Ahh–to write the final blog for Oral Traditions, to reflect on a final class by our professor, is, well…. poignant.

I clearly recall my very first Sexson class. I hadn’t been in school for 30 years, drove to MSU with fear and trembling (why am I so nervous?), found Wilson Hall room 126, and sat down amid a classroom of much younger students. I felt out of place, had no idea what to expect. In walked the teacher (his flashing eyes, his floating hair) immediately expounding on ‘what would be required.’ He mentioned Finnegans Wake, had a lovely young student stand up and, from memory, perform what must have been pages of   that text(lowly, longly, a wail went forth). And not a word of it made sense. But everything faded away, until the words came alive, floating in the air. And they were beautiful. 

He spoke in esoteric terms, some of which I actually had to look up(and I have a good vocabulary). But not that first day. That first day, I sat in my chair and imagined my hair, blowing back with the force of his words. It felt just like that. When he said ‘if you complain or ‘don’t like’ or are unwilling to attempt to understand Finnegans Wake, get out now,” I was stunned. What kind of teacher was this? I couldn’t believe he said that. I had imagined coming back to school, imagined that I would be revered for having life experience, for my literary prowess. I imagined that I would feel welcomed. But I felt like a scared, tired fourth-grader. This was not what I expected.

What was I in for?  Suddenly, I had serious doubts about going back to school.  I remember going home, crawling in bed, and sleeping for hours. But then, I woke up, I came out of my cocoon. I dove into reading, taking notes, paying close attention, trying to understand the things that mystified me, I created a blog, for Pete’s sake. After being called a Ludite (another shock), I determined to join the 21st century.

And so my adventure began. Dorothy-like. I attended my next class, intimidated, not knowing what to expect.

But I knew one thing: the literary part of myself, the part that understood symbol and sign, the part that drank deeply from metaphor and story, well, that part, that was sleeping, woke up.

Reading our texts, having class discussions, writing blog entries, it all began to come together into a Tale. The Tale of me, waking.

But still I wondered about this teacher. Bigger than life, his manner unsettled me. Who did he think he was? Who was he?

Then one day, I had a glimpse. The corner of a curtain pulled back, and I saw him, fumbling with the knobs, projecting his voice into the loudspeaker, pushing buttons so smoke and images would appear. And I knew.

He was the man behind the curtain.           

And I knew I could learn from him.

And I did, so much.

More than words can convey.

And some of the learning, well, all of the learning, was really remembering.

I remembered that my voice was not the voice of any other person. That when I spoke of dreams and visions, someone would lean in and say, “Tell me more.”

That when I wrote of those old stirrings, others would resonate, and the sound would pick up all the tellings of story from the very beginning.

I could say so much more. My notebooks of all my Sexson classes are treasured volumes. I will save them, going back over my notes, especially the things I wrote in the margins. Movies to watch. Books to read. Jewels of inspiration, connection.

Literature, reading, writing, reciting, they call us to the ‘waking life.’

Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”  That’s what these classes have been, a call to self-examination. A call to discovery.

To what purpose? Personal and spiritual growth. In researching for my novel, Mikelby Sharpe and the Memory Palace, I came across this quote:  “The goal of fantasy literature is ultimately spiritual maturation.”  

I believe that. I think it’s the goal of most literature. At least the literature I want to be involved with…

So whether it’s hi-brow or lo-brow Lit, Shakespeare, mythology, or the oral traditions, they’re all in service of growth. They call to us, the words, the image, the sound–“Wake up! Change your shoes. We are going on a journey. It will be a long one, though good. There will be danger, and heartache, and laughter. We’ll go far. And when we arrive, finally, back where we started, we’ll be different. You’ll see. Come on.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poof!

 

 

 

 

 

 

And we wake.