What keeps a teacher going?

There is a man building a wall in a farmer’s field that lies on my way to work. It is a stone wall, long and low. He has been building it for close to two years now, I think. I’m not sure, actually. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t out there, measuring, pondering, bent over his pile of rocks, lifting one, then another, then another.

He is not there every day. Most mornings the wall is untouched, and I wonder, where is he . . . the builder? Does he have other obligations, other jobs more pressing? It can’t be the weather that causes his absence. Just the opposite. I’ve seen him in dreary mists, bitter cold, thick heat, working the rocks, unaffected by the day. Once or twice each week, he is there. Moving the rocks precisely, building the wall, slowly, stone by stone. And his wall is a Keats ode. It is a thing of beauty.

Last year, my mother died. She was a very sweet old lady, all done with raising her 11 children, when cancer came. Mom had been a widow for 28 years, had held dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Her vision was going, and her hearing was shot. But still, it felt too soon; old or not, she was our mom.

Our big family cared for her through a brutal and fast-moving illness. After work every day I would race to her house for my shift. I’d sit next to her blue recliner and she’d hold my hand. I’d rub her feet with lotion and she’d nod her head and say, “Oh, that feels nice.” And then, when it didn’t feel nice, “That’s enough now, honey.” When the pain was under control, she’d sleep.

For a few hours each day, I’d check her medications, get ice for her water, pat her hand, kiss her brow, nuzzle next to her with my head on her shoulder. How wonderful that felt! Then it would be time to go home, until the next day. Through those awful months, on my way to work each day, I would approach the field, weary and heartsick, and look at the wall. Soon I realized I was looking for the wall. It became my touchstone. And I knew that I would keep on.

I am a teacher. My students are little kids — eager, shy, scrappy, lonely, funny. Every year a new crop of children sprouts up, and I try to nurture them, as best I can. I push, prod, and challenge, and they move along. They learn how to multiply and divide, write and read, persevere, be friendly, see joy in life. It’s a big job we do together, my students and I. There is much important work to be accomplished.

But some days that is hard. Some days I am daunted. Like the builder, I am pondering, too. Lessons, Common Core standards, MCAS, PARCC, data assessments, politics, mandates. Acronyms and worries buzz around my head like so many gnats. They threaten to shoo my focus away from what is truly important. I drive to school with my mind full, struggling to find the time to fit it all in. Until I see the wall. And I know that I will keep on.

Early every morning I turn to look at it. Another foot done, I think. I notice he’s strung the measuring rope farther on, over toward that little tree now. It won’t be long before he’s finished. And I’m wistful about that.

On my lucky days, I see the builder hunkered down, planning his next move. Still at it. He doesn’t look at me at all; his focus is on the stones. And yet he speaks to me. Keep going, he says. Keep going. You are not yet done. You are building a thing of beauty, too.

Beatrice Reynolds teaches at Dennett Elementary School in Plympton. Send comments to connections@globe.com.

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