Any early good morning to you.  Just came in from a tropical, pre-dawn walk.
Doggone, it feels good once again to be rejuvenated just by walking, to be excited by the
stars before they disappear, to be thrilled by the sound of an awakening warbling bird,
and to be awed by a flower lit dimly by the dawn's early light.  Been off the air for a
while, haven't I.  I know.  It's been more than two months.  To tell you the truth, I've
not been in the mood.  The spirit just didn't move me to dance on the keyboard.  And
despite a number of messages from well-wishers, I've resisted writing just for the sake of
writing.  It wasn't the fact that I've been out of the classroom since the beginning of
May.  My edge was dull.   I just needed this time to recharge my depleted batteries until
my edge was sharpened.  I just had to take the time to breathe deeply each day and be
refreshed by life itself.  But, I have been off-balance.  
	Over the past thirteen years, I've formed the habit of writing during an
occasional very early in the morning before I have to tend to all my other stuff.  You
know, when I think about it, it's a strange and isolated experience sitting alone in the
wee, pre-dawn hours of the morning, while my angelic Susan lies comfortably in Morpheus'
arms, usually having come in from a meditative walk of a few miles after I have had a
conversation with myself, to share reflections, experiences, visions, and philosophies as
the spirit grabs me with so many people whom I don't know and have never met. Yet, I've
shared so much of myself, my deepest reflections, my highest aspirations, my greatest
struggles, and my most heart-rendering achievements  that I think of it as writing both a
personal open diary to myself and intimate letters to unmet friends.   Maybe its
foolishness, maybe its pretentiousness, but I feel a real and intimate bond with those of
you who read my stuff. At the young age of 65, I often wonder how long I can go on.  And,
I often am dazzled by the mysterious origin of these words.  Yet, despite occasional fear
I am repeating myself, over 600 Random Thoughts later, it's hard for me to imagine giving
up something I've come to love doing so much and, more importantly, which is so meaningful
to me and for my well-being.   I'm a teacher.  I am thankful for the internet.  I am
enormously grateful for connecting with the people it has afforded me the opportunity of
meeting.  I am amazed and thrilled to have a way to share me with so many of you
simultaneously between those occasional conference presentations and campus seminars, for
not having to communicate in my southpaw cuneiform, and for your willingness to allow me
to share with you.  The messages I get from people--current students, past students,
colleagues both on and off my campus, as well as non-academics--who tell me something I
said made a difference in their lives energizes, encourages, and inspires me.   I am also
thankful for those who disagree with me or those to take me to task, for their criticisms
are cause for me to pause and go into a deeper examination of my visions, philosophies,
outlooks, and positions.  Both ask of me to look continuously at my stopping place in
life, to ask whether it is a good place to remain, and to consider if it is a good place
from which to go on.

.	It wasn't until Susan and I were traveling through China with a pair of newly made
friends that I felt the spirit once again moving me.  Slowly, I began to see my
experiences as a metaphor for teaching.  So, here goes. 

	First, you have to understand that I'm not a tour person.  Just going on a tour
for me was a challenge.  I don't like "now you've seen it, let's go" specific itineraries.
I'm not comfortable with "you've got to be here" set schedules.  I don't like merely to
cover the surface; I like to peer intently into the depths.  I'm not wild about lugging
around lots of baggage.  I hate to cling to a guide book as if I was Lineaus with my
blanket.  I don't like to hurry things at if I was driving on a super highway with every
passing thing converted into a blur or didn't really care about something and just wanted
to get on to other things--that were equally blurry.  I don't like to settle in, hold on
to certainties and fixed habits.  I don't abdicate choice very easily.  I don't like just
seeing things or people.  I like to see into them.  I listen intently and see sharply for
that passing experience, that piece of landscape, that passing comment, that person which
provides meaning which otherwise would be barren of meaning.  I love the ambiguous; I
celebrate the question; I welcome serendipity; I'm always open to anything that crosses my
path.  I escape the protection of habits and go out and just allow things to happen.  I
accept emotional challenges as well as physical ones.  I have a daily pent up "wanderlust"
to live my vision in whatever I do each day.  I have a genuine love for living an inner
life on the road.  I like to create my own adventures.  I like to walk the path wherever
it may take me.  Being on a tour for me, then, proved to be a paradox.  

	Susan and I went to China on a three week tour as a gift to each other in
celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary.  So, there I was, on a tour being challenged
to realign myself, to create for myself an adventurer's  environment, to influence me to
be a wanderer, and to find ways to go deep as we skimmed the surface and performed the
restricting expectant acts of being a tourist.  I had to consciously realize that the trip
wasn't something we bought; it was something we give to ourselves.  I had to cultivate a
fascination with new and different people and places.  I had to loosen myself deliberately
of limits while being limited; I had to be slippery while being firm.  I had to alter my
cadence as the tour group walked.  I had to be spontaneous within a fixed schedule.  At
times, on the ship cruising up the Yangtze and on the ship's tours, I had to be monastic
among the crowd.  I had to realize that the tour was not so much a group undertaking as a
private one.  I mean the challenge was to be a student of the moment, to convert touring
from a time and place into an attitude, so that I could soar to wonderful new places.  I
mindfully had to consciously see the simple act of walking to the tourist bus as something
uncommon, as in itself an act holding untold possibilities.  I had to possess an
independence, flexibility, spontaneity, boldness, and improvisation.  I had to face up to
uneasiness.  I had to absorb what was around me while adding what was specifically me.
So, I ate the "Chinese breakfast" and tasted the strange tastes instead of the safe and
known "western style," although I refrained from consuming the raw vegetables and fruits.
I didn't wait around making excuses not to do something or to complain just because it
rained while we were at the Three Gorges Dam.  I walked up the Great Wall of China to the
third tower, drifted off from the group to take the photo of that "hello" person, lagged
behind to peer at someone or something when the group being ushered ahead, sipped China's
version to bio-jet fuel.  The Chinese call it snake wine.  Don't ask.   What I loved most
about our China trip was that it was almost a self-help experience that suggested how to
mindfully examine how best to live my life and mission.  With each passing day, I saw the
trip as a metaphor for my approach to students, classes, and teaching in general.  I was
waking up each morning with a "yes" and straining at the bit to see what the day would
bring, what invisible boundaries would I cross.   I was excited by possibilities.   Every
day was a gift.  Every day was a "new now," a new time and a new place--and emotionally
affecting.  Eating dim sum in Hong Kong, or taking the escalators up to Hong Kong's Soho
district, or licking a McDonald's ice cream cone in Yangshuo, or having freshly made
freshly made turtle soup on the Lijiang River or sipping high tea in Kowloon, or having a
hotpot dinner in Shanghai held interest, significance, entertainment, and learning.  Each
day was a process of being born, learning, growing, changing.  Each day was like living
almost being lost and then found.  

	Unless you want prejudices, stereotypes, preconceptions, pros-and-con, or do and
don't lists jading your experience, unless you want to dehumanize people and flatten
sights into postcard images, you have to have the courage to strike out, venture out on
the road, leave habits behind, wander, explore, accept the challenge, embrace the unknown,
seek unexpected experiences, discover, and change the way you see yourself, others, and
the world.  And though I didn't understand the language, slowly I became more engaged,
more empathetic of and accessible to the Chinese, more ready to listen and see and learn.
The truth is that I could read and watch all I wanted about China--and I did--but there's
no substitute for plunging into, smelling, hearing, seeing, and tasting it.  It certainly
saves its people and their culture from having the life sucked out from them by distorting
ideological self-righteousness, technological arrogance, and religious self-righteousness.
I found myself thrilled and giddy, exhausted, and exhilarated.  It all seemed so
extraordinary, so awesome, so magical, and so enchanting.  It was.

	And, you know what.  I didn't find what I had expected.  But, the unexpected found
me.   I didn't take a trip; the trip took me.  I didn't so much look for interesting
people and surroundings as I was constantly interested in whatever and whoever was
surrounding me.  I also discovered the secret of fending off routine and boredom, of
staying curious and excited.  I learned what it took to keep my eyes open however dog
tired I felt.  I learned that it's attitude that makes or breaks the entire trip.  That
attitude is simply this:  no limits; no closed doors; acute awareness, alert senses,
constant openness to all possibilities.  Learn to do that and you'll notice the subtle
realities.  Then, you'll discover rich pleasures beyond your wildest dreams.  	

	What does this have to do with education and teaching?  Everything.  These
attitudes and behaviors aren't something I picked up at the Air China counter with my
boarding pass.  It was a process that started long ago in my personal and professional
lives.  Start with substituting "China" with "classroom."  Think about it.  Enough for
now.  More later. 	

Make it a good day.
 
      --Louis--
 
 
Louis Schmier                                www.therandomthoughts.com
Department of History                    : www.newforums.com/L_Schmier.htm
Valdosta State University
Valdosta, Georgia 31698                    /\   /\  /\            /\
(229-333-5947)                                /^\\/  \/  \   /\/\__/\ \/\
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                                                       //\/\/ /\    \__/__/_/\_\    \_/__\
                                                /\"If you want to climb mountains,\ /\
                                            _ /  \    don't practice on mole hills" -