Generally speaking, it is not good fortune to lose your heat on New Year’s Eve. Certainly, when our boiler went this year, it did not strike me as a fortuitous circumstance. But in fact, that’s exactly what it turned out to be.
That is because the gentleman from the utility company who came to fix our boiler the following morning proved to be a perfect maestro of heating systems. When he entered our utility room, he cast a slow, expert gaze over the unit, tinkering with some wiring here, some valve screws there, trying to identify the problem. Then stepping back from the unit, with an appreciative expression on his face, he said, “They did a beautiful job with these pipes,” before explaining the way they managed to fit the unit into such a tight space with some creative routing of the water pipes.
“Beautiful?” I puzzled. “My boiler?” And yet, from the way he described it, I had to admit there was an elegance to the command of motion involved. I had walked past that machine any number of times, but at that moment, I was able to see it in a new way, thanks to the expert earnestness of this gentleman.
At that point, he examined the unit some more, before calling me back to explain what the problem was, which launched him into a long explanation of the proper functioning of a hot water heater. Reader, have you ever stood for twenty minutes and listened to someone describe in great detail the mechanisms involved in your home heating system? Well, I have, and it was one of the most entrancing experiences I can remember. What made it so memorable was the enthusiasm, the nearly ecstatic elan, with which this gentleman called my attention to all the parts working in unison to make the unit function, and to the positive brilliance with which they had been arranged. What an amazing thing was a thermostat, I saw for the first time! What a miracle that the circulator knew to pause as soon as the water hit a temperature of 180. He spoke of my boiler with the same fervor I would discuss a passage in Melville, and by the time he was done, I had caught much of his awe for the wondrous workings of a boiler.
Afterwards, upon reflection, I came to see that this gentleman, in the course of performing his professional labors, performed a feat quite analogous to the task at the heart of my own profession: that of calling attention to a marvel never before acknowledged. Through his ebullient expertise, he centered my eyes upon a wondrous thing over which they passed indifferently so many times before. This injunction to see, to perceive, to know for the very first time, is the fundamental act of teaching, the most decisive feat we can perform for our students. Look here, we say, at this excellent thing you have experienced before, but never known. Look again at the fructifying flower; at the innocence of children; at piety, and courage, and self-sacrifice. See – really see – the excellence of these phenomena, and let that initial appreciation inform all your other thoughts about them.
Of course, in my task, I have an advantage which this gentleman did not have. I have Dante and Traherne and Dostoyevsky to point and direct the gaze of my students. I have their brio and eloquence to arouse insights my own poor words could never inspire. No wonder we classical teachers make such a point of allowing the texts we read to speak for themselves, and not to interject ourselves too clamorously between the page and our students. Only a gaze of proper reverence is required of us. “Look here,” we only need say, “at how lovely and wise these words are,” and beauty and wisdom do the rest. We only need invite our students to look at all the good things around them - truly and earnestly look - and that goodness itself will instruct them far better than we can.
That much I learned when my heat went out.