The Jester

The pen is mightier than the sword, they say. But is it any match for the blank page nuzzled at my fingertips? I have carved out of my day, (there is that sword again,) a pocket of time in which to write. So many facets of my life get slivered in the process. And this house is quiet. That in itself is a miracle. The needy ones are at rest. The questions have been put to bed. The “whys” of another day have been answered and re-answered, along with a few other demands the natives make. Maybe sword fighting would be easier than mothering, actually. My mind is free to chase my dreams now. Unfortunately, my mind is not interested in the task at all.

So this pen is silent. A sharp wit can cut down kings and marry enemies. But it is useless against the stark white of this page. Wouldn’t make a very good warrior if I can’t even defeat a piece of parchment, I guess. And the witty words are left unspoken as the quiet of this house lulls my mind to rest.

So I might have to settle for court jester tonight. This, I understand. I can already juggle. Three evenly sized balls flying and returning again and again. Haven’t tried bowling pins yet. Or fire. But on second thought, maybe I have.

The daily juggling is what is most dangerous. Tossing ideas and feelings of kids that share my name, and kids that simply share my classroom. Catching and retrieving and sending back my heart to my captive audience. And they must learn lessons. And share toys. And take nourishment. And all the while the balls and the fire and the swords I am juggling are in the air and I am moving as fast as I can. Sometimes they drop. And when the fire hits the ground I follow it and I know that I have failed.

People laugh because that is my job: to bring some joy to the royalty. But I often feel a failure as I witness the smirking faces of the crowd as my props plunk the earth. I cannot keep them all in the air together. I am too tired to try. I see that the fire is dangerous just because it is; it doesn’t even matter what it touches.


And so I return. To this blank sheet in front of me. To my quiet heart. To the fire that rages in me and the balls that contort me. I know this job well. And I know that I will fail. I think it reasonable to assume that I cannot fill this page and I cannot juggle with fire.

But court jesters are known for their foolishness. And I must live up to my name. So I write and I juggle and I drop and I retrieve. And this sword carves a path for me as I make my way.