Writing is a dream. I lay down a string of sentences, a line Annie Dillard called them, and I have them dance. I don’t always know what the dance will be and sometimes, I am disappointed with it. I can’t always dance with it–but when I can, it is as delicate as the most sublime ballet, as passionate as the richest tango. I get lost in it.
I’ve been doing a lot of it recently, too–so much that my right arm has gone arthritic and seethes with pain. Part of this is due to the use of my school computer. The mouse is uncomfortable, so is the keyboard. Combined effects create intense pain, numbness in my thumb and forefinger. The elbow takes the brunt of it, but it is bad all the way down to my fingers.
And yet, the story is there and I love writing it. The rhythm of it, telling someone’s story, discussing from their point of view why it’s important–and getting it, nailing it, is like that dance. It’s not an everyday thing. It’s a kind of magic.
My family is a dream. Every wake up, every down at night, I am comforted by their presence in my life, their connection to me and mine to them. I do what I do because of them, for them and together, we get through. We do what we have to.
God is in all of those dreams, binding them together, the thread that weaves the fabric. He grants these visions, these connections, these dances. The arm is mine-the dances are His.
That’s the week that’s been. Teaching didn’t happen because it was testing week. All we did this week was corral the kids when they weren’t testing and they were so fried that doing anything above reminding them of a couple of things was simply out of the question. So, it was a week to be a reporter and a writer, a father and a husband. It was a week to walk the dog, take a break and lament how much of a pain the testing regime has become.
So, it’s back to the dreams because in them, I feel myself coming alive and that’s what I want to feel more of. 33 days of the 22nd year of teaching left. And that’s all I have to say about that.