I don’t work well with outlines. When I write I just put pen to paper and let my thoughts flow until they build a bridge to understanding for my reader to access the thoughts bubbling in my mind.
My classmates hate that about me.
“It’s like you’re cheating or something,” my irreverent friend admits, tearing a sheet from his notebook and crumbling it into the nearby garbage can.
“It’s not what it’s cut out to be,” I grumble. “Nothing ever comes the way I want it to. There’s no A, B, C order to my life. There are no maps I can follow to make things go faster or to help me understand where I’m supposed to go next.”
“Still sounds better,” he argues.
I’m not surprised. No one really understands what it’s like to be me. Maybe things would be easier if I didn’t know this world contained dragonflies that become teachers; that there are realities that bridge the worlds of our existence and that, sometimes, with the right coaching, I can soar like a seagull.
For some mysterious reason, I know these things, “But what am I supposed to be doing with all of this knowledge? What part am I supposed to play in this world?”
My friend has no reaction to my tirade other than a slight smirk and a twinkle to his eye, “Maybe it will come to you suddenly one day, like everything else. That is how you say things work for you, right?”
Suddenly, his voice breaks into our private conversation, “Good suggestion, my son.”
I whiplash to see our teacher standing by the window in the classroom. How long has he been here? Did he hear my questions of doubt? Will he kick me out of our class when he realizes how unsettled I have been of late?
Teacher approaches, “Why do you need to know why we speak to you, dear one?” He pauses and the question hangs in the air. “Why can’t things just be?
“You humans incarnate in order to live a life fresh and with no carry-over memories. The goal is to get a second chance at a first impression, so to speak. The memories come when you are ready to accept them.”
He guides me out of the classroom into the butterfly garden just outside the back door. As we walk through a flock of fluttering monarchs, he continues. “There are lessons that are made greater when there is no memory.”
“I just need to know why things happen,” I say. “Like, maybe I can do a better job at whatever I’m supposed to be doing for you if I know more.”
“Why is that?”
“So that I will know how to prepare and how to react.”
“What if the reaction you need to give is the reaction that is not planned or prepared? What if you let go of the idea of expectation, what will you lose if you simply live the life your heart tells you is right?”
The questions rush into my head in such a jumble that I can’t pick out even one. How will my life change if I lose the question of expectation; is my life all that it needs to be?
Then, I get it. In what I call a Hallelujah Moment, the gears click into place.
“If I lose the questions, I will gain the joy that comes with acceptance.”
Again, I have learned a multitude from my Dragonfly.
Much love to you, my dear classmates,
The Dragonfly’s Student