Dylan Thomas' famous poem talks about them. Ears. Those appendages on the sides of our skull that collect information.
I have two sets. The external set hears. Gathers vibrations, sending them to the central scrutinizer for interpretation. This is where the magic—or distortion—takes place. The discernment of sound, especially language, that builds me up or knocks me down.
There is a magnificent symbiosis between those two sets of ears. A symbiosis that provides the perfect platform for learning. And the fulcrum of that learning is choice.
Sounds simple, right? All I have to do is choose. Choose the voice I listen to.
Well. simplicity does not infer easy. Making choices that honour our creative spirit can be tricky business.
Where’s Otto in all this?
He’s listening. Tuning up that inner ear. Otto wants me to make choices alright. Choices that suit his agenda. Which are contrary to my acts of creation.
Here are a couple of different voices from my high school years. One puts Otto in the driver’s seat. The other puts him in his place.
My grade 10 English teacher, Mr. Hazen, assigned the class to write a five-hundred-word essay. I hunkered down and spun out a tale about a polar bear who witnessed the calving of a massive block of glacial ice crashing into the sea.
I handed in my story. In front of the entire class, he accused me of plagiarism. That he had read the exact story in one of Pierre Berton’s (Canadian historian and journalist) books.
Mr. Hazen gave me a zero.
Then there was Mr. Di Rocco. He doled out writing tasks as after school detentions. I loved it. Not the detentions, but the story writing. Mr. Di Rocco’s included topics like ‘the pink shoelace’ and ‘view from under my kitchen table’.
While Mr. Hazen rejected the possibly I could have crafted such a story, Mr. Di Rocco recognized my love for writing, and told me so. He encouraged me to keep at it. Without the detentions, of course.
I had to make a choice. Do I listen to Mr. Hazen? Or Mr. Di Rocco?
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