October 23, 2013.
Overnight low temperature upper 30s.
Definitely cool enough for building a 5AM fire in the wood stove.
My fire-starting skills are pretty good: dry
twigs over a crumpled half sheet of newspaper, loosely arranged in a sort of
lean-to against split maple or oak, plenty of circulation space. A single match almost always suffices
to initiate a cheerful, warming blaze; but this morning, after the third
attempt with lots of smoke, only smoldering sticks filled the firepit with more
smoke. It’s like the chimney’s
blocked, I considered; and then a thought flickered by: check the control for
airflow. I always leave it wide
open but just maybe it wasn’t.
Somehow it had been moved all the way down! When I ran it full throttle, the fire leapt like a pent-up
horse loosed on the range.
An Emily Dickinson poem flickered to mind: “the
horse that scents the living grass/will be restrained with a shot/if at all.” Not sure about “restrained” but it goes
something like that.
My thoughts also still simmered with the
meeting yesterday afternoon with teachers at Hickory Elementary about blogging,
about making our heart maps that stir up the fire for teaching, about connected
learning that brings in the airflow of public spaces, making relationships with
like-minded pros, with tuning into the joy of expression.
What is it in this metaphor of fire starting
that wants to ignite our sometimes-darkened classrooms? In my college class yesterday, we looked
at the tendency of any culture or any individual to seek out confirmatory
information and to suppress stuff that might make wildfires. How has the airflow of exhilarating
inspiration been shut down, probably without us even knowing the gate onto
living grass waits right at our fingertips, perhaps where we see only
walls. Like the high-stakes
exams. Like the way things have
been. Like the curriculum that has
to be covered. More smoke. Dulled out eyes. Crumpled drafts of worksheets, asbestos
prompts, irrelevant readings, mandated assessments.
We can keep striking matches but the fire of
inspired learning cannot blaze up until we open the shutters onto the free
range and let the airflow from authentic passion rush through.
P.S. I’m realizing that one way I almost
unconsciously leave the airflow shut down happens when my morning begins with
checking email, tweetdeck, facebook, latest scores, or morning news. Rumi’s breeze at dawn and predawn
musing off the breath of dreams get stifled by such externals. I promise myself to love inspiration
above the ease of mediated stuff.
I promise to start my day respecting Life.
PPS. Emily’s poem:
The
Life that tied too tight escapes
Will ever after
run
With a prudential
look behind
And specters of
the Rein—
The Horse that
scents the living Grass
And sees the
Pastures smile,
Will be retaken
with a shot
If he is caught
at all—
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