I don’t know about you, but I spent the weekend in the Midlands delivering a lecture on the history of a village that doesn’t exist. Mad? Maybe. Idiosyncratic, certainly, but at least it wasn’t boring, wasn’t nothing.
A few weeks ago Mr Johnson asked you “Do you want to know the thing, do the thing, or just look like you do?” That thought has been rumbling round my head ever since, together with the thought that there’s only one real answer there. You have to say “yes”, so we made our commitments to the thing – we made at least the skeleton of a plan. But I also thoughtthat this is a bit unfortunate, you see, whilst we would all say we want to know the thing, we want to do the thing that leaves us with the challenge of learning the thing, facing the thing and, to be quite honest, sometimes it would be easier if we didn’t and just said that we had.
As I wrote that paragraph, I thought I would be able to look up “let’s not and say we did,” find the movie it came from and then get a good three or four paragraphs out of cultural references that I could claim were modern, popular or accessible (possibly all three). Unfortunately it seems to have found its way into the common dialect without passing through any canonical work – the best my googling could come up with was a claim that Bill Cosby said it and that Ned Flanders quoted him. Not being familiar with the Cosby oeuvre and finding the Flanders idiom tedious I’m going to have to move on leaving you to imagine what might have been.
Instead, let’s sit up, straighten our ties, metaphorical or otherwise, sharpen our pencils and face unafraid the plans that we made that morning a couple of weeks ago. Actually, don’t sharpen your pencils – the good folk of St Margaret's won’t want to sweep up the mess – unless you have one of those clever sharpeners that collects the sharpenings for later in which case go right ahead. But some of you don’t have pencils at all, and don’t have books to write in even if you did, and I wonder why. Ms Scott said you should get one in the first assembly this term, I’ve reinforced that advice and have, in fact, modelled it, my little book here having notes from every assembly I’ve sat in this term – which is why I know what Mr Johnson said three weeks ago. But some of you are letting assemblies slip by without capturing any of it. Do you want to know the thing, do the thing, or do you just want to have been in the same room as people who did? Well, this is the last assembly this term, and Christmas is on the horizon so perhaps one of the plans you make in response to that challenge could be to get yourself a little notebook (get one for someone else at the same time – solve the present dilemma) and then come January you could be noting down the wiser portions of my assemblies rather than simply hoping that they cling to your brain cells.
Sleighbells ring, are you listening? In the lane, the snow is glistening. Attentive fans of interwar Christmas music will have noticed that I dropped a sly quote into the last paragraph and those of you who are also well informed will know that Winter Wonderland was a huge hit for Guy Lombardo in 1934. I don’t imagine any of you were buying records in the 30s and so I’ll recap – two people who are romantically involved go for a walk in the snow until they reach a meadow at which point they make a snowman and pretend that it’s a vicar who they invite to marry them at the earliest opportunity. Later on, they conspire as they sit by the fire to face unafraid the plans that they made walking in the winter wonderland.
Rather than make plans for your long term romantic futures, I recommend that this winter you make plans for academic success and that starts with the question of how you spend your vacation. Before we leave the sleighbells I would like to encourage you to spend one third of your time resting, getting fresh air and exercise, spending time with your friends, making cups of tea for your hard-pressed parents and saying yes whenever your little sister asks “Do you want to build a snowman”.
But you have a lot of time over Christmas and the danger of a lot of time is that it weighs heavily upon you. If you want something done, ask a busy person, it is said – because busy people are in the habit of doing things. Close followers of my email signature will know that I’ve spent the best part of this year reading Daniel Deronda – George Elliot’s final novel which has two intertwined storylines. One of these is about the eponymous Deronda whilst the other regards Gwendolen, a rather self-important and self-obsessed young woman who marries for money and finds herself in an unhappy marriage (something to watch out if you go too near any meadows this December). She and her husband go on a Mediterranean cruise and live a life of idle luxury which, despite the joys of mutual antagonism they find unutterably boring. Neither of them, you see, have any purpose in life – the bloke, Grandcourt, because he has studiously avoided having one beyond dominating those around him (he’s really not very nice), and Gwendolen because as far as society was concerned, her entire purpose was to make herself marriageable and having achieved this goal she has nothing left to do. Do not, I emphasise, either behave or become like Gwendolen and Grandcourt. I do, however, recommend reading about them – Daniel Deronda by George Eliot. Actually I recommend reading lots of things – I was asked a week or so ago how it is that I know so much (a question that, as you may imagine, tickled my ego) and I said it was because I read a lot – a more truthful answer would be that I read a lot and am very old. The reading you do now builds on what you have already read and leads to what you will read next so spend a third of your vacation reading – a judicious mixture of fiction and non-fiction; of subjects related to your studies and those that whisk you away.
As you read you should write, and as you write you should read – the two things intertwine, like the stories of Deronda and Gwendolen: real reading should spark your creativity, your desire to write sentences that express your ideas; the attempt to write sends you back to the masters who use words with precision and beauty. Congratulations therefore to the students who entered the half-term essay prize and did the thing, wrote the thing, faced unafraid their plan to say something worthwhile. The title was migration and all entrants win the right to wear our most exclusive of badges – Scholarship. Over Christmas I’d like to invite you all to write a review of a book you’ve read – I’m looking for writing that beautifully and precisely encapsulates the message and meaning. About 1200 words, emailed to me by 9am on the first day back. Don’t make excuses – don’t not and say you did – plan now and face unafraid over the vacation.
And what about Christmas and, more pertinently, what about Hannukah since Christmas is ten days away and Hannukah began last night. What are we to make of these festivals? Well, some of you will already have answers – you’ll know what this time means to you, but some may be unsure. I’ve even heard it said that Christmas is boring and you know that I don’t like to think of you as bored. So, this is what it’s all about, well, might be, could be, should be, at least it wouldn’t be boring if it was, about. It’s about joy and tradition – this is why you should always agree to build the snowman, or play dreidel or sing carols- so that building snowmen is what you and your little sister do, one of the ways in which you cherish that relationship. It’s about lights in the darkness, so be the smile that lights up a room or put a candle in the window and enjoy the smallness of the flame in the silence of the night. I love that Hannukah and Advent have a tradition of marking the passing of time by lighting more and more candles because it is dark and it is cold and what it is really all about is helping each other through, encouraging each other, being more cheerful, more robust, more welcoming, more likely to survive to spring because we’re not alone.
And I’d leave it there, but the trials of a mathematical brain are that if someone allocates a third of the vacation to reading and a third to resting then you simply can’t leave it there – the musical equivalent is a piece that doesn’t resolve back to the tonic but just sits on the dominant leaving you squirming whilst the orchestra pack up and walk out. Because I’m neither Beethoven nor Daft Punk I will tell you that you should spend a third of your vacation reviewing your studies. This isn’t revision – it’s more active than that, more structured – and nor is it response, although that can be part of it. It’s more like the activity that follows response – when you’ve identified what needs to be done and you get on and do the thing. When you, if you’ll pardon my incessant echoing of 1934 face unafraid the plans that you made when you were writing your responses. Practice the bits that feel hard; memorise the facts and automate the routines that will let you get through those bits quickly and accurately and save your brain for the real challenges of your subject; do questions under time pressure and, contrariwise, have a go at problems that are really hard and need time to percolate. Push your subject hinterlands a little wider; organise your folders and tidy your school bag; get yourself a notebook and a pencil so that next time you’re in assembly and I mention Guy Lombardo, Frank Herbert or Polonius you’ll be able to flick back and smile knowingly.
So, three thirds: review, read and rest in equal measure. Know the thing, do the thing, and enjoy the festivals of winter.
Sleighbells ring – are you listening?
Footnotes:
1. This is the village that I gave my lecture about: https://www.welcometowillerby.co.uk/
2. More on the meaning of Christmas (and a little from George Eliot) can be found in Christmas Stories
3. The assembly with Frank Herbert in is this one: Waka Waka
4. And the Polonius is here: This Above All