the power of very little

As I grow older, I realize more and more that there is very little I know. I have come to rely on my senses--not just the five senses of which I hold sight first and foremost--but the other secret one that curls up somewhere in the brain and has a straight shot to my gut. This world is changing so quickly, I wonder why anyone might even fantasize that they exert some semblance of control. As a child, it didn't take long for me to learn I had very little control over anything beyond myself, so I held myself tighter and tighter to at least have some control over myself. And in many ways I think I have succeeded, and in other ways I've discovered even that was simply an exercise to hold on to a bit of sanity.

I vaguely remember when I used to be full of naive hope and belief that I could make this world a better place to be. Actually, that's not true at all; there are times when I remember more details than I care to. But like a broken stone in the ocean, my sharp belief's smoothed down to a pebble that I still hold dearly--a belief that I can only be responsible to myself and just do the best I can beyond that; perhaps that's why teaching is an integral part of myself, not a job. I fel that secret sense shooting through me right to my gut and back again when I am a part of the energy that can get going in a classroom, if I listen closely, and I explore into new territory when a group of people are really engaged in thought, in discussion, in honest, relentless communication. Those are the moments I know are connected to my core, my essence of my being, my ingrained footprints of hope.

A rereading of this journal entry makes me twinge. It doesn't clarify what I am feeling. Let me try an image--the pebble or a wave-worn tiny shell you might find on a beach. It could be yellow, white, grey, but mine is blue. If you pick it up in your fingers, you can feel the smoothed down crevices that are still slight indentations that mark a history, but are not remarkable now in of themselves. If you hold it in your hand, your palm can feel a very subtle vibration. It has a quiet energy that catches your attention. That warmth begins to travel to your thoughts and you start to think about possibilities, not just of the history of this particular inanimate object, but of why it has come to be in this very place at this very time for you to notice it. And for some absurd reason, perhaps this might make you smile, a moment in time captured by something as abstract as possibilities. Those moments are remarkable. They are the power of very little.

I remember all too clearly when I realized for sure that I have very little, if any, control over my time. That's when I began to cherish it. It cannot be put in a safety deposit box only to open when in dire need, or to be pulled out on special occassions like fancy china. For me, cherish is a special word, one that is similiar to endearing awe. It is something abstract, a fleeting feeling that holds a simple truth to be recognized, appreciated, and let go. I believe in moments in time, and they are cirular, not linear. They do not have sharp edges usually, but if they do, I try to remember the moments that are important, the ones that are like those tiny pebbles or shells that are still out there somewhere waiting to be discovered. I never did like sharp edges, straight lines with points. I like them even less now. There are people who remind me of sharp edges; they always seem to be out there waiting to snag some recognition for their importance, violently if necessary, through words or actions. I used to either confront or run from these sort of destructive people. I gave them power over me. I am still trying to learn how to let them be without letting them draw blood. To be continued....