Religious teachings and teachers have conditioned us to think of faith as a magic catalyst that makes God work for us. In no way does faith make God work nor does it release some kind of miracle power. Faith simply tunes into and turns on the divine flow that has always been present
Time is a great teacher,<br>Who can live without hope?
The processes of teaching the child that everything cannot be as he wills it are apt to be painful both to him and to his teacher.
I think that there are some teachers that do a very good job of incorporating culture and history. And there are some teachers who could use a little more help in that area.
We imagine that we want to escape our selfish and commonplace existence, but we cling desperately to our chains.
Ninety percent of what most yoga teachers do is teach asana practice. While asana discharges stress and so forth, it was never intended to be a standalone practice. The true intent of yoga is personal transformation. What we get out of the privilege of teaching prisoners is the opportunity to focus on our own personal development. You can be of service, and, while helping others transform their lives, you have the deeper opportunity to transform your own. What we teach in prison is how we live our lives.
Why would you throw a ball in someone’s face?…Huh. That’s a pretty good reason. Well, I can’t do much about your teacher being pissed, but me and you are good.
And nevertheless I have loved certain of my masters, and those strangely intimate though elusive relations existing between student and teacher, and the Sirens singing somewhere within the cracked voice of him who is first to reveal a new idea. The greatest seducer was not Alcibiades, afterall, it was Socrates.
Our primary identity has become that of being consumers – not mothers, teachers, or farmers, but of consumers. We shop and shop and shop.
So you think the best way to prepare kids for the real world is to bus them to a government institution where they’re forced to spend all day isolated with children of their own age and adults who are paid to be with them, placed in classes that are too big to allow more than a few minutes of personal interaction with the teacher-then spend probably an hour or more everyday waiting in lunch lines, car lines, bathroom lines, recess lines, classroom lines, and are forced to progress at the speed of the slowest child in class?
I didn’t have a knee-jerk reaction like some people did to the language and the violence. My stepfather was a history teacher at Lincoln High School in Dallas. So, I was already familiar with the N-word and the brutality of slavery. What I was drawn to was the love story between Django and Broomhilda and how he defends and gets the girl in the end. I thought it was just an amazing and courageous project.
I take every opportunity to articulate to others the ways that they have blessed and influenced me. I hold sweet memories of making the opportunity to thank teachers who have influenced me. I encourage everyone to seize opportunities to tell people who have made a gift of knowledge or influence.
I was very lucky, because when I was at school, I had a great music teacher who would just take out these free-jazz records and play them for me. So it was in my early teens that I started to listen to jazz.
I picked up one of the books and flipped through it. Don’t get me wrong, I like reading. But some books should come with warning labels: Caution: contains characters and plots guaranteed to induce sleepiness. Do not attempt to operate heavy machinery after ingesting more than one chapter. Has been known to cause blindness, seizures and a terminal loathing of literature. Should only be taken under the supervision of a highly trained English teacher. Preferably one who grades on the curve.
My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can’t decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.
I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.
Teachers are sort of faced with a thankless task, because no matter how good they are, unless they find a way to personally rationalize the rewards of their effort, nobody else is really going to do it for them en masse.
I have spent my adult life trying to figure out why parents and society put themselves into a race — what’s the hurry? I keep trying to convey the pleasure every parent and teacher could feel while observing, appreciating and enjoying what the infant is doing. This attitude would change our educational climate from worry to joy.
By and large, I think it should be a rule in the teacher employment manual that you can’t go attend any event where if you took your classroom on a student field trip, they would summarily be obliterated. That should be rule No. 1.
Nothing ruins the mood during foreplay more than the recurring image of your sixty-five-year-old homeroom teacher trying to stretch a condom over a cucumber.
Teachers and learners are correlates, one of which was never intended to be without the other.
I feel that the greatest reward for doing is the opportunity to do more.
In this very breath that we take now lies the secret that all great teachers try to tell us.
Dogs are great teachers. They are at home in the world. They live in the moment, and they force us to stay there with them. Dogs love us unconditionally, not for our bodies or bank accounts.
What constitutes a good manager in this field? He must be knowledgeable in the art with which he is concerned, an impresario, labor negotiator, diplomat, educator, publicity and public relations expert, politician, skilled businessman, a social sophisticate, a servant of the community, a tireless leader – becomingly humble before authority – a teacher, a tyrant, and a continuing student of the arts.
My teacher, Hopkins, often commented on the craving for certainty that led so many physicists into mysticism or into the Church and similar organisations … Faith seems to be an occupational hazard for physicists.
I’ve always written. When I was in school, the only teacher who ever liked me was my creative writing teacher. I used to enter poetry competitions, and I don’t think I ever lost one. So I had the idea for a while of being some kind of poet.
My mom was a sub teacher her whole life. My aunt was a teacher her whole life. So that wasn’t hard to do. Performing in front of people started when I was a child. My mom ran a theatre. So we were around it. Getting up in front of people has never been an issue. So I think once you get over that part of it, I’m happy to teach anybody anything.
The most important knowledge teachers need to do good work is a knowledge of how students are experiencing learning and perceiving their teacher’s actions.
The best learners… often make the worst teachers. They are, in a very real sense, perceptually challenged. They cannot imagine what it must be like to struggle to learn something that comes so naturally to them.
We teach what we like to learn and the reason many people go into teaching is vicariously to reexperience the primary joy experienced the first time they learned something they loved.
Life is a cruel teacher. She loves to give you the test first and the lesson later.
To teach is to touch the heart and impel it to action.
The one infallible sign that a spiritual teacher is a fraud is that he charges money for his instruction.
According to one account of the New York City schools during the 1950s: The teacher could not technically hit the child, but the old crones found ways of skirting the rules. The push-probe-pull method was popular, in which the teacher would not hit you, but would poke you with her gnarled, witch-like fingers and grab your face like a taffy pull until you screamed. … The pull-and-choke was also a favorite. It was executed by pulling the compulsory necktie up like a noose, until the errant boy’s face turned the school colors.