I was wandering through the wooded park on my way home from town like I often did. Since my 10th birthday last week, I had been in a very thoughtful mood. I sat on the cliff that overlooked the water and remembered my Teacher. I hadn’t thought about him for a long time. He had gone away —
been sent away — two years before. None of the adults could handle the fact that we really learned things from him, important things. He wasn’t like the teachers at school who just taught us the simple stuff — or more often just pretended to. He was our Teacher. All the kids loved him, a kind of love that we never felt for the plain old school teachers. I loved him especially, but my mom and dad thought it was some romantic thing — they couldn’t understand that I could love someone as a Teacher.
The tide was low and I could see the sand bar part way across the inlet.
We had come here many times with our Teacher. I looked down at the beach where he taught us to run and climb, to be free and to be strong. I remembered the rope swing he put up that swung out over the water at high tide, and how each of us had learned to fly. I think I was the first one on it, after him, but even little five-year-old Penelope had gone, in his arms the first time.
I never saw Penny anymore. She lived way out in the country. In fact, I never saw any of the others anymore. I was the only one who lived on this end of town, and all the rest went to different schools.
A gull screamed at me. Feeling finished with my thoughts, I hopped up,
trotted over to the playground area, and swung across the high rings a couple of times.
“How do you do that?”
I look down. It was some boy, 11 or 12, who had wandered over from a family having a picnic. I swung to the last ring and dismounted.
“I had a good Teacher,” I said, rubbing my hands together. Then a thought came to me. “You want to learn?”
“Yeah, but . . . yeah!”
“Okay,” I said, “you don’t have to be a muscleman or a supergirl. See?” I pointed to my skinny arms. Actually, my arms had grown very strong over the last two years, but they still looked skinny.
“Well, how do you do it then?”
“You control the energy you have already. Have you ever gone bowling?”
“Yeah,” he said with a puzzled look on his face.
“Okay, you know you don’t just stand there and oompf! push the ball down the alley, right? You swing the ball back, right? And then you just control the energy of that ball as gravity pulls it back down. See what I mean?”
“I think so. You kind of use the motion that’s already happening, like?”
“Yeah. Think of pushing someone on a swing. You push them when they are the farthest back, when they’re just starting to go forward. You work with the energy. If you try to push them at some other time, you either get your head knocked in or fall flat on your face, right?”
“Okay, I copy,” he said, grinning.
All of a sudden, everything I had been saying came into clear focus in my mind. I could almost hear my Teacher saying it, but I don’t think he ever had, in just those words. “If you work with the universe, you get power. If you work against it, you get hurt!”
The boy laughed.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Michael. Yours?”
“Ariel. Now watch!” I grabbed the first ring, lower than the rest. “Swing
. . . grab the next ring . . . swing back and pull back and release . . . swing and grab the next ring . . . pull back and release . . . see? . . . change direction . . .
rings are swinging now . . . grab, pull back, release . . . if a ring isn’t there,
change direction again . . . until you find one . . . pull back . . . last ring . . .
swing . . . and at the end of your swing, bend your knees and drop.”
“You make it look so easy,” he said. “I’ve goofed around on them, but could never get my hand to the next ring.”
“That’s because you weren’t in motion. It doesn’t work standing still, only flying. And you always have a hand free so you never put two hands on a ring at once. Never! Are you ready to fly?”
“I guess so . . .”
“Feel the first ring, Michael. It’s cold steel and will hurt your hands at first, but they’ll get stronger.”
“It
is cold!”
“Just swing on it a couple of times, back and forth, with one hand.”
“Ouch!”
“You can do it. After you are flying, you won’t notice the pain. A little pain is okay, you know. My Teacher taught me that.”
“What kind of teacher would teach you something like that?”
I didn’t answer him. A very special kind of Teacher. “Are you ready? I’ll help you swing, you just worry about your hands,” I said, getting a fallen branch to stop the rings. Even my Teacher couldn’t reach some of them. Am I a Teacher now?
“Okay,”
he
said.
“Swing! Swing again! Grab! Pull back and release! Grab! Can you feel the rhythm? Release, swing, grab! You’re doing it, Michael!”
“I
am!”
“Last ring, swing out, bend your knees, and drop! Great!” I said and clapped. I was as happy for myself, that I could teach him, as I was for him.
“I did it! Ow! My hands are on fire!”
“They’ll be okay,” I said.
“You’re a good teacher, Ariel.”
I held in a smile. “Want to do it without me pushing?”
“M . . . maybe.”
“Just remember, on the pull-back, milk it for all it’s worth — it’s a long way to the next ring!”
“Hey, Michael!” a lady’s voice called.
“That’s my big sister. Gotta go. See ya!”
“Bye.” I watched him run across the grass. He was cute. I hoped he would practice.
Once he was out of sight, I walked on home.