Tucked away within my dusty, cotton-wrapped, postpartum mother’s mind is a little treasure-box of memories of the various art teachers I’ve had over the years. One of the gifts of my own teaching practice was that it gave me occasions to remember their words almost daily. Their voices would come to my ear on the fly, in the midst of addressing some problem the student was grappling with. It was like having a little angel on my shoulder whispering—verbatim—the words I had heard years ago from one or another of my instructors.

There was something serendipitous about teaching at those moments. There was always that hint of self-doubt within my mind as a teacher, especially when faced with a student who is having trouble. Do I really have the answers here? Yet, in faith, I would open my mouth, and without knowing how, the needed wisdom would come tumbling out like a magic coin to save the day.

These experiences were delightful to me for two reasons. One, because in those moments I felt perfectly secure and alive, “in the zone,” wrapped-up snugly in the nest of my calling, thrilled that my little area of knowledge could so perfectly fit the needs of the student before me. Secondly, because those moments of connection I had shared with my own teachers were some of the most gratifying of my youth. Repeating the words of my teachers brought me close to them in spirit; in a little way, to the Spirit of Wisdom itself.

I was grateful every time I passed one of these little snips of wisdom on to my own pedagogical offspring, and re-experienced that connection anew. Next to motherhood, teaching was the best thing in the world for me to do. When I saw students’ artwork improve, I would beam with pride. When I saw lives change for the better, the thought would bring me to tears.

Sadly, since taking a break from teaching anyone other than my own little children, these gems of insight, once always at the ready, are less easily retrieved. They are getting dusted-over with disuse. It occurs to me now to write them down someplace, before they become altogether inaccessible. At one time I felt that I had an entire book’s worth of art teaching within me to share. Now, I am not so sure—but at least I can put down a few notes here and there, and see what remains at the end of the day. Maybe these notes will amount to a narrative of my own particular path of art-learning; a story of shaping art and being shaped by other artists.

How much do we value the teachers who have shaped us? Whether in art or in another skill or discipline, do we take care of the treasures we have collected from them? Do we still remember their words? Can any of these be counted as spiritual treasures, such as Christ instructed us to store up in heaven?

“The good person out of the good treasure of the heart produces good, and the evil person out of evil treasure produces evil; for it is out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks.” (Luke 6:45)