teaching and being taught

Lynn, a keen-eyed former student, just wrote to point out in the politest possible way that I'd made a spelling mistake in the last blog - "envelope" instead of "envelop." I had actually sat looking at "envelope," at that extra "e," and had decided it was right. Thank you, Lynn. Usually it's my friend Bruce in Vancouver who catches my shortcomings, but he's in rehearsals right now. When he went through the "Jewish Shakespeare," in all its fact-packed 288 pages, he found only 2 major errors. I had a superb copy-editor then, but not now, relying on my keen-eyed friends.

Yesterday was my long teaching day, U of T in the afternoon and Ryerson at night. I got home as always, exhausted and exhilarated.  How lucky I am to have a job I love so much. We had a difficult assignment at Ryerson this week; the result was one extremely moving essay after another. How hard it is to tell the truth, and how much I admire those who take that leap. The first two weeks of class, as I approach the classroom there's silence, students sitting alone with their thoughts. After that, if as I draw near I hear chatter, laughter, and intense discussion, it's clear they're off and running. 

Only five weeks till I leave for Paris. Panic button. Where to start?

And incidentally, in the photograph below, the sign I'm standing beside is NOT indicating my age. I am not 67. Not bloody yet.