"Ancora Imparo"

Several Christmases ago, just after I was notified that I had achieved National Board certification, my son-in-law gifted me with a small bronze plaque bearing this simple, yet profound, quote: “I am still learning.” The wisdom is attributed to the great Italian Renaissance sculptor Michelangelo who, at the age of eighty-seven, was still humbly aware of how much he did not yet know (Acorn Media, 2009).

I’m not sure I had much choice in the matter of being a lifelong learner. In my childhood home, education was second only to God. My parents, neither of whom had the opportunity to attend college or even, in my father’s case, to complete high school, sent me, their first-born, only eighty miles yet a world away from home, to Duke. They sacrificed much to provide me this opportunity—and I must admit that my grades there were not worthy of their sacrifice.  But I came away from Duke an inquirer, a questioner of the status quo, a lifelong learner.

I came away from Duke eager to learn about life, even and maybe especially life outside the realm of academia. Learning to drive was my first goal—yes, learning to drive at twenty-one—and one of the more challenging goals I achieved. In those early adult years at home with my children, I taught myself how to play Beethoven’s “Sonata Pathetique”—the adagio (?) movement—on my almost-antique Wellington (?) upright.  I grew dahlias and roses and herbs to die for . . . taught myself to crochet afghans, doilies, baby blankets, Christmas ornaments. I made all of my children’s clothing and most of mine. I read voraciously—those were the mystery and Gothic romance years. I cooked, as my mother had never allowed me to in her pristine kitchen: mostly French cuisine. I dreamed of being a writer. Someday . . .

Mine was not the first National Board certificate in our family. Mine was not the first Ph.D. We were all programmed that way: to learn and to learn and to learn and to never be satisfied with our learning. In my thirty years’ experience in public education, I learned how to teach high school French (not especially well, I must admit, but I was just twenty). I learned how to reach learners with varying learning challenges and gifts. I worked with preschoolers (they cry: I don’t handle that well) and elementary grades children (they cling: I don’t handle that well) and high school students (they don’t need their teachers enough: I don’t handle that well). Eventually I discovered my niche: middle grades students (never the same two days in a row and I so love change) and their teachers (never the same two days in a row and I so love a challenge). Even in this setting, where I have spent most of the second half of my career, I am still learning.

I would say that the sorrow of my professional life is that I have not yet come into my own as a writer. Some say I have a gift for writing, that I should make more judicious use of that gift. I should. Perhaps I will. Yet perhaps the most judicious use of that gift is what I do here, in this moment in time—using writing—an impromptu personal philosophical essay—as a catalyst for inspiring those in my tutelage to dig deeply for their own core beliefs, to use their gift for writing to share their learnings about themselves with the world.

I am still learning  . . .

Bibliography

"I Am Still Learning Plaque | Acorn Online." Acorn Online | British TV and Movies | Unique Home and Garden Gifts | Collectibles. Acorn Media. Web. 01 Nov. 2009. . This is the actual website from which the plaque I received was purchased. The information attributing the quote to Michelangelo in his 87^th year was included in the item description. I should probably confirm this information in other sources before using this J

 NOTE: created Monday, November 02, 2009, for use as a as a student model for/example of a personal philosophical essay