Teacher. Teacher. Many-faced Teacher.

I don’t hold a lot of my childhood memories but I remember exactly where I was when my parents first attempted to teach me how to read the time from a clock. “Where is the small hand?”, my mother would ask. I was confused. I didn’t see any hand. “Where is the small hand?” she asked again. Probably frustrated with me at this time. “It’s there”, I pointed, hoping to pacify her because I just could not see any hands! Were they little tiny children hands or were they the size of my hands? The hands were there the whole time. My mother was pointing straight at them. In hindsight, I can see they were trying to teach me while I was not comprehending the lesson. My parents were my first teachers, and I was the student.On this path, I have had the pleasure of having teachers like Terence Stephens and Caverly Morgan. Often a session would leave me with more questions than answers as they transmitted their teachings to a mind that was hard as a rock. Sometimes, I would leave with the clarity of a watch face after the fog under the glass finally burns off. It was the clock again. They were pointing at something already in front of me, waiting on me to see it.Over time, I have learned that my physical teachers are students together with me in this unending school where we don't pass or fail, where we are not tested or scored, where our souls evolve through experience. I have learned that the greatest teacher is Life itself. I mean this plainly. I am anthropomorphizing Life as Teacher in the truest sense of the phrase.I forget often, but when I remember, like I remember now, I lay flat on this metaphoric floor to this Teacher. It never comes to class dressed the same way twice. It wears the robe of every circumstance. It wears the shawl of sunshine. It wears the plain coat of an ordinary Thursday afternoon with nothing in it. It wears the heavy coat of the phone call I did not want to answer. And when the Florida heat scorches my balding head, it was even that too.It disappears when I forget, comes when I remember. Often times in the gentle words of a friend that says, “Seye, you’re holding your ideas too tightly again”. It was always here in the background as Everything.The immense joy I feel when this awareness descends, it‘s unspeakable. It’s a gentle, subtle, hidden joy you would not notice from my appearance. My parents and I got frustrated with each other over those hands. The Teacher is patient. Maybe I am the one who is impatient. The same lesson comes tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after the day after, all the while putting on a different face each time, and waits for me to see the hands. Do you see its hands?This week:Once today or this week, something will happen that you did not choose: it could even be the heat, the traffic, the unexpected letter. Stop where you are and say to it, out loud or under your breath, you are here too. Leave the meaning alone. Then carry on with what you were doing.Before you sleep, name one garment the Teacher wore today.I have not been writing as frequently as I thought I would. At this time, Life has called me to be more present with other things. But if you’re new here, Contemplative Currents is to be a free (bi-weekly) newsletter that aims to shed light into our daily experiences as opportunities for contemplation of this glorious Mystery. If you’d like to support my work, please consider subscribing and/or sharing this free Substack. If you’re looking to monetarily support, buying my book, This Glorious Dance: Thoughts & Contemplations About Who We Are, is enough. I’m grateful for your support in whatever capacity.Thanks for reading Contemplative Currents! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit seyekuyinu.substack.com