Lifelines

“I fall upon the thorns of life”—a line from Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind, and the title of this writing—captures the essence of what education has become. It speaks to the bittersweet reality of learning and teaching, where the journey is often marked by both inspiration and struggle. This piece delves into the profound influence a teacher can have, shaping not only what we know but also what we come to love and value. Through the lessons, the challenges, and the connections made in the classroom, we are molded by experiences that leave lasting imprints on our passions and interests. Yet, much like the thorns Shelley describes, education has its sharp edges—reflecting the tension between what it was and what it has become in an ever-changing world.

A love-hate relationship—I call it that, and it has lasted thirty years. One might think time grants clarity about where we stand in life, but in this case, the opposite is true. The longer it stretches, the more uncertain my stance becomes.

It all began in grade ten with my literature professor, Dr. Joseph Freim—a remarkable man from a mountain city back home. He had that piercing gaze, the presence of a distinguished father figure, with striking blue eyes and jet-black hair. In the long, harsh winters, he would wear his tweed black coat over his suit, a stark contrast against the white snowfall.

One morning, he asked me to stand and recite The Daffodils. But I never liked Wordsworth, and my hesitance showed—I stuttered through the lines. His frown deepened.

“Sleiman, what a waste to travel all the way from Bednayel in this snow just to deliver such a recitation. Sit down.” I anticipated a polite “Please, have a seat,” but his tone left no room for courtesy—it was an order, sharp and unyielding.

I took his words to heart, unwilling to disappoint him. What I didn’t realize at the time was that he saw something in me—a potential he would only articulate a decade later, when I visited him at his home in Zahlé. “I wanted you to sit down,” he explained, “because I wanted you to keep cultivating your taste for literature.” His words, once a command, now carried the weight of a mentor’s vision.

I still remember his voice, rich with passion, as he drew a deep breath—one that escaped as words, words that burned with intensity:

“Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!”

I never cared for Wordsworth. His idea that “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” never resonated with me. God, no! I was drawn to the meticulous craftsmanship of overworked rhymes, the archaic beauty of Middle English that baffled those without an appetite for linguistic complexity. I was captivated—by Keats, Shelley, and Byron.

And over the years, I’ve nurtured that passion. My favorite time is when I teach Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. It’s my moment to step onto the stage, to become an actress, channeling my professor—the great one—reciting those haunting stanzas about being surrounded by water, yet not a drop to drink. I, too, have memorized the very lines he once proudly claimed to know by heart. It’s a time of pure pride.

But times are changing, and I feel my audience slipping away. Their disinterest gnaws at me, threatening to erode my own enthusiasm. I read, I wait for engagement, but it never comes. In the end, I bow to an indifferent crowd—no applause, no recognition. I console myself with the thought of another great performance. But is any performance truly great without an audience?

I’m not sure who to blame. Has the world gone deaf to poetry? Are we drifting into an age of literary ignorance? Will we reach a point where mentioning Shakespeare draws blank stares and puzzled glances?

Perhaps the fault lies not in the world, but in the way we present the words. If poetry is a mirror to the soul, maybe we’ve forgotten how to hold it up—or worse, we’ve stopped looking. And if we stop looking, what becomes of the reflection?