By Jadzia Tedeschi

Saturday, October 21, 2017 

Today, we had an extraordinary half-day of classes. You know, to supplement our learning. 

8:00 History: “Good morning! Let’s begin with a warm-up exercise: I’d like to you to discuss the role of women in the nineteenth century American political sphere.”

8:55 Biology: “Please describe how catalase lowers the activation energy of peroxide.”

9:50 Free Period: A meeting with the divestment group in which students are involved in an effort to shift the school’s investments to green finance.

10:40 Mathematics: “Based on the problems we did last night, how does one construct a transformation matrix with sinusoidal functions?”

At the boarding school I attend in New Hampshire, everyone is constantly overcommitted. Other than having five full class days a week, we have sports daily, an average of four hours of homework a night, and several extracurricular activities. For instance, I participate in a tri-weekly choir, piano lessons, the divestment group, the environmental group and, last but not least, the meditation group.

Having a Sangha as a point of reference has been an anchor. I normally live in Plum Village, where there is always time for a cup of tea, where deadlines are considered to be warm invitations, and where on the way to the bathroom one might well stop to smell a flower. And before Plum Village, I grew up in Italy, in which a timely train is a cause for exhilaration. 

At my school, on the other hand, people seem to function in a constant blur of activities, thoughts, appointments, and preoccupations. Often people come here because they were the best wherever they came from; now they are committed to being even better once they’ve received this life-swallowing education. I came because I like studying–there is a certain thrill I feel in penetrating another stratum of the endless mystery of life. One could speak of this as the Dharma, the way of perfect understanding. There being countless Dharma doors, study is the one I prefer. 

Upon my arrival, I was a bit apprehensive of what would happen to me in such a demanding and notoriously stressful environment. Last month, a student at our competitor school committed suicide. That same day one of my fellow students disappeared, only to be found hundreds of miles away the next day. How could I retain some of the calm I felt in Plum Village, look at people who are too absorbed in their pursuit of greatness to listen to others with compassion and respect, and respond to negative comments and complaints in a way that is not dismissive and yet shines a bit of light on how fortunate we are? 

I found that it’s possible. Of course, I also get lost in worries about the future and regrets about the past, and I most definitely don’t walk slowly from one class to the other. But overall I feel quite content. There are so many things to do in a day (sometimes I have nine appointments in addition to homework); I just try to go through them one by one. If it’s time to talk about enzymes or even to endure French grammar, then that’s what I’ll be doing. Personally, I feel it takes significantly less mental effort to be present and allow myself to be carried by the moment. 

My favorite time of the day is the thirty minutes between my math class and my yoga class. Most people would use that time to go on their phones, read an extra twenty pages of something, or do those two math problems. I, however, go to a nearby park. A particular bench at that precise time of day has perfect sun exposure. I simply lie there, enjoying the warmth, feeling my link to home, and smiling to the people across the ocean whom I love. With them, I gaze at the reddening maple leaves. Without even setting an alarm clock, I know when it’s time to get up and walk to the gym. I wonder. . .how is it that our bodies know when it’s time to be somewhere? Perhaps by just trusting the body, those subtle hunches, and literally ‘going with the flow’ of life, we don’t have to constantly swim upstream.