CRADLING A SHEET of butcher paper, Richard rose from the desk at the back of 214 and ambled up slowly, work boots scraping softly across the carpet like two shuffling beetles, to the front of the room. It was opening day of the composition teaching workshop for first-year English Department graduate instructors, and it was his turn to introduce himself to the class.

A short and athletic man with thick, black hair, graying at the temples and pulled back into rough ponytail that bounced lightly as he walked, Richard, as he turned to face the room, looked us over with a pair of dark brown eyes that seemed bigger and more wide open than any I'd ever seen. Everyone else, as instructed, had sketched pictures of favorite mountains, cities and siblings by means of acquaintance, but Richard Steinberg, after smiling and bowing with hands clasped in prayer, pushed back a stray lock from his face and unfurled his loose scroll to reveal a paragraph of writing in a language familiar to no one. He went on to tell us, in a thick Queens accent, that these strange and flowing lines of black marker were Tibetan Sanskrit, and that they spelled out the foundation of his belief system ? the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism. He read the paragraph in a careful and unhurried voice, bowed once more, and then, with the same soft, deliberate gate, moved back to his desk.

Days went by, and aside from the occasional exchange of pleasantries in the men's room or in the hallway before English 6820 - the weekly, semester-long, continuation of our teaching workshop - I saw little of Richard.

One Friday night about three weeks into the school year I was up late typing my teaching journal entry on the 6820 course page when I came across a discussion thread titled "A Pilgrim's Progress." The author was Richard Steinberg. The thread went like this: A young female student had approached Richard before class with a question about an assignment. He knew what the standard answer should be, what the policy inked in the class handbook stated. But for Richard there was another option. In his own words: "As she stood before me in all her magnificence, I heard a silent voice, both mine and not mine, which said, 'Do not get in her way. Life is her teacher. Do not get in her way.' Her way ? not mine. Her way ? she is on a path, moving, living, growing, thriving. As it is hers, I have no authority, except to nurture it." more