I’m up late as usual; and I am shocked out of my need for slumber (slumber? I can’t help its close to Halloween so I’ve been reading Edgar Allen Poe) by the following passage:  

          Real learning gets to the heart of what it means to be human. Through learning

          we recreate ourselves. Through learning we become able to do something we

          were never able to do. Through learning we perceive the world and our relationship

          to it. Through learning we extend our capacity to create, to be part of the

          generative process of life. There is within each of us a deep hunger for

          this type of learning.    

                                                                                                              (Senge, 2006) 

We come into this life full of hope, curious and thirsty for knowledge; we enter the school system and somewhere in our attempt to become educated we lose interest in learning. Peter Senge belives we can re-organize school systems so that they may become learning organizations. I am fascinated to find someone so passionate about education. The passage is relatable because as writers we are life-long learners. We get to become chameleons and dabble in any profession. I guess having passion for life is amazing no matter where you find it.  

   Senge, P. (2006).   The fifth discipline: The art and practice of the learning organization.   New York: Currency.

© 2009 by C. J. Stegall-Evans

Designed by Tim Sainburg from Brambling Design

Its 3:00am, I’m pursuing (yes, I mean pursuing as in chasing down) a doctoral degree, which means life without sleep. I’m researching a paper on technology in education and find I just cannot write another word about education. I want to be free; or maybe I just need a little break. My challenge is to write the first draft of my assignments as if I am practicing writing as a sacred art: write the first draft from the hart and revise and edit with your head.

I am trying to approach my assignment from a position of gratitude, but the most I can muster this early in the morning is a grunt. If the sun was out I could go to the beach, which always cures my ills. (30 minutes later) Alas, I found my spirit by going out on the patio and letting the cool tile sooth my feet; while that haughty slither of a moon smiles down on me because as I’m working it gets to has inspire dreams. The lazy river rolls gently by as the grasshoppers make a joyful noise. I am grateful the bird that sings out of tune took the night off. All is right with the world; I can pretend to be a student again.

(c) 2009 by C. J. Stegall-Evans  

Designed by Tim Sainburg from Brambling Design

The primary thing I like about the practice of writing as a sacred art is you are not confined to any one subject. There is a freedom to writing for the sake of writing. Recently I was ill and could not go to the beach, so I took the opportunity to write about it: 

I am on the beach in public parking and I close the car door a bit too hard in my haste to get out. I walk to the old brown rugged wood picnic tables and take a deep breath. I look to my right and take in the full beauty that is the ocean. I stand completely still, smelling the salt air, closing my eyes and listening to the roar of the ocean. It sooths my soul, I know I am home. I open my eyes, take a deep breath and sit at the picnic tables.

I stare at the ocean and become one with all there is. The blue-green water enters my blood stream and my heart beats in rhythm to the crashing waves. I become a fish. I am a small fish caught up in this cool-blue menagerie of life. I surrender to the vast expanse of everything and nothing, allowing it to take me where it wants me to go. I occasionally come up and look at the land-locked souls and wonder if they are content just sitting or walking on the beach. Then a wave overtakes me and they don’t exist anymore. 

I am back in my ocean I can breathe again. I feel safe in this large soothing womb; there is freedom; sound is muffled but beauty is magnified. I am still in quite shallow waters but I venture further down to spy seaweed as they dance to the muffled ocean music. The deep green skinny weeds sway in time to the current as if touched by an ocean breeze.

I close my eyes and try to think of a little song to go with the music but words fail me; I open my eyes and continue to watch the dance of the seaweed. I swim and I swim, I swim forever. I am lost in time, space, and nothingness. One lives forever in the ocean. You are always a part of it and it is always a part of you.  The ocean is the most perfect place imaginable.

I slowly come to myself and I am sitting at the picnic tables looking out upon the ocean and already missing my little fish dream. I look down and begin to envy the sand for its nearness to the ocean. I touch the tan, glassy sand and it feels like life slipping through my fingers. I am at peace and I have renewed energy to face my life. What do I do now? I continue to write. I continue to have faith. I continue to live with integrity.   

(c) 2009 by C. J. Stegall-Evans

Designed by Tim Sainburg from Brambling Design