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A few days before the start of some semesters, I suddenly realize the call to teach has left me, the way breath leaves the lungs. All those who profess for a living—clergy, lawyers, this guy—must feel deflated now and then too.
I try to get back where I should be through solid preparation, the hard work of solving a thousand little details of a class, each in turn, and lying awake on twisted damp sheets, staring into the inky blackness, running the thought experiment of stepping into a lecture hall wearing only a smile as my family loads our meager belongings on a cart under the watchful gaze of the sheriff, Colonel Gristle at the bank having foreclosed on the mortgage.
How do you find inspiration?
