As I work and toil, like real everyday people do, I can’t help but let my mind wander sometimes.
I’m back in a routine. I’m getting things done, the class I work in is working well, until management tells me it is not (which I hope won’t happen in the near future.) And I still can’t help but wonder if I would have been happier doing something else? Is creativity lost to me? Was it actually mine to begin with? What about philosophy, literature and academia? I wish I carried on, but was I really any good at any of that stuff?
And then that there’s that itch. I really really want to write, but when I get home, the last thing I want to do is open up a laptop. On the plus side, I’m going to bed ridiculously early and I’m reading and it’s making me so happy. There really is nothing like a good book.
In fact, I am happy. I am content. Sometimes, when I’m on playground duty, keeping that ever watchful teacher eye on the children in my charge, I see other things. Things I would not have noticed were it not for the time I had in Calcutta, and I am grateful.
Did you know, and I’m sure you did, that children will take the opportunity to play football with any object they find? I saw a few boys playing with a discarded bit of plastic from a kinder egg a couple of weeks ago. They’re not allowed to play with a ball on the playground, it’s too dangerous. They have to use the field, but that would mean changing their shoes. The children compromise and play with bottle tops and discarded plastic. I’ve seen the joy on their faces. Street children in Calcutta do the same. I imagine children are the same everywhere. They just need to play.
But then I need to write about it and the itch returns. Do you remember Suva and Kyto? I think about them too. Kyto is stranded with his andro and Suva is about to discover something amazing.
For the first time in months, I visited them again this morning and I have to say that I was so relieved. They are just as I remember them, innocent, bright and eager. Their stories will continue.
I have an itch to scratch, after all.