A Dragon Tale for Michaelmas

Once upon a time, a king gave his son a sword.  Since the prince was still a child, the king ordered the sword to be stored in a mountain cave to keep it safe, for in those days kingdoms were plundered constantly by thieves.  The king often took his son to the cave.  It took half a day to climb the steep path, and to remove the pile of sticks and rubble which hid it.

One day, when the son was twelve years old, the king died.  The prince, in addition to mourning his father, was now responsible for the kingdom.  Day after day he sat on a throne too big for him, consulted his ministers, and made decisions.  The prince was kept so busy with ruling the kingdom that he forgot the words his father had spoken to him about the sword on his deathbed, and forgot about the sword altogether.

By and by, a ferocious dragon took up residence in the mountain cave.  The dragon was not content merely to sleep in his cave on his pile of treasures.  He forgot about the treasures he had, since he always slept on top of them and never looked at them.  Therefore he always craved new shiny precious things, including maidens.  These last he would gobble up.  The young prince who had become king could not protect his kingdom from the dragon.  What's more, the dragon slept on top of the one thing that could tame him, the ancient sword that the old king had given his son.

Finally, there was only one maiden left: the most beautiful, the one betrothed to the young king.  He met with his counsellors, but none had a solution.  Droves of brave knights had tried to bring down the dragon, only to be burned to death by the fire from his mouth.  As dawn broke, the hungry dragon approached the kingdom.  The smoke from his breath hung over the buildings, blackening things in its path.  The dragon hovered above, searching for the maiden.

But in a dream the night before, the old king had visited his son.  He had spoken the forgotten words: "Do not try to rule the kingdom without the help of the sword.  It is no ordinary sword for making war.  It gives counsel, and only harms that which must perish."  The old king concluded that his son must go retrieve the sword alone.

The young king set out immediately, though it was the middle of the night.  As he trudged up the mountain path, the wind blew out the torch he was holding.  He had to fall to his knees and follow the path by feel, in the pitch black moonless night.  As no one had climbed it for years, the path had grown over with bushes.  Stones had fallen or rolled over it in places, and sometimes the young king was not sure he was still on the path.  But at last he felt a clearing beside a heart-shaped stone to the side of the path.  He remembered such a stone from his boyhood visits with his father.

There was no flat ground in the cave, only piles of clutter: the gloomy bones of maidens, ordinary swords and shields, bows and arrows.  The prince dug and dug, sometimes cutting his hands on the weapons.  At last he felt underneath them the familiar pile of sticks and debris from of old.  As he neared the bottom of the pile, light began to penetrate into the cave.  At last, the sharpest cut of all revealed to him the contour of his own special sword.  Carefully he extracted the sword from the clutter.  As it came free, smoke poured into the cave making it almost impossible to breathe, and darkening the cave.  The young king heard a dragonish snorting and his betrothed maiden weeping.  The dragon had returned to his cave to feast on the maiden.

The dragon breathed fire.  In the light of that fire the young king approached the dragon and struck at the thick hide.  The surprised beast reached around and grabbed the young king, who realized that if the dragon died in there, he and the maiden would be trapped inside.  So the young king taunted the dragon.  "O mighty dragon, it is so easy for you to defeat me in your own cave.  Surely you would prove yourself by challenging me in the light of day!"  The dragon was proud, and brought the maiden and young king out of the cave.  Before he had fully set them down on the ground, the young king pierced the dragon's side with the sword.  The dragon writhed and curled, crashing into the cave.  So doing he smashed a little glass vial.  The contents of the vial splashed all over the bones.  The bones all knit themselves together.  Flesh came back over them, and clothes, until at last the devoured maidens appeared, alive and whole.  The dragon's legs disappeared and it turned into a lithe green snake.  It wound itself around the young king's shoulders like a handsome mantle.

Then a roar of a crowd echoed over the hillside.  The whole kingdom was climbing up the path, clearing the bushes and stones, desperate to try and save their last maiden.  How astonished they were when they saw all of the maidens restored to life and rushing into the arms of their mothers, fathers, and brothers.  The safety of the kingdom was restored.  They all returned home to it, and the dragon which had become a snake wound itself around the kingdom walls to protect it from intrusion.  The remnants in the little vial, which was the water of life, the people sprinkled over the ashes of the burned knights, who also returned to life.  The young king married the lovely maiden. He never again forgot to keep his sword nearby but polished it, practiced  with it, and asked its advice.

The Garden Grown

Once upon a time, there was a nurseryman. In the dark of winter, he planted seeds in his greenhouse. He cared for them lovingly, watering them well. If he had left the greenhouse door open even one night, they would have died. But this he never did. Under his care, more seeds germinated than in other greenhouses, and by mid-spring there was no room to walk across the greenhouse floor, so many seedlings had sprouted. He even had to bring some into his house to grow on a sunny windowsill. He loved seeing the first leaves, which looked all the same, followed by the true leaves, which showed what kind of plant it would be. Light or dark green, smooth or furry leaves, edges that were straight or zigzagged. As Spring grew warm, he opened the greenhouse doors for longer and longer, until at last he brought all of the seedlings out into the world.

The nurseryman felt only one sorrow. Because he was poor, he had to sell every last seedling at the market. Therefore he had no garden of his own. He had heard people tell of the fabulous fruits, and flowers that his seedlings became, but he never saw them for himself. He even pined with envy when he heard of the battles against weeds, of the rabbits and groundhogs, the years of drought, and those of flooding. If only he himself could try his hand at gardening.

It was late summer, too late to plant, and his greenhouse was empty. Dustballs rolled on the neglected, sunbaked floor. He had to spent the rest of the year doing odd jobs and running errands for others, in order to be able to buy the seeds, soil, and pots for the next year's seedlings. The man felt lonely. In the night, he could not sleep.

He left his house and started walking. He walked from village to village, from town to town. He could see the grey outlines of plants in people's gardens by the light of the moon. As the light began to dawn, he beheld with wonder as the garden took on color. Sunflowers emerged in the sunrise light, lemon yellow, deep red, golden and brown. Roses, delicate with dewdrops. Lilies. He saw at last the full plants that his seedlings became, more wonderful than any descriptions from others. He could not go back to his greenhouse.

He kept on walking. He was growing hungry and thirsty. The villages gave way to a deep forest. He came upon a little grey man leaning on a tree, who asked him where he came from and where he was going. The man told him, "I am from the greenhouse and I am looking for a garden." The grey man liked his kind expression, and could tell that the nurseryman knew how to grow things. He gave the wandering man a pair of silver scissors.

On went the nurseryman, hungrier and thirstier than ever. He saw a yellow man chewing on a blade of grass, who also asked him where he came from and where he was going. At the answer, the yellow man gave him a silver needle. After a while the nurseryman met a blue man sitting on a stone. He asked the same question as the others, and got the same answer. The blue man gave the nurseryman a silver spindle. The nurseryman walked on until he came to a city. He knocked upon the first door he reached. A little tailor answered. The nurseryman told the tailor of his journey, and asked for food. The tailor did not begrudge him this, and after they had eaten he asked the nurseryman to be his assistant.

First, the tailor allowed him to snip the loose threads from the finished clothes with his silver scissors. Then when he got good at that, he was allowed to sew clothes with his silver needle. At last, he was able to spin the yarn with which they wove the cloth with his silver spindle.

The royal wedding was coming, and the tailor and his assistant were asked to make the bride's dress. If they suceeded in making it fine enough for a princess, they would become the royal tailors. But if it had any flaw, they would be put to death. The tailor and his assistant worked day and night for three days, and at last they had a splendid dress. So tired from the work, the nurseryman, stumbled and trod a grain of soil into the train of his gown. It was the last grain of soil left from his nurseryman days.

The tailor was furious, but they had no time to try and wash or mend it, for the servants of the king were already outside the door, demanding the dress. The tailor and his assistant rode in the carriage with the dress. At first the courtiers praised the gown, as fine a one as they had ever seen. But the King himself saw the tiny stain, and ordered the two men to the gallows. But before they could be taken there, the royal butler recognized the nurseryman and stopped them.

"O King. This is the famous nurseryman who started all the glorious plants in your gardens. Indeed, as we are in need of a gardener, let us spare him his life, and let him earn his keep." But the King would not accept the stained dress. The butler ran to the garden and brought back a silver lily. Anyone could see it was a special plant, for it glowed like the moon. The butler touched the flower to the stain, and it was instantly as clean and perfect as new, and the dress glowed, even more lovely than before.

The nurseryman became the King's gardener, and had gardens for every day of the week. Not only did he have a garden of his own, but one for the whole kingdom as well. And people travelled from far and wide to enjoy it. Many of them recognized the former nurseryman, and thanked him for the wonderful plants he had started years before, which graced their gardens still.

Gratitude, the Sequel

I've written at least ten gratitude lists in my life, probably fifty. Yet however often I practice gratitude, I always seem to lose the knack for it. Like the food we eat, we seem to always burn up our gratitude, and need to replenish it.

Here is attempt number fifty-one.

I have a gorgeous husband who loves me. I met him before I was born in the spiritual world, where we created things for which we are only now finding words.

Thanks to the stocks Richard's Dad left him, and the popping of the real estate bubble, we have a physical home, which is paid for. In our house, we have two rooms we can rent to supplement our income, which, low by American standards, still gives us all we need.

This house has a beautiful floor where we can dance together, worship together, practice speech, and perform.

Thanks to our easy going natures, and emotional intelligence, we can trust our instincts that we will be able to get along with the people with whom we are sharing our house.

I have a job that I love. When I look back at the posts I wrote before Kerry hired me in the Snowdrop Nursery, I remember how isolated I felt. How dry and dark a life without children felt. My colleagues trust and respect me, and vice versa. We laugh and we cry together.

I work in a school which has been called the cutting edge, where colleagues laugh, parents befriend teachers, good things happen based on honest work. A school where humility and good will rule the day.

I have some childcare situations where I have creative freedom to shape the time and focus on just two children. I began a serial story with one of the families, thereby committing to continuing the story till the end of the year. I have already found that this story is bearing fruit.

I have the gift of Rudolf Steiner's pedagogical tools, whence comes the prototype for that story I am telling. You translate the child's issues into a story with clear pictures. Then you find a way for the story to resolve itself. For the stuck-ness to get unstuck. Somehow the child's difficulty also unravels itself, without the child ever being admonished or punished.

I have been blessed to learn that what I get out of life is what I put in, and that what bothers me about others is a clue to my own shortcomings, a hint for my further becoming. Without this wisdom, life would be fruitless suffering.

I have the freedom to follow my love, or my laziness. Laziness, says M. Scott Peck, is really a lack of love. If I can love my life's work enough, I will be able to tap energy to invest in it. If a child is floundering, my only way forward with them is interest, love. Love alone, though it takes many forms. Peck describes Love as attention plus effort over time. Nothing else will open a way forward.

I have a variety of amazing children in my life; they all do quirky things which delight and puzzle me.

I have spiritual homes: the West Philadelphia Quaker Worship Group, the Christian Community in Devon, the 5 Rhythms tribe worldwide, the body of the students of Steiner who call themselves Anthroposophists. Most importantly, the school of Michael, which contains all the previous groups and many more. These are all the earnest spiritual seekers in our time and the centuries to come, on earth and in heaven. That's a hell of a big tribe. My spiritual home is not a place but a time. My spiritual home is now. That's a hell of a place.

I have a family which most of my friends tell me is cooler than theirs. Hee hee. It's certainly more eclectic than most, with a right wing politician father and a feminist radical mother and some righteous funky sisters. I have a cool Grammy who taught me how to mash potatoes and put plastic bags on my feet so I could play in the snow. She is almost ninety-four years old.

I have a training in Creative Speech and Acting, an art with the potential to fuel the teachers (and all other professions) of the future, whoever and whenever they choose to take it up. I have a few students who give me the opportunity to learn how to teach it.

I have a spiritual practice with the potential to help me grow indefinitely, as far as my will to work (love for activity) can take me.

There is only one thing I don't have. Now. Once I have it I'll want something else. I know what that next thing is too. I can probably predict the list of things which will follow from that thing. Once I have a child, (after the child grows up a bit) I will want another child. After that child grows up a bit, I'll want a job as a class teacher. After a few weeks of being a class teacher (an eight year commitment), I'll want a sabbatical! After eight years and a sabbatical I'll want to teach again. I'll want to be a better teacher than I am. After teaching I'll want a sabbatical again. If my husband gets sick and moves toward death I'll wish I'd met him earlier. If he dies, I'll grieve. Then I'll want another partner, though no partner will ever be the same. I'll wish he could have lived to see how his children grew up. At some point I'll wish I had the money to send my two children to college. Maybe my Dad will fulfill this wish. I'll probably start to see the Waldorf movement and the world through wider eyes, want to give it something for the future, want to be big enough to encompass what is needed. Can't see much beyond this. Too many particulars to work out. I guess at some point I'll want to finish my first novel. Or write another one. Or write other books about teaching and life.

Indeed, there will always be something I want. That is the desire to be better, to do better which reminds us to move forward. But why dwell on it? It will always be replaced by the next thing. Whereas the list of gratitudes, it simply broadens and deepens, placing our heart in a well of security. What a wealth of wisdom has guided us to this place. What a potential remains to be tapped. Can we live the longing, love the longing, and thereby love our life?

A Month of Sundays

I stumbled downstairs to refill my water glass. Richard was in town for a meeting. I tried to small talk with Justin, our flooring man, barely taking it in. Somehow the water glass got filled, but suddenly I knew I'd wouldn't make it back up the stairs. I felt a cloud of heat and pressure expand around me, out of my head. I could not bear it. If only I could get back upstairs. I sat down in a chair. I fell into a kind of daze. It must have only been a minute later but felt like ages, I heard a voice moaning. It was my own. I have never felt so feverish. Justin came over and I managed to ask him to help me get wet rags onto my calves to bring down the fever. As I lay on the couch, covered in rags and blankets, I felt my self return to me somewhat. Thank God he was there to help.

This was the most recent episode of a story called Lyme disease. It was last Thursday. I now have so few blue pills left that I can see the bottom of the amber plastic bottle. The end is in sight! I hope. Now, standing at the end of a road, I can see a story unfolding. Maybe if I tell it to you a helpful picture will emerge. Maybe it had to do with getting back to writing. Or getting ready for the next step. Or just some unnameable process that needed to happen right now at this leg in the journey. You see, I feel all that happens to me happens for a reason.

Last Memorial day, Richard and I decided to walk the whole length of Forbidden Drive, a path which winds along the Wissahickon River. "And back!", he is always careful to add. I felt tired, slightly delirious, and blissful. I also felt a twinge in my lower abdomen. All of these symptoms led me to the dubious assumption that I was pregnant. I said nothing to Richard of this, just walked blissfully along, somehow so at peace with everything. My ankle was bothering me a bit. In three days, that ankle swelled more and drove me to the emergency room. I read on the internet that swelling of joints was common in pregnancy but that if only one joint, not both were swollen, it could be a blood clot and I should get to the ER. I am not a big fan of hospitals. I am so sensitive that being in them makes me feel sicker. But now that I thought another life was involved, I was not messing around. I got into my paper gown in a hospital bed, got shot with a needle, peed in a cup, waiting hours for the results of various tests. Richard read next to me. I drifted to sleep. Suddenly out of my sleep a voice delivered the answers.

"Ma'am, it's not a blood clot. You're not pregnant. You have a Urinary tract infection."

"What about the ankle"

"We call it myalgia, a muscle strain. Elevate it."

Well, so at least I knew why I felt a twinge in my lower abdomen. No new life. Just some bacterial stowaways.

The ankle got better. Episode over.

Till August, when my knee did the exact same thing my ankle had done. For the entire ten days of my vacation! No amount of cooking it with a fever, of rest, would make it any better. Two weeks later I learned I had had Lyme disease all along, and received that bottle with a month's worth of antibiotics. Damn. Okay, I said to the Lyme. I have given you months of my life. Much of my energy which could have been spent living. I hope you have gotten what you wanted. I have suffered, undergone painful and scary experiences and grown stronger. Please leave now.

Imagine being a little feverish for days on end. Imagine itching with a yeast infection which won't go away. Imagine projects piling up around you, the house needing painting, school starting, your birthday, and feeling almost insane with the prospect of it not ending for weeks. Punctuated with moments of... something intangible. Sometimes peace, sometimes a certainty that everything would be alright.

It was very much how I imagine pregnancy or the beginning of life with a baby to be. Uncomfortable, full of trials and side effects, but you get something to show for it at the end. New life! Longed for and long imagined.

But perhaps I do have something to show for it. They say Lyme infiltrates your immune system, trying to convince you that it is a part of you, not an invader. I did feel at times during this illness a strong feeling of self, as if for the first time, there is a kind of frame around my inner core. Perhaps I developed this over the times when my body recognized the invader and built fires to smoke it out. Those fires to some extent remain. In an article I read last week by Dr. Philip Incao, he suggests that the more fevers we have, the less likely we are to get cancer. This invader, much stealthier than Lyme, can sometimes hide out in your body, colonizing your cells toward its own chaotic growth, for years undetected. A fiery immune system is more likely to recognize cancer early and regulate it.

New life comes in many forms. Perhaps I have given my body a boost towards the trials ahead, whatever they may be.

A Sestina for Charlie Redmon

Apologies to the Dads of the world who are not prepared for little kid-ness-- they do their best.  I have fudged some details to fit the poetic form.

Dad would never be home soon,

Grampa was better.

Dad's house had no dictionary

Though I found a pink kaleidoscope.

There was one potted plant 

And no ice cream.

Five o'clock, Grammy's house, no room for ice cream!

Dinner would be ready soon.

I'd have to plant

Myself next to the candy kaleidoscope,

Turning the pages of the decadence dictionary.

One of the few books Grampa had was a dictionary,

It was never the only dessert, ice cream.

I sat on the lawn and turned the kaleidoscope.

Grampa would ride the lawnmower soon.

Grass clipping became soil is a better

Word than dirt, but, he said "Weeds are not plants."

Under his grow light, seeds became plants.

Behind my desk, words grew to dictionaries.

Grammy and Grampa's world knew better.

Their freezer made a softer ice cream.

Cherries, apples, leaf piles, coming soon,

Points on the wheel of the season's kaleidoscope.

Stations of the cross in a protestant kaleidoscope,

Work in the dirt for a fruit-bearing plant,

Her almanac the birthdays, coming up soon,

His diary the high and low temperature dictionary.

When we were sick, or when snow fell like ice cream,

We could live there till things got better.

The pink tomatoes in stores?  Grampa's were better.

One slice revealed a bloody kaleidoscope

Pressing the cider, milling rock-salt ice cream

The autumn's crisp sweetness, the nectar of plants,

An apple tree leaves like the pages of dictionaries,

One was closed, one opening soon.

The ice cream that sweat turns tastes acres better,

I grew up so soon, the years like kaleidoscopes.

He planted his world, made stands for dictionaries.

Baby Steps

Well, friends, I guess when life is good, there is less to write about.  An interesting riddle, that.  Two hours after I posted the last bleak entry, I got a call from Kerry at the Waldorf School.

"Yes, we'll be talking about the aftercare jobs next week, we'll let you know soon about interviews but... Actually, I was hoping you would join us in the nursery.  I'll be needing a second assistant next year."

"Wow!" I replied.  Such a better job than aftercare.  And she wanted me specifically!  

I had substituted in this class two rainy Tuesdays in a row.  The first time, the moment I entered the room, little faces stared at me in wonder.  Someone they didn't usually see was in their space. You could feel the soft silence of the room, as if some other world had just touched earth, and landed tentatively on the taupe carpet.  All day I stared back, with equal wonder.  When a little scuffle happened, Kerry asked the child who had hit to give a gentle hand to the one she had hit. She showed the girl how to smooth the arm of the hurt child, in one moment correcting the harm done.  The action showed what kind of touch is best to give one's neighbors. Children slid down pieces of wood, carried dolls to and from the play kitchen.  A toddler who had not been walking long brought a metal cup-measure and spoon, showing me that he, like me, was making soup today. 

Ten years ago, when I worked in a mainstream daycare with the same age group (2 and 3 year olds), I only lasted five months.  Noise, running, screaming, and attacking were par for the course.  Upon every transgression, we instructed the children to say they were sorry, which they didn't necessarily feel, (even if they learned that if they said it, we would be satisfied). Sorry also did not make the other child, for whom words meant little, feel better.  There were lots of words, choices, bright colors, hard plastic objects, and every nice toy got destroyed quickly.  The rubber tyrannosaurus rex had weathered all the beating, and these children, whose socialization was only receiving lip service, would only survive if they became like him.  Scaly and sharp-toothed.  The parents of these children were educated and well intentioned.  One can hardly blame them for severely misunderstanding the needs of young children.  Our culture treats them like an underclass, perhaps spoiled and sentimentalized, but to be turned into adults as quickly as possible.

Kerry and her assistant, Roxanne, are part of a new program at the school, innovative and greatly in demand, as you can imagine.  They are extending Waldorf education to the care of the very young, something which in the past was (one hoped) left to at-home mothers, but is in many cases not possible now.

So I have been delighted about the way life will be, starting next September.  It doesn't hurt that I'll have some money too.  Writing a novel is quite a project.  If I'd known it would be as much work as it already has been, I never would have started.  And I believe at best it is only half- finished.  Today, I have had trouble entering into the work, so I've decided to write this instead.

Here are some haikus I wrote a few weeks ago.

Water flows along

Makes things dark, bright, shiny and

Laughs but never talks

And this one I wrote after a scent triggered a childhood memory:

Ants in peonies

Smell: lemon-honey-metal

Thick Kentucky June  

I hope I'll be able to keep writing, with all that working life will bring.  I will have to find a way. Perhaps the good gods will give me moments of insight, half-hours of writing time, and a sense of moving forward by baby steps.  One thing is sure, children, who can't help growing, will surround me.  Perhaps in their environs, adults, who must choose to learn, can pick up some hints.

Meeting

Dear readers,

Spring has sprung, flowers bloom, I am still wondering about various things.  I've had a cleansing fever though.  A week ago I just threw in the towel and said to my fatigue "Alright.  You win."  I went to bed.  For a week.  And burned up a lot of stuff.  Now I am contemplating returning to the living, but I've gotta tell you, it doesn't look good.  There's my train ticket to the writing conference to buy.  My lost driver's license to replace.  I've gotta pick a section from my novel to read at a gathering of people I've never met before on Saturday.  And no one is signed up for my free Creative Speech workshop at the co-op.  Free! I know it's the recession, but, uh... the workshop's free!  A lot depends on people coming to this workshop.  If they don't, then that means that money is not the issue.  That means it's me.  Or an example of me and the world not meeting.  And there is entirely too much of that happening already, spirit world.  Hey.  Give me a break.  

I am on the cusp of something big in my novel, and I keep not jumping it.  So maybe if everything else dies, I'll be forced to do so.  Boy these earthly obstacles courses are hard going.  I would like very much to know just what my standing is in the race.  You know, the racehorses get certain odds before they break out of the gate.  Of course, the odds never have much to do with how they do, and the favorite never wins.  So maybe knowing my odds would not be very helpful after all.

There are several things for which I am grateful.  One is that I learned at the Anthroposophia conference in April that Saul Bellow was an anthroposophist.  Wow.  A real American novelist who read and studied Rudolf Steiner's work.  Of course, he read and understood a whole lot more stuff, if you take Humboldt's Gift to heart.  Probably a hundred philosophical references in every chapter.  But it's still readable and very wacky stuff.  I am excited that there is at least one person drinking from that stream who succeeded in doing what I am trying to do, ie,  write a novel.  He wrote lots of them.

The other thing is that at this conference I met some amazing people.  Believe it or not, they wanted to hear what I had to say.  In fact, they hired me to speak the Foundation Stone Meditation.  But no, they didn't just literally want to hear me speak Steiner's words.  They wanted to hear what I had to say.  They asked me to help shape the conference.  They asked everyone who was there to do this.  The conference was about Meeting.  I guess meeting is the subject of this entry.  Meeting.  With regard to one's place of employment, the word meeting has become a dirty word.  Sorry honey, I'll be late tonight-- another wretched meeting.  From board rooms to faculty rooms, meeting is the one thing everyone hates.  Why?  Maybe because at a meeting, there is so little actual meeting.  I mean the meeting that happens when one hand hits another and we clap.  Isn't it awful when the hands don't quite meet?  No snappy, clappy sound.  Just silence and a silly-looking waving of hands in the air.

That is how I feel these days.  I put myself out there, hoping the other hand will meet mine, and we'll make a clapping sound.  But there is no answer.  Sure, I can get all philosophical about it, and ask myself "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"   That keeps me occupied for about a day.  But then I answer my question.  The sound of one hand clapping is Silence.  Words not heard.  Opportunity missed.  It sucks.

I'm waiting to hear back from the Waldorf School if I got the bottom rung aftercare job for which I am way overqualified.  This is the third job for which I have applied at this school.  I don't think anyone else has applied.  I'm wondering if they still will find a reason to not hire me.  Not that I take it personally.  Although there is one thing which might deter them from hiring me, they did take me on this year as a substitute and I've gone in many times.  They assured me that they want to get to know me, that's all.  There is a need for an aftercare teacher.  Actually a need.  And on my side, a wish to fill it.  But that "not meeting" just keeps happening with such infallibility that I really wonder...

Maybe what I need to do is go out there looking, not for what I want, but for what is wanted of me.  Maybe there is a hand out there, about to clap, just waiting for mine to meet it.  Or maybe there is something important in that silence.  I think that is actually it, but I hate it so much that I keep thinking there must be a way around it.  Silence.

That's what we observe in Quaker meetings.  It's interesting that in this silent period in life I have chosen to worship with silence lovers.  Part of me wants that silence.  Part of me insists.  I suppose that part of me wishes to say something which can only be spoken into silence.  Wishes to attune to what cannot be heard.