I have beheld the wildness and warmth of love. Fire harnessed in the one-room schoolhouse in the middle of this cold city.
I remember holding hands with my toddler as we journeyed to the schoolhouse. We would skip along cracked sidewalks framed by debris. Weary graffiti-adorned-storefronts wrestled for turf, rivaling stiff new construction projects. Daily, we arrived at the open door, my daughter running toward the hearth.
From outside, I watched Teacher build the fire. Love burned. I gazed as she carefully arranged curiosity (my dears, did you know that leafcutter ants have chainsaw mandibles that vibrate a thousand times a second?) alongside the kindling of imagination (children, have you ever eaten a hippopotamus sandwich?). This sparked flames that blazed in my daughter’s eyes while seated at Teacher’s feet; spellbound to stories about a world of wonder. Everything illuminated: Bioluminescence. Trees that talk through their roots. Modern horsetails whose ancestors met the dinosaurs. Light speed.
Time flew. My daughter grew. I plodded along. Bundling my own wonderings. Stacking them like hoarded firewood, fearful of the cold. What is the fate of this burning world? Can the plankton survive the warmer seas? And the maples, don’t they need to converse with the towering cedars? How is one to respond to the groans of this aching ancient earth? And my daughter? And my daughter’s daughter? And my daughter’s daughter’s daughter? Will they find breath in this vast galaxy?
And time flew. And my daughter grew. And here I am. Wrinkled. Mother to a Woman. Wondering. Wandering, along these once familiar roads, now glistening with condos. And boutiques. And too tidy streets. I shiver at the brisk polished landscape. Yearning for warmth, I follow a path. Crimson. Amber. Japanese maple leaves engulf the ground and beckon me to walk on them like burning coals. The world ablaze. I find myself. Once again outside the schoolhouse doorstep, gazing at the burning bush. I take off my shoes and listen.
The call to worship whispers. The steady cadence of a broom beats the school room floor. The weeping rain gently crescendos. The hum of Teacher’s childhood folk songs (the ones that crossed an ocean with her, together escaping the cold grip of tyranny) harmonizes with autumnal birdsong. And Teacher? She sweeps. Steadfast. Conjuring. Praying. Harnessing the fire of love from some deep place within.
Again today, the laughter of schoolchildren will bless her walls. There will be flares of imagination (my dears, in my house there are chocolate walls you can lick) igniting curiosity rooted in the core of earth (children, did you know that magma burns at 2400℉). The sparks will continue to fly. And little eyes will endlessly blaze with awe.
Reflecting my own burning wonder.
Jamie Alm lives and builds community in South Seattle. She is a mother to three school-aged daughters. When not working as a speech therapist or exploring the world of Narrative Medicine, she carves out time to write poetry and bake.
