Tuesday, April 5, 2011

To The Minute

I used to teach yoga in the music room of a nearby elementary school. We'd slide the chairs to the side of the room, spread our mats out, turn the lights down. Actually that's wrong; the light wouldn't turn off. It was an emergency light because the room had no windows. The whole school had no windows. Unless you were in the cafeteria. Otherwise, no windows, like living in a cave. Nobody would know if the sun was out, or sheets of rain were making huge puddles in the parking lot. We'd get the very tall teacher to stand on a desk and cover the one overhead light with a black cloth held up by small magnets. Only then could we sink into the soft darkness of the room, interrupted occasionally by a voice on the loudspeaker.

The walls were plastered with posters of songs, Oh Beautiful for spacious skies, index cards with music words, allegro, fortissimo, interlude, rules for behavior, listen, raise your hand, respect each other, keep your hands to yourself, stay in your seat.

I always arranged my mat by the piano facing the big white marker board, the one with lots of writing on it. I'd get dizzy if I stared too closely, black quarter notes mingling with This Land is your land. 

And this posted near the teacher's desk...

School Schedule
Time 1: 9:10 - 9:52
Time 2: 9:55 - 10:37
Time 3 10:40 - 11:22
Time 4: 1:20 - 2:02
Time 5: 2:05 - 2:47
Time 6: 2:50 - 3:32

How did they figure it down to the minute like that? 

10:37? 2:02?

I'm just wondering.


  1. Isn't it obvious? At minute 41, everything that you have been trying to learn suddenly begins to gel. Two minutes later, at minute 43, it all becomes un-gelled again. So the hope is that, if you evacuate the classroom at 42 minutes exactly, you will preserve that gorgeous state of education.

  2. Oh. Thanks for helping me out with this one. The gelling, then the un-gelling. It all makes sense now.