It’s The Dream
By Olav Hauge
Translated by Robin Fulton
It’s the dream we carry in secret
that something miraculous will happen,
that it must happen –
that time will open
that the heart will open
that doors will open
that the mountains will open
that springs will gush –
that the dream will open,
that one morning we will glide into
some little harbour we didn’t know was there.
June has arrived, a soggier version of itself this year, but none the less welcome. The school year is coming to an end, the teachers in my life every bit as glad for the upcoming break as the students. If I plan it right, there are several weekends of free meals at graduation parties, the promenade of new graduates ever younger appearing it seems than the previous year. It must be that our brains get stuck in a time warp, looking at ourselves each morning and evening in the mirror brushing our teeth, that we are fooled into thinking we are not aging, only to be shocked by how baby faced the new crop of college and high school seniors appear in their garish cap and gowns. How is that every year they appear younger?
I am so glad I am not graduating from anything as formal as school anymore. My personal commencements these days are simpler, more private; a car loan paid off, a house project completed, a big project at work finalized, a son or daughter moving into their first apartment. No new diplomas to be hung on the wall, but the satisfaction of accomplishment equally as genuine. The terrible part of having to settle on a degree is that it seems to limit your options from that point forward. I never really could decide what I wanted to be when I grew up but managed to stumble upon a career that I have truly enjoyed. But if I had it to do over again, my guess is I would have stumbled into something else, as it never felt like I really had a grand plan on how I was going to make a living. My goal today is to keep graduating each spring with fresh skills, regardless if they are employable.
What’s are you graduating from this spring? What shall you commence to do from this new demarcation? Where’s your own little harbor that you didn’t know even existed until you sailed into its’ smooth waters?
Gratitude For Old Teachers
by Robert Bly
When we stride or stroll across the frozen lake,
We place our feet where they have never been.
We walk upon the unwalked. But we are uneasy.
Who is down there but our old teachers?
Water that once could take no human weight-
We were students then- holds up our feet,
And goes on ahead of us for a mile.
Beneath us the teachers, and around us the stillness.
Fourteen Lines 