For all the clamor and the noise, for the rules and procedures, for the structured universe in a building where the dull hum of fluorescent light replaces the summer sunlight, there remains something very human about caring for a stranger's child.
In a couple of days I will paddle out to a mudflat, and rake up a few dozen clams. A stiff northwest breeze will strip words from my world, and allow me back into the bigger world around us. In a world suffused with artificial light and flavors and relationships, only a privileged few get to dance in the wordless beauty of a tidal flat, where clams sweeter than music await.
I sing a lot in a classroom. I rarely sing on a mudflat. No need to.
Still, the song may be the last vestige of any sense of connection to the world and the Word. Some call it the "real world," seemingly unaware of the irony of the redundancy.
On days I sink ankle-deep into the muck, I have no need to sing.
But on days I find myself trapped indoors, it's the song that keeps me sane.
The kids here me sing, and, confused, they listen. That crazy old man has seen something he wants to share. The world is bigger than all of us.
The heart of the matter comes down to matters of the heart.....