A writing class, a greenhouse, a projector made from cardboard, a stitch: You've got
to start somewhere. Lay the first pipe, anchor the opening stone, put your foot
on the pedal that gets the bobbin twirling. The attempt (I'll tell you now), will upset,
listing from the edges whose length you inevitably miscalculated, and the lofty content
you'd imagined - in the limited grasp of your own lesson plan - will tumble earthward.
Be satisfied with the effort. Taste the sugar of small joy at the experiment
you undertook, however flawed. No one, no one is telling you to get it right,
and if even if they were, they shouldn't be trusted.
Even the dog, her instincts sharpened as a blade, missed the bone we'd left, and instead
burst the Kleenex box in two, building something from scratch she didn't know just yet.