Professors' Corner

Five Musings on the Writing Craft

1. Being a writer isn't so much about being adept at writing on the get go. Rather, it's about having the consistent desire to write and working towards acting upon that desire. Nobody starts great at reading. Nobody starts great at handwriting. Nobody starts great at typing. But the one who is consistent at the activity will wind ways to have a good grasp of the craft over time, no matter how slow. The willingness to suffer through the worry, the humiliation, and the extra grind for the writing craft makes the writer. 

2. Success in writing isn't so much the wealth and the fame as it is the kind connection the writer makes with their reader. Achieving wealth and fame through writing involves many factors that have little to do with the writing process: the network, the timing, the promotion, etc. However, good writing will resonate with the intended reader. And for the resonance to happen, a writer needs two things: a good compassionate read of their intended reader and their needs as well as command over the language to properly address the reader. This means that, to be successful, a writer must be clear about who their intended readership is and what kind of response the writer hopes to evoke from their readership. Wealth and fame aren't necessarily the intended outcome. 

3. The writing process isn't so much as putting words on the page as it is a lengthier process: gathering experience and observing the world and the readership for material to write about; imagining how the composition will flow according to the intended reader experience; writing the zero draft on the page; reading and rewriting; rereading and rewriting; testing the draft on preliminary readers, rereading, and rewriting... The process goes on until the written output is satisfactory or, at least, bearable to the writer. The writing process is a lot of work, it is tedious, but it is simple and doable by anyone willing to do the grind. That's why having a worthwhile reason to write is crucial.

4. Writing isn't so much a matter of talent as it is a matter of skill, discipline, and dedication. The illusion of writing as talent comes from readers only seeing the end product and not the creative process itself. Anyone who is willing to suffer through the worry, the humiliation, and the extra grind through the process can have a bright future in writing. 

5. Writing isn't natural, and we see this in how we need tools, such as pen and paper, to get writing done. Language itself is an invention for communication. We talk of reading as a skill but not as a talent. Writing, too, is an acquirable skill. Greatness in the writing craft depends a lot on a mastery of how language works, a disciplined sensitivity towards readership and the world, an inclination towards philosophizing the world, and a conscious writing process. Also, luck and network... if the writer aims for wealth and fame.

Begotten

I count the days you’ve been dead and still the room remains silent.

I could write lines, imagine the black shirt hugging your shoulders,

Your hands commanding the clatter in the kitchen, pulling a chair,

Scraping the floors. I could nod to each word behind your teeth,

Behind your mouth, behind the mist just to feel the shape behind it.

Call it meaning, referent. A child could cry and call Father, Father

And her words will bear no blessing of hands. What kind of luck

Is that? I believe everything is beholden to something. I owe my pain

To my father, perhaps his to his own. The swallows owe their fare

To the trees. The leaves to the earth. The black potency of the loam

To the rain. A poet said that birds in the sky have no shadows.

But what happens if their shadows only dissipate, fade from

The pavement upon their flight, there again to return tenfold

Bigger with the moon as a mouth? Perhaps we cannot escape our fathers.

I ask who the father of language is. I look at the window framing the world,

And a colony of clouds threatens to form into the shape of your hands.

Witnesses

After the days delivered us from rapture, we look back

To what we can taste of joy. I think of When, of How.

I think of the hand’s pen sketching the fervent

Object of recollection on a canvas. Of this language, this line

Clasping the event and failing. We went swimming once,

And by the falls’ bank, you watched my body

Maneuver beneath the water. Saw the tug of waves

Past each stroke, the stride of limbs overcoming the current,

The crests of river dancing under the sunlight past the branches

And falling leaves. I do not accuse your eyes for mistaking,

The tides for obscuring the skin of water and of my flesh.

Between us, the world is simple. We eat a fruit and become the fruit.

We talk, and the century engulfs us. Under the sky and its harvest

Of light, nothing is dissonant. We strain to hear the dialect

Of memory and cull the fragments to architect the shape of joy.

Lines, shades, scale of what we love come together before our eyes.

We Were Just Talking About the Sky

Suddenly the trees rustled as if to murmur

A great secret. Below, the sunlight lay low,

Vanished, and turned up again like a child

Running at the riverbank. If luck is with us,

It won’t be raining so hard, You told me.

Suddenly a blessing of birds came to shield us

From above. I let go of the conveniences

Of watching. At least I try. I begin with nothing.

The world just keeps insisting itself. Suddenly

I looked at you, and a song swelled in my throat.

Suddenly you showed me a photograph of us:

Arm over your shoulder, knife by the sourdough,

Our smiles persisting through time as if they’re

Not of memory. We kept on walking. You forgot

To keep the picture in the bag. Suddenly the wind

Was beholden to no one and stole it. Suddenly

The rain arrived along with the music of sadness.

Suddenly the corrosion of things. The threat

Of forgetting. This urge to tell you again all about it.

What It Means to Listen: A Night with Clara Benin

Personally, I consider Clara Benin the voice of the new wave of indie OPM. I first encountered her music through a viral YouTube mashup of Oo by Up Dharma Down and Evidence by Urbandub. I even attended one of her gigs at Satchmi in Megamall, where only five to ten attendees were present. I got her to sign my ukulele and managed to take a selfie with her. It was a genuinely fun experience—supporting her music and connecting with fellow Clarafied fans. During my senior year in college, I even wrote an article about her performance in Red, the Jericho Rosales film. Clara has always been known for her mastery of the acoustic guitar paired with a gentle, solemn voice that can soothe an entire evening.

Imagine if this same small-time artist were brought on stage with a full orchestra. Would it ruin the intimacy of her acoustics? Would the orchestra overpower her performance?

Before discussing the performance itself, the history of the MET is worth noting. Clara mentioned this during her opening speech:

“The MET was established in 1931. It witnessed so much history—from its glory days through war and silence, and now its restoration. The MET isn't just a building, but a symbol of Filipino creativity, resilience, and heritage. That's why tonight is extra special. With everything happening in the world right now, I hope this concert gives you even just a moment of peace, the way these songs have given me peace over the years. Performing here tonight, in a place with so much history and heart, is a celebration of the past decade and a thank you to the people and spaces that have helped me heal and grow. Thank you for being here. It truly, truly means the world, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

Clara Benin’s Human Eyes celebrates its 10-year anniversary with this MET performance. I was struck by how two of her songs, Dust and Kingdom Come, were transformed onstage. Lyrically, both pieces are a call toward the transcendental, expressing gratitude to God. Performed with just an acoustic guitar, they are sweet serenades—but with the orchestra, they became a profound exploration in the sublime.

Though I’m no expert in classical instrumentation, I was captivated by the interplay of violins that gradually swelled, especially when Clara sang, “The gate is narrow and the journey’s long, but with you beside me, I’ll finish strong.” Wind instruments erupted in the background, as if courage itself had been proclaimed and redeemed. In that moment, it felt as though the harmony of the violas and violins affirmed the presence of the transcendental—almost as if Scruton himself whispered beside me.

I remember doing my own covers of Clara’s songs. She has a distinct way of arranging chords. Kingdom Come uses a raised D tuning instead of standard E. Usually, songs in D are tuned down to create heavier, deeper riffs. This produces a grungier tone—marks of alternative rock music. Foo Fighters’ Everlong is a great example. Its lyrics echo a different kind of longing from Clara’s: a heartbroken yearning. Dave Grohl once revealed he had fallen in love with someone else, giving her that “forever” the song hints at.

Clara’s Kingdom Come, however, focuses not on the wanting of a new relationship but on the hopeful persistence of one. It is a longing for God while admitting one’s impediments. It almost sounds Gospel, yet settles into a lullaby with its gentle plucking rather than fast power chord transitions. Paired with the orchestra, it felt like a prayer. The guitar led the rhythm with subtle reflections through repeated sequences, while the orchestra wrapped around it like a breeze flowing through tall grass—as if someone beyond had replied. The effect reminded me of the nature-filled background of her Kingdom Come music video.

Clara’s music has always felt like an introvert’s embrace. Beyond the music, she treated the stage as part of her storytelling. A bed was placed on the lower platform, almost at eye level with the audience. At first, I thought it was gimmicky—but when she played Riverchild and her bathroom song while seated with her acoustic guitar, the bedroom atmosphere made perfect sense. From the majestic longing for God, she shifted into a deeply personal space. Despite the enormity of the MET theater, the blocking worked. Hearing those songs live was a callback to the intimate tone she was known for. I remembered her old performances—Jess & Pat’s, Street Teams Unite, and even 12 Monkeys (once flocked by bar-goers and indie lovers in Ortigas, now gone because of the pandemic). There was intentionality in her staging, as if we were allowed into her own private longing.

Speaking of spaces, finding a spot in Jess & Pat’s used to feel clunky. Everyone crammed together, sitting Indian style, just to hear her play. But in the MET, we were seated—expensively. She woke up from the tiny stage bed with her guitar as soft rain sounds played, giving the effect that she was telling us a bedtime story. Songs like Muscle Memory and Riverchild carried that bedtime message effortlessly, requiring no orchestra—just her presence close to the audience.

Clara’s setlist moved between solo acoustic pieces and songs accompanied by the orchestra, all while she danced across the stage like a Disney princess. At certain moments, she invited the audience to sing along. Unfortunately, we shared the same introversion she did, and the orchestra overpowered our timid voices. No performance is perfect—but for me, her MET show was the perfect getaway from the stress of checking grades.

Clara Benin was once this young and bright artist in 2016. Nine years later, standing majestically on stage, she remains the same gentle singing nymph on thy orisons that I’ve come to love. She’s not the most popular, nor the most niche, but she has found her audience—us college kids turned almost-thirty-year-olds navigating existential crises of our own. All the seats were filled despite the steep prices. And at the end of her performance, I was grateful to witness this version of Clara. Like her, I felt I was exactly right where I am supposed to be.

The Robot

My typical day goes like this.

I consume about 90 minutes of travel time from school to home. I spend 45 minutes on lunch and 90 minutes on dinner. I don’t eat breakfast. I usually sleep for 7 hours, or 420 minutes. I take a shower for, let’s say, 15 minutes. For all that miscellaneous stuff (like brushing teeth and other acts of hygiene) let’s say I spend a total of 30 minutes.

That’s 690 minutes, or 11.5 hours already. Planet Earth, where I live, only has an average of 24 hours per day.

I still have 12.5 hours left.

I spend about 60 minutes studying. Don’t confuse this with leisurely reading and moments of reflection—more on this later. I engage with social media for another 60 minutes. I socialize with friends and family, too, which I would say consumes up to 180 minutes. Then I can add 120 minutes of procrastination, a form of recharge, but not really. Also, this is different from social media time. For email reading and writing, I would say about an hour is necessary.

Walking takes time, too. I probably spend an hour walking, which includes doing chores, going to the grocery, and moving from one class to another.

That’s 12.5 hours plus 9 hours. You get 21.5 hours. So, I have 2.5 hours to spare. The 24 hours aren’t over yet.

Now there’s this activity that I would like to call life appreciation. It includes leisurely reading and reflection, but there’s more to it that’s tough to understand. It’s like simply absorbing whatever comes across, letting things be, embracing what is unexpectedly given. This can mean either doing nothing, which is still doing something, really, just not what I’m supposed to be doing, or doing more of what I usually do. One cannot really plan this, but let’s say it takes up about two hours per day. Before I forget, I also say my evening prayers. This offers up 45 minutes of my time.

Now add 120 minutes of life appreciation and 45 minutes of prayer to the 21.5 hours (or 1,290 minutes) I’ve already consumed. That brings me to 24.25 hours, on average.

Clearly, the length of a day on Earth is not enough for me.

I feel like an unproductive robot.

Art Appreciation

The squeaking of rubber shoes and the sharp clack of heels bounced irregularly off the high, cool walls of the arched chamber. A handful of groups, museum visitors in twos, threes, fives, spilled in from the last exhibit room. Everyone was chattering and commenting to his companions, delicately ignoring any eye contact he made with strangers. 

The statues loomed on the pedestals fixed to the terra-cotta floor, scattered strategically to both fill the space and leave room for contemplation. They glowed pale against the already white walls of the old villa, standing steady in the sea of noise.

My goodness, look at that one! That is a pretty well-sculptured nose.

Nothing special. I've seen many like it.

I like the way that one's dress falls. Don't you?

No. I think it shows a strange sense of style.

He has a funny expression on his face, like he's thinking too much.

Which?

That one, seated near the east wall.

You have a great imagination...Look. That one. Her eyes seem sad. Permanently. She must have had a tough past.

It's amazing how you can read their expressions.

The cluster of walking tourist groups passed on to the next chamber, leaving their echoes behind. A silent heartbeat later another small group entered the room, glancing idly at the statues. 

Not very many of them this time.

They all look like they're from different countries, this bunch. How odd.

Only one European. The other seems--Latin American, and an Arab, and...look, they're approaching Nymph!

Watch out Nymph, stand proud. Never mind your missing hand.

Hush, you. Oh my--not a photo...

Smile, Nymph, she's including you in the group photo. 

Can you imagine what would happen if I did that...

The camera clicked, and the girl lowered her phone while her friends continued to study the statue of the Nymph, listening to the explanation of technique one was giving the others. She looked at the photo--and then looked up at the statue, a startled expression on her face.

Uh-oh. Why is she looking at you like that?

Nymph, what did you do?

Nothing!

The others were already moving on to the next chamber, but the girl was still standing in the middle of the room, staring now the statue of the Nymph, now at her screen. 

The photo showed her three friends clustered in front of the Nymph. But time and chance had conspired to show her something strange and striking: the humans were unlit and dim, in between here and not-here, while the Nymph shone out above them, steady and clear. For a surreal moment, it was as if the Nymph, and everything in her world, were more real than the creatures bound by the current of change and the temporality that ruled them.

Do you see...do you see how she sees us?

For a long, eternal moment, there was silence even among the statues--the General, the Philosopher, the nameless Athlete, the weathered Woman, the grim Goatherd. And the Nymph.

The girl gazed upon them. Then one of her friends called her name, and she came back to herself. But she did not leave without a slight tilting of her head, as if in greeting and acknowledgement.

The silence remained. The statues were still, immersed in memory. For the way the girl had looked at them reminded them of how their creators had looked at them, long ago--and they were reminded of what they had been made to be: testimonies of the timeless value of every man, holders of a beauty that pulled one towards eternity. 

There was a sudden surge of indistinct babble, and the realization that yet another group of tourists was on its way broke the spell cast by the meeting of worlds. 

All right now. Look sharp. Here come more humans.

That...I would like another moment like that.

I feel like I know who I am again. 

That was worth it, guys. 

Yes, it was.

One human at a time. 

Let's show them what they really are.

-5 May 2017-

Part I: Q&A with Father Gary Soria

Context and Impressions

Q: During what years, and in which places, did you have the opportunity to live in the same residence as St. Josemaría?

• I did not really live in the same residence with St. Josemaría during my stay in Rome (1974–1976). I stayed in the Inter-regional Center of Studies for Numeraries from various parts of the world, where we studied and worked a lot. During those years, in order to save money, we had designed various strategies to cut down on labor costs, doing some of the manual work alongside philosophical and theological studies. St. Josemaría resided in Rome; we resided some 10 km outside Rome. Besides, during those years, he was out of Italy several times. When I arrived in 1974, he was still in Spain recovering from a very tiring trip of spreading the Good News in Latin America.

The first time I met him was in a gathering in his residence with all of us from the Inter-regional Center. That was early January 1975. I could not follow all his interventions—it was the usual question-and-answer format that he loved to engage in. We asked any question, and he responded in Spanish. I wanted to hear him without any translator, as I wanted to hear his voice above all.

My impression: he was short of stature—I was taller than him. He had a smile always on his face; he saw me and smiled at me, but I found him a bit tired, unlike the one I saw in documentaries of his get-togethers in Spain—very alive, dynamic. Little did we know he had several medical issues—one of them was his failing eyesight, which we were never informed of. Yet, in his conversation with us that day in January, he used his failing eyesight as a means to speak about asking light from God so we do not offend Him, as he manifested his sorrow for many episodes he knew of persons—even ecclesiastics—who, through their actions, did not show their love for the Church and Jesus Christ. This emotional pain I sensed without any need for translation.

Q: How did he carry himself in ordinary, day-to-day moments, such as at home or during meals?

• I have no experience of this, yet when he was with us, you felt his warmth and affection—his gaze—even if we were more than a hundred in that gathering.

Q: Is there a particular conversation or encounter with him that has stayed with you through the years?

• I was always with him along with many other Numeraries, yet you felt that you were not so many—as if you were just a few with him.

His Example and Presence

Q: In what ways did St. Josemaría reveal holiness in small, ordinary things that those around him could notice?

• I have little to say, except that he was easy to talk to, comfortable to be with, and seemed to invite a kind of personal conversation with him even if there were many people around.

Q: Did you ever witness how he responded to difficulties, misunderstandings, or personal suffering?

• Only through stories of some who stayed with him. Actually, most of those episodes have been written down and are contained in the biographies about him.

Q: Was there something about his personality (such as his humor, warmth, or simplicity) that people today would especially appreciate?

• His eyes and loving glance—hard to explain.

Q: How did you personally experience his fatherly care and concern for you, and for others who lived near him?

• Even if he spoke in response to one of us asking him sometimes personal questions about how to live some aspects of the spiritual life better, you felt that his response was also applicable to you.

Personal Impact

Q: In what ways did sharing daily life with him influence your own prayer and way of living?

• Hard to describe, except to read his biography and writings to always get inspired.

Q: Did he ever give you advice or correction that deeply shaped you as a priest?

• None, as I was ordained a priest in 1982 and he died in 1975.

Q: How did his presence challenge or inspire you to grow closer to God?

• Reading his writings—especially the foundational ones.

Q: Looking back, what difference did your time with him make in your life as a priest?

• God’s providence—for which I am a bit apprehensive, as I have to give an account to God, having lived with someone whom I felt was a saint, and then experienced his canonization in 2002.

Q: Can you share a concrete way your closeness to St. Josemaría enriched your life or perspective?

• Freedom is for loving.

Q: What is an enduring lesson you continue to carry with you from those years?

• He is what we call in Spanish nuestro Padre—a father he is to anyone who gets close enough.

For Today’s Generation

Q: What quality did you witness in St. Josemaría that you believe could help young people at UA&P live their faith with greater depth?

• Openness to the world and to God, and love for freedom—of one’s own and of others.

Part II: Some Short Remembrances of Being with St. Josemaria by Fr. Gary Soria

In 1974, we [or I] did not have meetings or get-togethers with St. Josemaria.

However, 1975 was different—except for the period of February 1975, when he went on a pastoral trip to Venezuela and then Guatemala—he spent at least one get-together (an hour or so) every month with us in Cavabianca, the formation center for Numeraries from all over the world.

Though the main installations were done—common areas like living rooms, classrooms, bedrooms, and dining rooms—decorations were still sparse, as there was little money. Food for about 200 young men was just enough to assure we were not malnourished. However, one had to be clever, as one would arrive with little trace of breakfast—usually just milk, coffee, bread, and some butter.

On Sundays, eggs were served—for the lucky ones who arrived early. Well, our Founder knew that food was a bit short, and he usually asked us if we ate enough. We tried to be charitable in our response. He knew we swept the dishes clean of food, and in some get-togethers, he assured us that he would inform the ones in charge of the kitchen to give an extra dessert that day—and it happened. A remembrance of the paternal kindness of St. Josemaria.

The most memorable get-togethers were in June 1975—there was one every Sunday. It was like a celebration for us. On the first Sunday of June 1975, he decided to take a walk with more than a hundred of us through Cavabianca, which was designed to be like a small, typical Italian village. Most of us were trying to walk very closely with St. Josemaria; the more daring ones took the sweet spot to hear his comments and give him some stories. After the walk, St. Josemaria confided that he was old and felt the tiredness of the walk. He told us that it was his dream to set up this formation center to form persons who would be universal in mindset and avoid the temptation of being confined to one’s culture or country. It was designed such that each corner of the big facility “speaks” to us of a family environment rather than an institution—and it was so. Each part of the buildings (there were several connected with covered footbridges) did not make you feel like you were in an institution or a hotel. Each corner had that family air because of the decoration.

I missed the last get-together with St. Josemaria in Cavabianca—June 22, four days before he passed away. There was a miscommunication, and a group of us went to Rome for a cultural trip since we had been informed that St. Josemaria would not come that Sunday. I was quite disappointed by that miscommunication.

June 26 was a Thursday, the one afternoon whose memory is still vivid in me. I was fulfilling a duty of watching over the workers, as Cavabianca was still unfinished in several places. I was alone and hungry—it was around 1 p.m. or so.

Then one person came, uttering a phrase I could not understand. All I thought was that he was coming to replace me in my duty, and I was eager to have lunch.

I stopped him and asked if he came to replace me. He said again what he had uttered earlier, and seeing that I was not connecting, he spoke slowly: “El Padre ha muerto.” The Father has died.

Given my emotional condition at that time, I felt the urge to give a right blow to his face, as I was not ready for a joke, especially with that phrase. But perhaps my guardian angel—and his—prevailed, as once more he said: “El Padre ha muerto.”

I lost all my hunger and felt the ground below me dissolving. My thoughts: What would happen now to Opus Dei—and to me? I would be going back to Manila without having finished the studies I went to Rome for.

Instead of going to the dining room, I searched for a friendlier person—another Filipino—and asked him if the Father had died. Without looking at me, he just nodded, and when I asked for more details, he preferred to be silent.

Well, I felt lost for about an hour. I do not remember if I took lunch—perhaps I did—but most probably it was fast, as I wanted to get more information.

Information was not that reliable at that time, as I received details of his death that were not true. Anyway, I think I volunteered to go to Villa Tevere with others to be present at his wake. Our Founder passed away at midday on June 26. I think I was there praying at his wake with several others around 4 or 5 p.m. I asked St. Josemaria—his face was peaceful—to accompany us and to grant me perseverance in my vocation to Opus Dei.

After my stay at the wake, I and those with me started to reconstruct St. Josemaria’s last week with us, his last words with us, and connect them with his passage on June 26.

Each one of us shared our personal feelings and thoughts—sad but hopeful.

Anyway, I need to end this sharing, as there are so many things to share, and I do not know what could be of benefit to others.

One thing I am learning more and more from remembering the last years of St. Josemaria is his great love and concern for the Church. He shared with us what he saw as a serious crisis of faith in the Church, starting with the clerics, and his desire to strengthen the faith of those who were in contact with Opus Dei—encouraging them to pray for the Church, for the Roman Pontiff, to read the Gospel, read the Catechism, be more assiduous in going to the sacraments, and go more often to Mother Mary. I realized that this zeal—strongly noticeable during his last years—somehow overcame his health issues. I think he had kidney issues (as a result of his being diabetic until miraculously cured), and this one, I only learned about years later: he had several serious cardiac issues several months before he died, and we were never in the know. He managed to avoid our getting worried so he could continue doing his priestly work with us. He pulled himself out of himself to be with us and with others who needed him and just left his health in the hands of the doctors and God.

Perhaps he lived what he had always advised us in Opus Dei—we should be ready to die squeezed out like a lemon.

Lastly, the following year, 1976, I was still there when Cavabianca was finally finished. The last stone was installed (this practice was something our Founder started—to lay the last stone in any undertaking). The inscription in that last stone read (translated into English): "This is our destiny on earth: to struggle out of love until the last moment. Deo gratias. June 26, 1975."

Balagtas

Ang tula

Ay nagmumula

Sa mga hibla

Ng guniguni

Na tinutukso

Ng alaala;

Binabasa,

Sinusuri,

Tulad ng

Isang bugtong

Na nakahimlay

Sa baybay-ilog

Ng diwa,

Upang pagkatapos

Ay isisilid

Sa limot

Gaya  ng

Pinaglumaang damit.

Ngunit ito’y

Muling sisibol

Sa ibang panahon,

Sa ibang anyo,

Upang sidlan

Ang mundo  ng mga

Bagong talinghaga.

Let Be. Let Go. Let the Class Flow.

Teaching, at its best, is not a repetition of lessons but a renewal of awe. Some may wonder how professors sustain their passion for teaching when, at times, teaching the same subjects can feel like a routine. I have been teaching Literature for more than a decade, and I, too, have asked myself how I continue to nurture my sense of wonder and enthusiasm when the objectives and coverage remain essentially the same.

In my early years as a teacher, I would obsess over the flow of my lectures. Everything had to be exactly the same, down to the smallest detail. I would even stress over remarks I had forgotten to say in one class but had mentioned in another. Eventually, I let go. And in letting go, I began to enjoy. And in enjoying, I began to truly see my students.

When professors cling too tightly to the flow, they risk seeing their students as mere objects, failing to recognize their presence and what they can contribute. I discovered that what sustains me as a teacher is not the perfection of delivery, but the savoring of my students’ insights, the guidance I can offer at the pace the moment allows, and the shared enjoyment of the session itself. No two classes are ever alike, and I have learned to embrace the beautiful differences that make each encounter special and memorable. I have come to accept my humanity. I am no machine designed to replicate lessons word for word. It is precisely this limitation that keeps teaching alive and fresh. Because of this outlook, the joy of learning endures.

Teachers may be masters, but familiarity with a literary work can sometimes blind us to its greater mysteries or its subtler details. I realized that each time I enter the classroom, I must resist the temptation to cling to a fixed interpretation. If we broaden our minds, just as we encourage our students to do, we may rediscover the text anew, uncovering truths we once overlooked. Let be. Let go. Let the class flow.

Of course, one cannot ignore standards. There are objectives, ideas, and essentials that we cannot compromise. Professors often must serve as the guiding light, drawing on years of study and deep familiarity with the works at hand. Yet, to genuinely enjoy the ride, we must also listen. When new insights arise, I have learned to remain open to molding even my own interpretations, no matter how established they may seem. If professors remain genuine, and if the search for truth is always at the center, then teaching will never grow dull. It will always remain vibrant, no matter how many decades one has spent in the classroom.

Humility is a beautiful virtue. The moment we regard ourselves as perfect, we close the door to true discourse. With humility, however, every class becomes a living exchange shaped by the uniqueness of our students and by the teacher’s willingness to be present. When we choose to listen, to let go, and to let the class flow, we rediscover the awe that first drew us to the classroom. Teaching, at its best, is never mere repetition, but a continual renewal of awe, an invitation to wonder, again and again.