"Teacher" & the Book of Revelations

An episode from life and dreams...

The blanket Grandma gave to her is an itchy acrylic felt , colored the one shade of blue that isn't calming or beautiful, and yet the young thinker finds refuge beneath it. Not because Grandma gave it to her. Some children have Mother Goose, perhaps; she has Mother Superior, who taught her how to bake cookies, sure... and then told her that if her fat behind wants a cookie she can now bake them for herself.

Down the hall, father and grandfather are yelling again, cursing at one another. The stereo in her bedroom is too far away to be bothered with. Pulling her book up close to her face so that the tiny points of light penetrating the blanket are enough for her to see the print, she escapes for a time. Several chapters pass before sleep envelopes her.

A man, a stark white room... where is this place? Yet all seem familiar and eerily comforting.

"Hello, teacher", she murmurs. She has indeed seen him before, though she can't recall what he has said.

"Love..."

She studies his stern and dour face, wondering what this has to do with her, what today's lesson is about. Yet she says nothing, merely waits.

"If the world and those in it do not love you, do not care or know who you are, you must still love, love them all, love everything, love as though there is nothing else worth doing in this life."

Reluctantly, her mind flashes to those who torment her with their words, their inacceptance, their opinion of her face, of her form, of her thoughts, of her mind- children, some of them. Some of them are  not children, at least not physically. Some of them are aware that they are wrong, and they simply choose to be wrong. Why isn't it better to hate these people?

"Hatred is a waste of time, a pity to hold in your mind and in your heart. Apathy, though, is a greater fault."

There is always truth in his words. He always knows what she is thinking, and what she must hear.

Upon awakening, she smiles broadly. Things in her mind are clarifying themselves, and so she reaches blindly for the notepad and pen that are always beside her pillow. Another poem has been born, and she must act before it has faded into the void where ideas die.

Why do I write things no one else will ever read?, she often wonders. I'm only talking to myself. Why do I write these conversations down, or speak them aloud?

Afterward, she rises and begins to prepare herself for school, her mind and body as sore as a thirty-nine year old's, at just-turned-thirteen.

I talk to other parts of my own mind and soul because that way I never feel alone, because loneliness can make one go mad, and I don't want to be like my parents...

What the notebook by her pillow actually contains is a young woman's personal Book of Revelations. Many days, the only constructive dialog she has is this dialog with herself, and so within the battered cover, on  all of those pages, is self-salvation.

The creative mind knows no limitations, is never ugly, is never captured by hurt...

Author's Note

I'm not sure why this wrote itself today, these old thoughts about an old self and her old dreams and aspirations... I suppose because Teacher's lesson still rings true.

Reviews

[Dane Osborne]

Vincent Van Gogh once said that the only way to be like God was to love everything. That seems to be the message you are trying to convey and what a challenge that is to do when there is so much cruelty and animosity in the world. Atleast thats what i got from it all. This was a very well written piece, thank you for sharing. :)

[Emily B]

the young girl is one that many of us can identify with, I'm sure, I wanted to be a poet for a while in my early teenage years, was sure that I would grow up to be Emily Dickinson, but the dream faded taking my voice with it . . . so glad you held on to your notebook

[Francez]

An interesting piece. What the teacher said about hatred and apathy has really gotten me thinking. I fail to imagine, though, that a teacher that teaches about love like that has a dour face. And I disagree with your statement that the creative mind is never ugly nor captured by hurt. Just read around in Writer's Cafe and you'll see how ugly and hurt-oriented our creative mind can be. ;-)

[Narnie]

You write prose beautifully and this is a short that many will take comfort and knowledge from Constance. I hope you write more of these and then maybe piece them altogether as a jigsaw.

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the poem. You create a very good story. I carry a books for 20 years and wrote down my victories and defeats. I like the ending a lot. A excellent poem.

Coyote

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

Wow that was really fascinating... you really put a lot of genuine lesson in this piece that can make anyone who pays attention a better person... I like the whole part bout writing to yourself as a reminder of what you don't want to be... that is the greatest reason of all next to connecting with others so they don't feel alone.