In my case, it involves running down three flights of stairs, hurrying across a busy street, and driving for precisely six-and-one-half minutes down the street. I get out of my car and am literally blown by an increasingly colder wind into the welcoming environment of Budlong Elementary School, which is generally in such a hubbub that I regularly wonder if there isn't a fire drill going on at the moment. (Invariably, it turns out that they're just going to recess.)
My journey means entering into an eighth-grader's world - seeing algebra through his eyes and hearing it in gibberish, like he does, and needing to explain it in Spanish.
It means squatting down to get the perspective of a kindergartener who wants to know, "Are you a mother or a sister?" and replying, "I'm going to be a teacher," which was exactly what she was asking.
It means being there to assure a poor little first-grader that her nose is fine even though she was clowning around with Andrew and hit it hard on his head - and telling Andrew that "Your forehead is perfectly all right; it's Jenny's nose that is bleeding." It means walking into the class and getting an impromptu hug from Jenny, who seems to remember you from the other day and seems to like you.
Of course, it also means realizing that drawing toucans can rapidly degenerate into a violent free-for-all, and that Julian and Andrew need to be physically removed from each other.
A journey doesn't always mean traveling.
