under the same sky

February 13, 2017

Kansas City, Missouri

The house is quiet. I hear Treasure Island unfolding from a half-opened door. A sick baby breathes heavily, but surrenders to sleep. Inside the other room, a song or a picture or a doll house comes alive. The conditions are rarely right, so I sit to answer the call.  Words and pictures have a different sound. Today, the words are knocking at the door between thought and type.  

What is it that we're doing?  As in today and tomorrow and for all our days?  In church, we learned about Thomas Merton, a voice for creativity and art and true connection to God.  He asked us to understand ourselves and suggested that we would find God there too, reaching for us. 

I tell my students that God has placed in each of us unique and creative talents. I tell them their passions won't be the same as mine, but never forget that their gift is so important to this world.  I don't know if they are listening, but I say it anyway.

We are farmers, carrying the sack full of seeds, though it bears heavily upon our shoulders, spreading them everywhere we go.  In time, we may see new paths of light and beauty along once barren trails or simply nourishment for tomorrow. 

I tell them stories. The room is silent as we read, they wait on every word.  Stories are more powerful than the energy of 30 students sitting in one room during their fourth class of the day.  And when the end comes, there is a sweetness in the approximate one second of silence that follows the closing of the book. I try to catch their eyes, but there are too many and so I always delight in that one second where young souls are filled with a dose of beauty or mystery or hope or wonder.  Do you collect that moment too?

I tell my little fire girl, with wild eyes and messy art that her emotions are important and often confusing, but we must learn how to carry them, because, sometimes angst is not foe, but friend, because fear births courage, and sadness allows us to look deeper for light.  To feel is to be alive and the world has enough robots.

In our lessons at home, we gather around our table and we learn the story of our world, "How many 'tantinoples' were there in that city?" A legitimate question from Miss Six. We break down each syllable, and put it together like a puzzle, touch it on the map.  We read about the beginning of the Rus, before Russia and how Moscow came to be called the third Rome.  We learn how once we had Caesars and then tsars and how great and terrible leaders can make or break empires.  It's the living, breathing story of humanity, told again and again. And to think, all of this happened before our own land became a player on stage. I want them to know that nothing revolves around us and that we are a small and beautiful chapter in an epic tale.  

I listen to this groaning world and wonder if we will do better? Can we teach them how? I have to believe that the torches that burn deep within us could illuminate the path, if we keep planting the seeds and fostering hearts that hope and minds that wonder.   This makes for long days, great patience, and messy floors.  This makes for tired eyes and sore feet and hearts that break, but light transforms and hope renews and love mends the broken places.

Did you know that Jupiter is covered with lightning and storms larger than our whole planet? We learned that today. They sang and danced during each of the planet songs, even the two-year old chimed in, Venus, Mercury, the MOON! 

When I think of stars, I think of Van Gogh, who painted them when he needed to feel closer to God.  I think of the dazzling lights reflecting on the Rhone and the rolling countryside under the one spectacular night.  Did you know that Van Gogh wanted to be a minister? His wish was denied, so he painted instead and his art traveled far beyond the length of his days, reaching the artists of today who still ask if it matters.  A sea of voices tell them no, but in the empty spaces, in the stillness, the answer is always the same.  It matters for today. It matters because of tomorrow.  It matters.

We stand under the vast sky and search for glimpses of dust burning in the atmosphere, completely unaware that somewhere far beyond a giant, stormy planet is pulling asteroids and comets towards itself, protecting us from harm.  

I sit to write while the runny noses sleep and before the spaghetti is prepared and my words travel a great distance, reminding me of the torch I carry.