I was recently talking to an educator in Maryland. The title of this post is a paraphrase of something he said. I then thought about Robin Rakusin, 10th Grade Language Arts teacher. She is having her students look deeply into the writings of Cormac McCarthy. All the Pretty Horses is the kind of book that puts you in another's dream, in another land that is beautiful and foreign, and familiar. After reading some of the students' writing, I think Ms Rakusin has guided her students to their passion. Oh, if I could write like this in 10th grade!
He took the handle and let the water fall from the spout and pass through the herbs and into the second pot letting the sound of the tea hitting the cup drown his worries. Setting the pot on the table he welcomed his forgotten cigar once more and felt the warmth of the smoke inside of his chest. 10th grade student
The master stood there in the house, the only house, the house positioned near the bay and hugging the trees as to not disturb the nature of things, and in the house a forgiving white light shone through the windows, white light that was reflected from the clouds and
mountains on the clouds with the light having taken just a bit from each matter, the dark highlands, the fragile sky, the fluid lake, taking pieces from all and then finally cast through his window as he stood alone with his smoking coffee, the light beginning to press and mold against
the dark of the house and created some sort of semblance of grey. Another of Robin's students