Instructions, retold

I brought two books with me on this trip: Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None and Neil Gaiman's collection Fragile Things. Gaiman's book is an anthology of poems and short stories that I have torn through at least eight times over on this trip alone.

In that collection there is a poem called Instructions. It is, aptly enough, a list of instructions you would need in a fairy tale. If fairy tales are a glimpse into the true soul and character of man, then this Poland adventure has been the truest fairy tale I've lived and hope that I have told in kind. Here is my list of instructions, an imitation of Gaiman's poem.

Instructions

Step into a car with a driver you've never seen before.
Drive for miles - kilometers.
That's what they call them here.
Don't say a word; don't sleep; don't hum.
But if he offers you chocolate, take it.
If he makes a joke, laugh.
If you don't understand him, try-
if you can.

He will take you to a place where the tree bark is auburn.
Step out and shake his hand - you were only along for the ride.
Miss him when he drives away, but not for too long.
In the clearing your new charges wait.
Greet them.
Smile.
Then stand back and watch their games you've never played.
Learn their faces and their voices before you learn their names.
This is your first step into a
brand new world-
Theirs.

The next morning a woman will wake you
in a house made of wood.
Lie in bed, pray in the sunshine,
until you remember where you are.
Forget who you are.
They will teach you.
At breakfast you will miss good coffee and tea.
They will be sweeter the next time you taste them.
But not yet.
First walk around the lake with a student
who's at least twice your age.
She will be nervous, so steady your breath.
Remind her that without her effort, you would not be able to speak at all.
Be humbled.

You will go with your charges
where the sun cuts between the trees
that surround the white sand.
They will dress you in contraptions
with no other purpose than to make you look stupid,
and perhaps keep you safe.
Climb the trees.
Catch your breath.
When you see a rope, reach for it.
You will not fall.
When you can't hold on, let go.
Something will catch you.
Something always does.

And when you find yourself on ground again,
lie back. Look at the sky.
Be glad it is so big and you are so small
and that is the way it's meant to be.
Sleep until you are ready
to face your next task.
These trees will be harder
and higher
although they will leave you no scars.
Not, anyway, that you can see.

Do not use ugly words,
even for ugly things.
They are a waste of language-
that is, a waste of your soul.
Remember that your charges are awkward and young
and are trying too hard.
Be patient with them
(because they are with you-
though not with themselves).
And when your patience is over,
tell them.
And make sure they look right in your eyes.
Use the words you were told
by those who taught you when you'd gone too far.
But say them more kindly.
Remember again how much they'd hurt.
Not that you'd ever forget.

He will apologize
and you will go off to your beds
on one side of the glen and the other.
The next morning you will hear he couldn't sleep;
that his guilt kept him awake
and then he had nightmares.
But you drifted off smiling
and dreamed of the men they will be
when their growing stops
(if it ever stops- pray that it won't).
When you wake you will still feel
the smile that gave new shape to your face.
When you hear of his fears
from the mouths of his friends
be more certain than ever of the great things to come.

Pour out your frustrations as you sit by the lake.
No. Don't vent.
Pour them out and let them wash away.
Because they don't matter.
They never have.
Fill yourself to the teeth with the things you will say
when you meet them in class.
Remember your world is not theirs
and what this dream is to you
your words will be for them.
Don't waste them.
Just tell them the truth.
There are heros and monsters across the ocean
and always have been
calling young boys from time immemorial
to face them and stand.
They are already brave when they raise up their hands.

On your last morning
stagger into the bathroom
where you'll step into puddles made on the floor by the leaking sink.
Bite your tongue and look down
and see the light has scattered rainbows across the water.
Still. Wash your hands
because you swear something lives in the water tank
and you don't want to know what.
When you're dressed and you're fed
say goodbye to the lake,
but that's all.
Follow your charges into a van
and listen to them laughing behind you
in a language you don't understand.
Not yet.
But you know their faces and their voices
and you've learned all their names.
And given them new ones.
They get your jokes.
Mostly.
Enjoy your last hours with them
traveling home
(their home, not yours).
Enjoy that now you are all the same:
not here, not there,
not anywhere, really.
And sooner or later you'll all be home.

At least, when you pile out of the car,
Find home. Or make home.
Or rest.