From where I stood the Earth was flat,
the stars were up, the grave was down.
Then I ventured to the end of the sea
and found the earth was round.
Now which way is up and down?
Ah, north and south, it saves the day.
Each one I count as the sun goes down.
Then I sat and pondered the heavens
and found it not the sun but I who go ’round.
The Earth has let me down.
The powerful sun will guide my way.
It orchestrates the planet’s dance.
But I hitched a ride through the Milky Way
and found the sun hardly deserves a glance
Now who directs the dance?
Deeper I traveled into space,
searching for the anchored place,
a place that points me up and down,
a place all things must go around,
A signpost in the vast expanse:
“This place directs the dance.”
You sit attentively in a small chair, pencil poised in hand. The paper, angled properly on the desk in front of you as you have been instructed, is the kind with dots down the middle of each line to show you how tall your “i” should be. And be sure your “t” only goes 2/3 of the way up. Why is there no dotted line to show me how tall to make my “t”? It’s the paper with the big, open space at the top so you can be creative and draw a picture to go with your words. The strange adult at the front of the room now gives you the assignment. It’s a simple one. “Draw a picture of what you want to be when you grow up and write a few sentences about why.” If your pencil remains thoughtfully poised in the air as you watch the papers around you fill with careers, the compassionate lady at the front will suggest a wonderful list of things you can be… a firefighter, a doctor, a teacher, an artist. Reach for the stars and be an astronaut. Can I be honest when I grow up? Can I be a peace maker? Can I be human? Silly girl, your letters are all the wrong size.