A Flash of Something

In the absence of a project assigned from somewhere, reflective writing is the only kind of writing I do. There has been very little reflective writing of late.

Creative energy has been going elsewhere: to a new job of daunting emotional proportions (who knew teaching science involved so much drama?); to keeping body and soul nourished somehow (too much cheese makes everything irritable, while going unfed is discouraging); to mulling the changes taking shape on the future horizon (life in six months will be beyond all imagining).

Today, a dear friend helped Bun and I move most of our possessions (which are mostly my possessions) into our new condo. We will continue to sleep this week in the old apartment, while the paint dries in the new place. The familiar space, now empty, is spartan and beautiful. Do I really need my stuff? Do I even want my stuff? Not really.

And yet I have stuff, and it has me.

We took a break from all this to go to the ballet. Our cheap seats in the first row were breathtaking. We peeked into the orchestra pit, and watched a toddler being handed over the barrier to visit his musician father while the others tuned their instruments. We could see artists waiting in the stage right wing. We saw the sweat fly as dancers whirled; we heard the thwack as their thighs slammed together. Their athleticism was literally in our faces. The absence of visual input from part of stage left was not missed. It was so much better than sitting in the center, a reasonable number of rows back.

I know these people have made incredible sacrifices to be in their position, briefly lit and costumed. They have forgone much to be so exalted and yet so captive. Bodies bear the marks of it: of discipline and intensity and submersion in a way of life. Do they have time for anything else?

I can feel my mind and my way of being shaped by teaching. I speak differently; I jot down quiz questions obsessively; I am slightly more likely to question bad behavior. My life revolves around those 6.5 hours a week where I am up against the blackboard, up against the clock, up against teenagers' expectations.

Unlike the dancers, I have no chance to rehearse or perfect my actions--nor will I, unless I happen to teach the course again. Yet, in some spark of time, something is briefly illuminated. Chalk dust flies. Minds stretch--or stagnate at the rear of the room. Whatever it is, there's one chance, and it's over.

On Monday we will talk about the Periodic Table. Why do Argon and Potassium fall into the order they do? More to the point, can I find the magic in the ordering of elements--in the art, the leaps, the impossible beauty--in a list? Perhaps not. But that's the creative endeavor these days.