Off to Mystery School
Of course we recall the trobairitz, female troubadours scattered over the south of France. Although there were only a few of them, their poems are earthy, gossipy, imaginative, and defiant. Martin Shaw - Scatterlings
I never went to the kind of school I was supposed to go to. The school I was supposed to go to has a curriculum designed specifically for dreamers, focusing on ecology and mythology. Some classes are taught by eccentric, wise professors, the kind with holes in their sweaters and irrational hairstyles. Other classes are taught by wild animals and plants. I major in Wondering.
There was no course in Wondering where I went to school. Wondering was not promoted. Rational, controlled behaviour and repetitive answers were the basis of the syllabus. All my dreaming had to be done on my “own time.” Later when I started work, there was still no Wondering. I lasted five years writing for newspapers, churning out school board news and court reports. I never felt right in that business. There was always this terrible feeling that I was mostly writing about things that didn’t matter. Not in the long run. I was writing content, information without wisdom.
After newspapering, I traded my creative chips for dollars through sales and marketing, while continuing to do the bulk of my Wondering outside of work hours. There was no money to be made from Wondering, and the rent was always due.
Since the schooling I was given sent me on the wrong path, I’ve decided to go back to school to try and correct my trajectory as much as possible before I die. I’ve signed up for Mystery School with Martin Shaw and have listened to two classes so far. I’ll be taking my sweet, sweet time between my other off-line studies, and sharing my answers to some of the practice exercises.
The modern day education system is just that – a system. It’s not designed to unleash a child’s creative potential. It’s designed to smother it, to squeeze their special qualities down the tube of sameness. Trying to unlearn institutionalized habits is like pulling out stitches that have grown into the skin. The process is painful. You discover you’ve been lied to about many things, and that you’ve unintentionally been passing those lies on to others.
There is no end point, no BA or PHD to be earned in Wondering. It’s an open-ended operation that involves wandering scrambled pathways of thought, diving into pools of reflection, spelunking into the odd cavern of despair, and stealing bright ideas from other worlds.
May this little chickadee learn to become a hawk. Wish me luck.