This is the third time in my life that I have taken a
sabbatical. On average, I’ve taken one about every eleven years. My first
sabbatical was from a position as a campus minister, and I used it to begin
graduate school. There was no obligation for me to return to that position
afterwards, and I wound up not returning. Instead, I continued with grad school
and eventually became a professor. My second sabbatical, which I've written about here, was after I first earned promotion and tenure. This current one might be my last.
Sabbaticals are a great idea. I wish everyone could have
sabbaticals. Some countries have long service leave, allowing those who stick
with a job for a given number of years to take some time of rest and renewal.
Etymologically, “sabbatical” is supposed to be a time of rest. In most cases
today, I’m not sure it still means that. Some companies offer leave for study
and upskilling, which is great, but it’s usually about coming back to work as a
more efficient worker. Sabbaticals seem to be more and more about efficiency.
The committee that reviewed my sabbatical request sent me a letter letting me
know that my sabbatical was approved, and that they expected me to write and publish
the things I said I’d like to work on. If memory serves, there was nothing in
there like “remember, this is mostly about rest and restoration, so don’t
neglect that.”
And I find that my first impulse on sabbatical has been to use time away from the office and the classroom to catch up on all the things that get neglected when I’m working hard at being a teacher. Inbox zero is a tempting goal, even if the only way to achieve it is to mass delete emails. In other words, I am tempted to use time away from the office to catch up on things that I should have done at the office if I weren’t so damn busy.
We impose work on ourselves. Productivity is the watchword.
Our discipline has monastic roots. We still wear the robes and still have our
cells (offices), but the daily office of readings, the hours of resting and
praying are a thing of the past. We dress like monks but we still punch the
clock like everyone else. It feels like we’ve lost something big, and we’ve
told ourselves the loss was freedom from outdated antiquity. I’m not sure that’s
true.
A few years ago I took my students to visit a monastery in Greece. The sisters there told my students about their lives, and about their daily work and prayer. They wake up in the middle of the night and gather in their little chapel to pray, then return to bed for more sleep. When they wake up, they pray together again, and then throughout the day they return to the chapel to pray and read and sing. In between that, they do the things that make their life together possible: they grow food, harvest it, store it, prepare meals, and eat them together. Clothes get washed, floors get swept, and the work of caring for the needy in their community goes on at a steady pace. Not with breakneck urgency, but at a pace that can be maintained—that has been maintained—for centuries.
When my students heard all this, one of them asked with a
look of exhaustion, “When do you take a break?” The sister looked at her with
some confusion, and replied “Take a break from what? Our lives are lives of
leisure.”
For most of us, including teachers at most of our nation’s small colleges, our lives are not so much lives of leisure but of busy-ness and constant work. One of the appeals of teaching used to be the possibility of leisurely conversations with students and colleagues. We spoke in lofty terms of “the life of the mind,” and of a “great conversation” that included both the living and the dead who left their words for us to contemplate. The trade-off was we teachers would accept low pay in exchange for a long tenure that included time to reflect so that we could both model good practices and teach “sound learning, new discovery, and the pursuit of wisdom.” (That line is from theBook of Common Prayer.)
The last decade feels like it has been a decade of increasing
urgency at the expense of contemplation, greater push for efficiency at the
expense of conversation, the replacement of teaching with instruction, the rise
of software to “manage” courses for teachers (and to do homework for students),
the gathering of data that will satisfy the professional accreditors.
I have more to say about this, but I’m going to stop here for now because I’m going to go do something else. Or rather, I’m going to take a little while to do very little, intentionally. One of my practices during my sabbatical has been to pay close attention to what is right before me. I do this by sketching and by writing, not with the intention of publishing my essays or of becoming a great artist, but rather in order to be more attentive. I think that’s a good model for my students, and hopefully it helps me to rest and to return as a more attentive and more caring teacher. Because teaching is not (for me, at least) about handing over information but about fostering lives of contemplation, conversation, and commentary.
