Among some Native American People, male individuals went into the wilderness for a rite of passage, a vision quest. The young man would seek a vision which would help him find his purpose in life. His place in the world and his journey through life would be informed by what transpired in those days.
The Australian Indigenous People also had a tradition of seeking called the walkabout. Indigenous Australian boys would journey through the wilderness to learn. When they had found what they needed, they would return to their communities to fulfill their role with the experiential knowledge they had gained.
The idea of such an intimate, unprotected dialogue between oneself and nature is breathtaking, almost frightening, within the construct of today’s lifestyle and mores. The opportunity to exist, unfettered by others, connecting without intermediary. It is both personal and majestic.
When looking from afar at these histories, I feel a sense of loss. They were never part of my story, but I hear in them the echoes of what it means to be human, to viscerally know oneself within something grander.
One of my favorite stories as a child was Raggedy Ann and Andy: The Little Gray Kitten. For those unfamiliar, Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy are rag dolls who belong to a little girl named Marcella. What makes the dolls (and their many doll friends) unusual is that when humans are absent, they come alive.
The Little Grey Men: A story for the young in heart by Denys Watkins-Pitchford held a similar prized place in my heart, telling the endearing tale of four gnome brothers living, unbeknownst to humans, in the disappearing wild English countryside.
I was enamored with the idea that benevolent creatures, hiding their true natures, were residing among humans. I conceived that our mundane human world was superimposed on a magical reality. Underneath the ordinary moment, there existed a force, illuminating from within.
Such is the power of fiction. The author can speak of truth without being held to the exacting standards of fact. And, being a little girl, children’s books were my domain.
Now, I am an adult, my life shaped by the gridlines of the teacher's gradebook, a network of asphalt roads, and the brick and mortar angles of a school building. I fit myself within these spaces, entering student percentages, driving to destinations, housing my work between four walls and a white board — discrete and definite shapes supported by discrete and definite terminology, “data-driven” and “measurable.”
I cannot object to these structures. Life exists as it is, and we are given form by it.
Sometimes though, restlessness seizes me. An urge to wander aimlessly outside the confines of the known corridors and thoroughfares. I sense something is missing, and I wish to find it.
Like the gnome Cloudberry in The Little Grey Men, I want to find the source of the Folly brook. Like his brothers Dodder, Sneezewort, and Baldmoney, I could construct a boat to see where the Folly brook would lead me.
Yet, I find that in this fairy tale land, I am bound by the rules of the giants. I must follow the dictates of responsibilities, tightening the confines of reality.
So, I settle myself to my tasks.
This past Friday, the first semester ended. Elements and atoms were our subject, learning about electrons clouding around a nucleus. Atoms – so diminutive in size, made more of empty space than substance – they give shape to all matter.
Next week, the second semester will begin. I will instruct the students on the topic of space, planets orbiting a Sun. The Universe, glowing, whirling beauty, darkness profound, beyond our measure and ken. Ever forming and reforming across spans of time which exceed grasp.
How can one mind capture the magnitude of these images?
Maybe through the lens of the imagination? Skating through the void along electromagnetic waves and sledding down electron residue. So, I ask my students to dream with me.
Then I sit to write a story, a humble yarn. Turning my mind’s eye inward seeking the thread, I find a boundless terrain, going as far as I can see. I have not moved, and suddenly, I am home again. Restlessness assuaged.
Is this what the seekers of the past found? That one can wander the world. Or one can remain still. And, the vast expanse is always there, holding us in its embrace?
If this is so, then nothing is ever truly lost. Seekers can always find what they are looking for because it was with them all along.
Good luck, fellow seekers. Till we meet again…
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