..So spring surrounded the classroom, and we suffered to be kept indoors..
Angry to be held so, without pity, and beyond reason,
By Miss Willow Bangs, her eyes two stones behind glass,..
-till it grew easy to hate,
To plot mutiny, even murder: oh, we had her in chains,
We had her hanged and cold, in our longing to be gone!
..And then one day, Miss Willow Bands, we saw you
As we ran wild in our three o'clock escape..
All furry and blooming against the old brick wall
In the Art Teacher's arms.
Love blooms in us all, but getting love, not getting love, not melding with the abundance of our lives, so does hate too easily sprout. We think in our child centered minds that surely it must be someone's fault that we cannot run wild with our natures. The cloying prison of our culture's ways keep us chained to desks, to computer screens, to bean and corn fields, and to clearing rubble from one more disaster zone (heart's healing to Haiti this morning!). I think of how easily hate arises in me this morning before the sun speakers bright love and light to me, and I wonder, how might I run wild and gather flowers over the graves of my desires?
What keeps your love from blooming, and whom do you blame for this?
Spring is often called the season of love after all, and I believe it is also called the season of "rebirth" because we all come back to that same, nostalgic feeling of love and passion that rooted itself deep in the hearts of our childhood. It's something unforgettable, even in the heart of a dry, emotionless teacher who she herself finds an unbound heart of love.
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