Explore Nueroscience in Education with Dr. Lori Desautels


Act One Scene Two

One day she recognized her purpose but all didn’t feel right because she lived this purpose with only a piece of herself.

The other piece was left to explore and remember its purpose, but to do so, each had to live apart so that the  awareness of who they are would be remembered and savored as holy…Wholly. When she dove deep, she was tossed into the tides of paradox, although never understanding the word “paradox” she was told that when she became wrapped inside these complexities of living, she would be there- treading, rocking, moving from within where there are no scripts or memorized lines. She would not be acting. She felt this…How could she trust when she walked out of the theater because inside the plastered walls, folding chairs, and dim lights, she is safe and warm and the illusion is palatable, yet the lips and faces of the others are frigid and pale. She cries in the funniest places, and doesn’t even feel the tears stirring, because the tears are not from Act One Scene Two…

They fall from a place where life breathes deeply and she panics as the breath catches inside her throat, illuminating the hollow and dry dark that smudges the logic and it is here she is emptied, groping the black to find the other part of herself,  knowing it is there…

It feels lonely and sometimes there are others, but have they taken a wrong turn or did they remember the way? She watches, wishing they would stay longer.

Behind the rows of folding chairs, perched high in his box, the director shouts, “Act One Scene Two.” The lights go up and the actors scramble to their places. The memorized script is spoken with perfect intonation as the words are recalled- a utopian camouflage, I feel.


This is the year I remember the snowflakes and how they resemble our births trickling from above each unique and flawless, they do not expect their gentle descent or the soft settling into the multitude of others…

They gather with strength, grateful for the marks they will leave behind as each one’s timing dwells in perfection-

The dirt of fears, the slush of expectations, and the icy exterior of an earth frozen in sleep subtly mask pristine innocence…

Then one day as the sun warms the pond and tiny droplets splatter the landscape.

They begin to glisten remembering with clarity their purpose that was disguised in the fall.

Conversations Made


How’s business?

You look fabulous in that dress…

She left earlier.

Oh, not feeling well?

We couldn’t be happier.

Conversations made- hold secrets..

What are words spewed in gatherings if not the antithesis of the heart, beating the bright red fluid that drowns conversations made-unearthing secrets.

A heart doesn’t need a voice to carry the holes inside words for conversations made because it pounds through the hardened scars of untruths and fragile egos of those who pretend and play make-believe.

Walking through the arched entrance, I pulled out the ticket to retrieve my coat.

Number 24.

Omens despise conversations made- holding secrets.

Breathing in the cold Christmas air, the silence feels chilling as it awakens the Omens that patiently wait- understanding what will be from three doors down.

Ferris Wheel

Squares of a quilt we observed from above-

The ethereal view outlined the colors and shapes that moved through the delicate fabric I had stumbled upon before.

What is this blanket for and who will it comfort?

“You are quiet Mommy,” my daughter whispered…

I listened to the heavy chimes of the cathedral bells lulling my memory inside the distant past and it was

these same bells that had brought me to my knees so long ago when the cells of my existence recognized and responded, aching for the quilt maker…

Please begin again.

The chipped yellow paint and the clanking of the torn leather seats did not disturb the scent of cherry tobacco permeating the cubicle where my grandfather and I had ventured.

Our hands held firmly as we jerked to a swinging stop on the top of my world-

A world of make-believe and illusions create the setting where pain and joy are sliced and revealed in fragments of time…

She wasn’t aware she was summoning the quilt squares

rearranging the pieces to fit inside the whole, she continued to play and examine each one, while the quilt spun shadows under the red sun.

Squinting, I spotted squares that were unfinished and threadbare pleading to be pricked and sewn into the perfection of this design-

The sound of squeaking metal shot us onto the precipice overlooking the material that awaited the weaving of all times

Those around us did not feel or anticipate the jolt, for they slept, nurturing the illusion from center stage.


It is serious this line of living

The break of waves upon the

worn and scarred stones

rinse the residue off the sharp old barnacles frantically attached to anything that is firm and stable bubbling beneath the mucky green surface.

What is this line of living?

Is it the ingestion of silences?


words and metaphors tossed

into moments that

snatch away the breath and disregard

the Spirit.

I will not think for long…as I attach myself to the redundant thoughts that keep change at a distance.

Why does the scenery transform just

as I nestle into the security of what I am

able to name?

He becomes older…

She loses her thoughts and begins the journey

into her own world.

The young voice deepens and the man

hair knots and tangles around his  thick calf


She surrenders her dolls and forgets to

lick the batter off the beaters…

It is serious this line of living

as it creates separation from those we love.


Why do we separate?

When we love with an open heart we

become entangled in the lives of those

lines like a school of dolphin frantically thrashing the coarse confinement of their captor’s nets.

She held my hand today and squeezed

it hard.

Her heart beat inside my chest as she moved

into this new room,

a room filled with strange people, a real

desk and chair placed securely on the

end of the square.

Her big blue eyes pleaded the answers

that swirled inside her six- year- old mind.

I wanted nothing more than to stay and

take care of her the only way I knew how…

But the lifeline led me away…

It pulled and tugged my heart onto

the platform of changes

I stood and surveyed this new landscape;

it has possibilities…

I wonder if I am ready?

Too Much of This World

Swirls of cigarette smoke hang in this sterile room while fraudulent laughter echoes through the stairwell and cursory glances are politely exchanged without thought wonder or shared desires. The distant dreams are numbed by the cacophony of those present as they adjust then slide, recomposing themselves onto the plastic bar stools, munching stale nuts from glass tabletops. These hollow glass tables begin to rapidly wear as long scratches and deep crevices support those who cling to this world. The clinking of the ice in fish bowl glasses reveals the drowning and choking- the gasping for breath as they swallow their dreams and sink further into the caves of complacency


A dull ache latches on and penetrates the bulging growth resting inside my throat…

Swallowing is an insurmountable task as the dawn paints the outline of a boy, no a man,

and hardness begins to replace the soft

He lies inside a sleep that embraces a toxic innocence, slipping away with each breath-

His limbs begin to stretch and hesitantly reach for the ordinary.

I delight in his ordinary and

acknowledge the changes dismantling his serene existence, the routine he envelops must depart, for within it rests stagnation and a compliance that desires rupture.

Soft skin, deep blue eyes, and the beginning of bristly hairs encapsulate this boy-

I will follow his lead as the changes of his experiences take hold…

The smell of sweet grass in late summer, a sweaty head, jagged nails, and action figures are a conjecture for this moment.

I vow to uphold the present and not contaminate the new.

Growing into the pain of changes, we tread lightly together, and are comforted by a silenced love.

Where There Is Love

here there is love, a world can only be better and with that love the world will change, for this is her natural process

as worse or better are two sides of the same…

By actions and thoughts.

I will never cease to desire entropy, as it is the disorder that sparks the questions and grows me, carrying us into life.

Taking his hand the priestess, slid her fingertips down his wet face as her heart summoned all the Omens of time, and softly asked, “What is it that you want me to do for you?”

“Trust what resounds in your heart,” he cried.

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