God Is In The Detail

I don’t know how I got here.

One day, I was a teacher in a public high school, stressing over final exams and careless students. The next moment, it seems, I’m a graduate student at a school where my dragonfly is the teacher. The thing is, the gap in consciousness never bothered me until now. Actually, it doesn’t even bother me now. A classmate was asking me where I was before and it dawned on me like a nuclear bomb on a darkened shore.

Somehow, I got here. My days are filled with lessons from our teacher, who transforms into human form for many classes, adapting his colors into the clothing he wears. The lessons are supposed to help us understand the true meaning of life. They’re supposed to help us grow as humans so that we can bring a higher vibration to our own plane of existence.

Simple, right?

Teacher says one day soon I’ll be ready to graduate. I am his prized student; his teaching assistant, and I pride myself in that knowledge. Usually, his lessons are captivating. They amaze me because of how easy it is to learn under his tutelage. Today’s, however, is one of the more confounding ones.

“God is in the detail.” he says in the high-pitched hum of his dragonfly incarnation. He stops briefly over each student before heading toward the stage where his desk and lectern complete the picture of a highly-respected university.

I’ve heard this saying, but never understood it. I remember, one day after the dragonfly’s visit oh, so long ago. I was showered with random examples of missing details — incomplete student assignments, road signs with unlit letters, graffiti stopped mid-stroke. So many examples that the minutiae are indeed crucial. The only thing I saw through the shattered glass of my existence was the imperfections that existed.

At that time, the phrase that represented my life most was Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff — if it didn’t scream for attention, I didn’t bother with it. That existence was so much easier to handle. I didn’t have to deal with anything unless it started cutting into my comfort zone.

But not sweating the small stuff became meaningless. In my own, unique way, it kept me from experiencing anything substantial. Then it struck me like a two-ton truck — if the details are so important in life, am I doomed to a life of failure if I can’t fathom that concept?

Teacher twirls like a ballerina, complete with blue and fuschia tutu and dark blue toe shoes. “Perfection can never be attained until all parts of the whole are in agreement.”

He Grand Jetés across the stage, pliés and bows to a chorus of chuckles and guffaws from my classmates. “Even a master often finds he has a weakness. It takes a truly advanced soul to understand the importance of detail.”

His performance is nearly perfect, and yet I still don’t understand. He continues a beautiful rendition of Baryshnikov in White Nights, sliding across the stage toward us in prayer.

“But we are patient,” he says, scooting around to sit on the top step. “If it takes you hundreds of lives to learn one small lesson, we will wait.” He reaches for the tattooed arm of one of our classmates. “And sometimes we leave you reminders, just as this artwork has become for you.”

The man with the artwork arm nods slowly as the lesson sinks in. “So, true, dude,” he says. “So like this one here reminds me of my first ex. That part of my life taught me so much.”

He gets it. I’m still lost.

“Teacher,” but my question gets lost in the space of time. I don’t understand because I’m still not ready. That much is clear.

Our leader takes the steps slowly, balancing carefully on his toes as he approaches.

“This life is a precarious game of chance,” he says. “Every hurdle cannot always be conquered and, instead of starting from scratch every time, we sometimes let you skip ahead, like a scene selection button on a DVD player.”

“Ohhh,” rolls around the classroom. I’m still clueless, and imperfect.

I am sorry I cannot help Teacher with the details of this lesson. I feel it is truly an important one.

Much love and understanding to you, dear classmates.


The Dragonfly’s Student


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