When I was a teenager, I would write prolifically on my computer. Sometimes I would try to model my favorite poetry depending on whether I was reading Emerson or Blake. Often, I would write very short stories then seemed like scenes from someone looking out the window of a fast moving car to a busy sidewalk. Other times, I would reflect on my own life and try to place events in some kind of order, hopefully leading to meaning, and possibly purpose. My computer was my muse, and when I felt bold, I would go to my dot matrix printer and set myself to ‘publishing’ my thoughts for an illusory audience of some critics and many admirers. What I collected over this years eventually filled many binders and reams of paper, but its collective worth was only valued by my own imagined currency.
Now, I find myself living in the world, not trying to create one. I have found a path to walk. Through teaching, I satisfy my desire to learn and my need to contribute to a better world. Much of my time is spent thinking about small actions within big plans, about helping students find their way into a forest of questions, and then back out again. Small successes and looming challenges become part of each day, and its good enough.
Today, for some reason, I felt I needed to build some kind of bridge between the past and the present. I’ve wanted to write reflectively for some time, while finding many convenient reason (excuses?) for not doing so. Would the world suffer if I wrote a bad poem? Probably not, but one can never be too sure. Every reflection is growth. Every dream is as real as each breath.