wrote about being on his family’s fishing boat. He remembered the smack of a fish as it escaped the net, and the peach color of the horizon at sunset. “What’s the word for total silence, like, on the water, when there’s no sound at all?” he asked me. “Just silence,” I said. Another student wrote about the kitchen in the restaurant where he washes dishes, and how he refuses to wear gloves so that his hands would get used to the extreme heat of the washer. He included details like his black apron, the stainless steel of the appliances, and the unison cheer of his name by co-workers when he arrives for work each day. Another student wrote about killing his first deer last fall, and how, as the buck died, he stroked its soft fur to comfort it.

We are living beings on this Earth through our five senses. Noticing them is the heart of not only writing, but existing. It is how we connect with ourselves and the world. To give students this space, to teach them to practice looking closely, to show them that the common moments in their lives are both glittering and precious—this is what I want them to leave my class with. It won’t be on a state test. But some questions are more important than others.