{moving towards men}
The image above is past tense. Gone are the crispy points of new. The virgin wax infused with color. Paper edges have been shredded. Chewed on if I'm honest. Dislodged time & again from their original seating on their journey to create. Lost. Broken. Exposed & entertained. With sweaty hands and twisting fingers, we are soundly into our 5th week of school.
Sweaty hands & twisting fingers.
Teaching is just this. It's manipulating surfaces. The inside of hearts and the outflow of you. Twisting one into the other hopeful for a connection that ignites. One that busts open a huge hole of hope. One where dreams can began to fill up & keep.
Yes, keep. Not stale or sour. But grow. Tended by the care of the kept and the keeper. I think it's here where my hands sweat just a wee bit more. For their keeper? Well, that's me. Their one. A dual representation of home & work. I am their library just as much as I am their launderer.
And I aim to live honest. For perfection creeps 'round my doorstep far more than I care to say. Scratching his overgrown nails against the wood grain barricade. Eager to claw a bit more into my heart if only I'll leave the door cracked just enough to squeeze through.
But, I can't. I won't. It's not what I need them to see.
Oh, but their legs are growing long. And their need for knowledge is great. It's important to know the correct use of the comma and the reason why light bounces and who made their cotton gin & why. And I am just one. One human busy. And these days that hold us seem to move so fast.
I can't have it all together; I don't want to give them all I am. Because my all is hasty & human. For inside I struggle with right. I fear the lessons that aren't being taught.
Dear heavens, do they know about syllables? When am I gonna ever get to the study of electricity? Am I too strict on video gaming? Where are my little boys who used to wake up so anxious to see their mama? Is it wrong that they don't have homework like other school kids?
Yes, these are real questions that scratch against my wood grain.
The balance of work & play takes a bit more precedence. For I know that they need to learn to sit & study just as much as they need to play with purpose. Pretending is everything to finding holes for dreams to fill. I don't want to forget that. I don't want to forget the wholeness that I'm after. It's in these times of anxiousness that I go back and recall words I need to twist into me a little more.
And, I recall my own journey of growing dreams. And when I do, I'm reminded that wholeness is just exactly what we're all after. In person. Past perfection. With sweaty hands, I close the door. My twisting fingers turn the lock. It's not what I need them to see.
Manipulating spaces. Not me. Him. Mine. Theirs. I will trust a little more. For we all have moments when we're dislodged from our original seating on the journey to create. And I will remind myself that wholeness comes not from the cotton gin, but from the one whose hole held the dream to create it. Thank you, Eli Whitney, for your sweaty hands & twisting fingers.
