Through the Prism

After passing through the prism, each refraction contains some pure essence of the light, but only an incomplete part. We will always experience some aspect of reality, of the Truth, but only from our perspectives as they are colored by who and where we are. Others will know a different color and none will see the whole, complete light. These are my musings from my particular refraction.


A Draft

Since I've been reading more poetry for April National Poetry Month and the book I'm in the middle of seems to have inspired me, here's a stab at something that might be poetic.

I was late to fatherhood.
A second marriage for both of us.
A second chance,
A second life
To live differently.

I’ve lived two lives.
Two marriages, anyway.
And the first one wasn’t short.
I’m sure I’ve learned much
About how to be,
Who to be,
In a relationship.

I’m still learning how to be a father,
Though I’ve spent my life in education:
My parents were both teachers;
After growing up a student,
I spent nine years in college,
Plus four more part-time once working,
Left with two postgraduate degrees;
I’ve been an educator since.
(Not to mention the side gigs
While still a student.)

An educator
In a high school,
In early childhood education,
And in-between.
I’ve done rural, urban, and suburban.
All as a librarian—
So not just an educator
Who teaches others what to learn,
But one focused on teaching them
How to learn.

My first wife was an immigrant,
So I’ve been to gatherings where I
Didn’t speak the language
And stood out as the other
(Though not truly a minority,
Given my whiteness, maleness).
I’ve tried my best,
In this way and many others,
To learn what it is like
To be not me.

I read constantly,
Explore the human condition
Through stories and studies:
Philosophy, psychology, sociology,

I’ve been trained as a leader
In multiple settings.
I have strong opinions
That I voice often.
I’ve been called pedantic.
I embrace the label “nerd.”
I love knowing things,
And it shows,
Even though, most of the time,
I try not to let it.

I own my own
House, car, hoard,
Mistakes (I hope).
And have for years.

I can do my own taxes.

I’m told I am a great parent.

By every measure,
I am a

And still,
Almost all of the time,
I feel like
A little boy
Who doesn’t know
About anything
That really matters.

The rest
Is just bluster
To hide that

In the hopes of
Convincing myself
I’m not just a fraud.

*(I even know this poem
Is largely a cliché.)


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