I remember some days in Japan I wouldn't talk to a single person. Not being able to interact with a clerk or a fellow rider on the train makes that very easy. There was nothing quite like that silence, echoing inside my own head.
And yet somehow today, regardless of having taught three lessons and traveling to Connecticut for a student recital, in a country whose language I speak, I feel that same sense of silence. I didn't have a question for the steam pouring out a window spout of the apartment across the way, billowing white in the bright sun between the long shadows, but it engaged me in the feeling of the air around it, an exotic cold. How would I help a student discover that feeling of wonder? It is a question with no question word, one that seeks no answer but seeking itself. And as a teacher, how would I know I had succeeded; and could I stand the silence of affirmation before crushing it?
Some days are beautiful and crisp in their texture and experience, and I think they are often the days of winter, when the light falls in a soft, yet stark manner. Every breath is felt against the nose, mouth and lungs, reminding us that we are alive. The eyes and ears are awake more fully to compensate, and the wind prunes the trees, ready or not.
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