spread your wings

Butterfly rests on forehead
Feelers probe eyebrow
Scalp
Ear
Touch
Sit as a mountain

whisper

There is a Native American legend that says, " If you have a secret wish, capture a butterfly and whisper your wish to it. Since butterflies cannot speak, your secret is ever safe in their keeping.

"Release the butterfly, and it will carry your wish to the Great Spirit, who alone knows the thoughts of butterflies. By setting the butterfly free, you are helping to restore the balance of nature, and your wish will surely be granted." 

Butterfly of Consequence

The bats are back. They are roosting in the shade and protection of wide green fronds. Shhh.

Thumbing through the Moleskine. Here's a spring flashback entry. On March 23rd I gave my 90-day notice at the introverted strange private Catholic school in Jakarta. I sculpted the clean, real, honest and clear missive focusing on a June departure. Thank you for the opportunity. Time to fly. Enough.

I'd been alerted on January 9th when the Director sent an SMS to Surely, my supervisor. Ironically the big D wasn't wearing her specs and also sent it to me. It was a Friday night, Surely and I with her two kids had visited a local bookstore and then sat down at an Indian restaurant for nan, curry and sustenance with flavor. We were outside. The SMS arrived in a brown paper bag. Innocuous.

Briefly, it said, "Grade 4 parents called Terrible, the principal, and they want Tim replaced. We have to talk."

This was a positive sign. It alerted me to the realties, the parental influence and how I needed to refocus and redefine for myself, kids and parents, the specific balance between academic responsibility and freedom. Simple.

I learned some were not happy with the academic progress and structure. Some, not all, the parents were unhappy with my methods, the material and the personal evaluations and feedback I was giving their child.

I took immediate steps in class to make sure the kids and their parents were:

1) writing/sharing this balanced approach to learning in their daily Agenda notebook. Some parents, especially those activily involved in their child's educational progress would read it. Accountability.

2) understanding the benchmarks and various assessment on process tools - speaking, reading comprehension, listening and writing classroom evaluations and academic expectations. Get it in writing.

I shared the responsibility with kids and parents to understand the what, why and how process in the classroom and beyond.

I considered my options. They wanted me to stay for another year but I'd learned what I needed to learn about their system, parental controls, influence, mediocrity, became a better teacher and knew it was time to complete the little chapter and turn the page.

After I submitted a copy to the Director of English who was shocked to realize I'd acted to regain my freedom from the tyranny with such a responsible dignified and professional personal action, I dropped one off at Human Resources.

On my way out of the administration zone the final door handle came off in my hand, cheap stuff - "Oh, NO! I'm trapped in the system!"

I laughed, seeing the cosmic significance, handed it to an office girl and pried open the door. Close call.

While traversing a green lawn back to class tombs breathing deep relief I found a brown butterfly with a damaged wing. I carried it on my folder to a safe place. Then I planted seeds with the kids and we cultivated a garden. Together.

Metta.

Saturday's Butterfly

Early light, silent, slow step into a garden.

A black and white symmetrical large butterfly is resting, taking shelter after a night of rain tears.

Purple wings. Perfect white colorations. Green leaf security. Do not disturb.

Metta.

Commonalities

She talked of "homesickness." All the letting go. How she was born on Air and lived in a small French town on the Belgium border for some time.

How her temporary work visa finally expired and she returned home. She wore French designer sunglasses and they fit her brown oval face to perfection. One day it was skin tight jeans. The next an orange and green flowing sarong. A fashion touch. She had the island ease, a long black thick mane, the divorced island hubby and the one boy-child over on Lombok going to school. Living with his "uncle," a tribal chieftain.

She worked part-time in a small cafe-bar near the beach, the white sunset sand, rolling blue apprehensions, French tongued memories. "I am so bored," she said.

"I want to build some bungalows. I own some land. I need to develop a source of income."

She chatted up the odd European. She mixed drinks. She spoke with her son using her cells, her DNA. She stared at the sea. It poured into her black eyes. It was everything she'd run away from. To find herself. To discover her island again and again and again when she ran in reverse through dreams and memories.

 A yellow butterfly sailed through a garden. Darting high, low, in, out of fragrant red, yellow, white glorious blooms.

A diver spoke about money exchange systems after coming up for Air. How the value of economic currencies fluctuates. A butterfly and turtle have so much in common. One in air one in water. Both floating.

Metta.