Rocca al Mare Kooli ja Kaarli Kooli õpilased saavad vastastikku võtta teise kooli valikaineid. Nii satub ka kõne- ja väitluse valikainesse alati mõni Kaarli Kooli õpilane. Üks mu selle õppeaasta väitlusõpilane, Mairo Kadak (Kaarli Kool, 11. klass), kutsus mu mõned kuud tagasi andma intervjuud nende kooli-sisese taskuhäälingu jaoks. Kuna see ühtlasi oli tema jaoks ka hindeline koolitöö, siis otsustasin nutikat noort meest aidata ning kuna välja tuli palju laiemalt elu ja õppimist puudutav vestlus, siis küsisin Mairolt luba intervjuud ka avalikult jagada. Nii et kui tahad minu ja Mairo mõtterännaku kaasa teha, siis nüüd on see võimalik.

#õpetaja / teaching

#ilukirjandus / fiction

#juhtimine / management

#argument / argumentation

#kogemuslugu / review

#tehnoloogia / tech

#ratas / bicycle

#olemine / be-and-go

#kõnekunst / art of communication

#English

„Isn’t it the perfect visual metaphore?“

„Of what?“

They were standing on the beach. A thin blanket of clouds was covering parts of the sky towards the horizon. In many parts, the wind had ripped holes into it or torn and blown away bits across the golden sky. Evening sun was hidden behind the clouds for the moment, but bright edges near a hole in the clouds were a clear indication, that it was about to peek through very soon. Sunset was perhaps half an hour away and was promising to be a spectacular sight.

Strong spring wind had whipped the sea into foamy waves. White rabbits, his grandparents had called these waves, when he was a kid in their summer house next to a large lake. Now, white rabbits where running everywhere up and down the beach.

„Of the human condition.“

They were looking at two lumps of sand before their feet, that were being quickly washed away, wave after wave. These were the remnants of the walls of a sand castle, that they had spent several hours building earlier in the day. The castle yard had been big enough for several people to stand in, encircled by a sand wall, enforced with stones, then a moat and then several wave  breakers made of sticks and stones. Since then, the wind had picked up and while the stones of the wave breakers were still visible, the waves were washing over them, the moat had been filled in and only two backmost segments of the wall were still standing. Soon, nothing would remain of the castle, the sand would again be evenly distributed across the beach, the energy they had spent building it washed out to sea.

„You see this infinite potential in all the sand. And then you create, not because you have to, not because you need to, but simply because you can. For the act of pure creation itself. You invest your love, you spend your energy, knowing full well, that all of it will be erased. Time will run its course, entropy will invariably increase and all the forms you have assembled will be evenly spread out once more. Without a trace.“

„Yeah, I suppose it is quite apt.“

A hole in the clouds aligned with the setting sun. For the next minute, people on the beach walking their dogs or jogging, if they happened to be looking up, could see a flaming viking ship stream across the western sky.

As ancient as the Mountain, born of the core and thence returning.

A Man stands eyes following the Sun looking at no thing another circle closing.

Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. A hundred years passed, the Man still stands. The Mountain does not notice.

Milky arrow of time above unchanged, a thousand years passed, sons of sons of sons forgotten. ”A moment,” says the Mountain noticing the Man.

A second. Now gone into the past, another from the future takes it’s place. None can reach the future nor live in the past, forever prisoners of the present. Even the Mountain.

The river of time carries all in a single direction. The unborn remain unconcerned, floating to and fro above the milky waters of time, smiling.

Another second passes, an electron dies a thousand deaths. The middle-aged behemoth of jagged rock, half a million years old, is milling about too quickly. The Planet does not notice.

We are all unborn. The prison of the present a product of imagination, sentenced by ourselves.

How would you live if you had a million years?

The Man on the Mountain blinks. Forgot him self for a moment of ten thousand years.

No prison. No prisoner.

Inimesed lähevad läbi pimeda metsa, üle jäätunud jõe, mööda lumist rada. Teed neile on näitamas küünalde kumav ja vonklev jada.

On jõuluöö.

Läheb isa, poeg õlgadel taskulambiga vehkimas. Läheb ema, kes seitsmendat kuud ootab kolmandat poega. Lähevad üksi ja hulgakesi, mõni pühalt ja vaikuses, teised hoopis rõõmsama moega.

On püha öö.

Tähistaevas särab pea kohal kirkalt, nii kirkalt, et nähtaval väikene vanker. Läänetaeva võlvil on kerkinud noore juuspeene sirbina Kuu. Raja ääres seisab ja minejaid vaatab iidvana tammepuu.

On rahulik öö.

Mööda maasse mattunud ristikivist, üles väikesest künkast, läbi viltuste väravapostide vahelt. Seal ta seisab, kesk vanade kalmude künkaid ja ootab, ukse kohal küünlavalguse laik. Olen kohal, jälle sinuga, Esna rahulik pühapaik.