Anita's Haven

books, thoughts, stories, poetry, interviews, writing

A CALLING, NOT A JOB

(Written on the 12th July, 2019, back when I couldn’t see)

It often surprises me when people think I am younger than I am, or when I am in the company of people my age and I feel younger than they are. Not physically, mind you – the face reveals everything. No matter how much we may try to hide it. But younger in spirit.

And then a day quite like this one takes place – the results of high-level English exams arrive, for children I’d worked with  since their kindergarten age, and who are now 18 or so. And in all that excitement and enthusiasm, I suddenly realise that those children will not be attending lessons again, that those children are not even children any more, and what’s best and most important, I know how much they’ve grown up, and how much still lays before them. And they are so well-directed or life and simply wonderful.

For some people it may seem strange for anybody to get attached to other people’s children like this, children you’d only seen maybe once or twice per week, but this connection is extraordinary and magical, filled with emotions, severe turbulence, changes and progress. And it lasts. And this is where I reach my key point – how this relates to my feeling of youth.

When there are such amazing young people growing up around you, you feel proud that life has given you a chance to be at least partly their guide, their teacher. And now that they are setting out on their journey of adulthood, it gives you a feeling of hope that the world will be a better place, that there will still be good, caring, kind and smart people around. Because you know that they are. And this hope makes you young at heart.

(There is lots more written on this paper, but it is empty and only shows traces of me moving my pen – the pen had run out of ink, but I could not see that then. Never mind. All is well now.)

#teaching #education #love #joy #work #cvrcak

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Well

I am a well,
A fountain of life,
But my water is gone,
My water is lost.
I am a well,
Through sunlight and strife,
Now shrivelled and dry,
A desperate ghost.

I have a friend,
A grown-up but child,
Who brings me a bucket
And urges me to sip.
I have a friend.
With childlike hope,
My friend gives me water,
But water I can’t keep.

Yes, I am parched,
But drink I can not.
I need my well working,
I need my own spring.
Yes, I am parched,
But I need to create.
My fountain is dying,
Like a sick king.

My friend keeps coming,
And showers my walls,
Chanting of hope,
Letting time pass.
My friend keeps coming,
Relentless and kind,
My friend knows my spring
Its water will find.

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My Darkness

My darkness comes in many forms.
It wraps, or cools or flows.
My darkness guides me through my night,
My weakness lurks below.

My darkness hides my gorgeous flowers,
And shades them safe and sound.
It drains my pain and sorrow free
And soaks them to the ground.

My darkness is a part of me,
Though not my joy or pride.
It lets me mourn and pause a bit.
In fake light, it’s my guide.

So let me have my darkness friend,
It helps me rest and heal.
And after I have slumbered there,
My true light shines revealed.

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(Photo by Natalija Bolfan Stosic, with her kind permission)

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