#SOL23 Lessons Learned

It is tradition, I suppose, on this final day of the Slice of Life Story Challenge to reflect on the experience.

Over the last 30 days, this is what I've learned. . .

• that I still have things to say
• that the words may not always come easily, but they do come
• that faulty attempts are better than no attempt at all
• that I have much to be thankful for
• that I need to embrace, and not apologize for, my truths
• that not all truths need to be revealed to the outside world
• that the past is a source of my joy not sorrow
• that I can choose a different path
• that there are moments of joy tucked in the folds of each and every day
• that my writing has meaning even if others do not see it
• that I don't have all --or any-- of the answers, but I do know how to question
• that dark and stormy days are always followed by days of light and beauty . . . eventually
• that even when I am not writing, I am still a writer

I appreciate the friends, family, and fellow Slicers who have accompanied me on this journey. Thank you for your inspiration and your words of encouragement.

Filling the Emptiness

Even though the unstable weather caused me to wake up with a headache, I agreed to drive my son to school. It was an attempt, I suppose, to make up for the day before when I had failed to inform him of my intention to take him, and, before I could stop him, he ran out of the house to catch the bus. 

We were mostly quiet on the way, as we often are first thing in the morning, still waking up and lost in contemplation of the day ahead. He is always in charge of music, so I was pleased when he put on a Keith Urban song. It was ostensibly for me, but I've noticed lately that he sings along. 

It's a fairly short drive and within minutes I was pulling over to the curb in the drop-off lane to let him out. Usually, he takes the music with him when he exits the car, the resulting silence accentuating the emptiness that his absence leaves behind. But this morning, before he got out, he connected my phone and left me with music to accompany me home.

"Love you," he said as he swung the car door closed.

I watched him walk away, then pulled away from the curb, the sound of the music he had chosen, just for me this time, filling up the emptiness.

Getting Better

I must admit this morning I was feeling a bit grumbly. (Yes, I'm aware that's not a real word, but somehow it fits better than any real word could.) A conversation from last night kept replaying in my head, and I was not particularly liking its implications. The weather wasn't helping my mood any either. Another gray, drizzly day when it should be warm and sunny. Winter has turned out to be a big bully this year, chasing away spring every time it gently tries to make an appearance.

But I don't want to write about that. And I don't want to write about work and the three new students who will be added to my classes upon my return. And I definitely don't want to write about all the grading I should be doing right now, but really, really, REALLY don't want to.

So, instead I will write about a single text message I received a little while ago from my son, who is still three days away from his spring break. 

Love you mom hope your having a good day.

I wasn't, but it just got a whole lot better.

No Longer a Child

Today will be a day 

of anxious waiting. 

My child, 

who is no longer a child, 

is on a plane bound for Mexico.

I try to avoid the compulsive
checking of his flight status,

try not to think about 

dangers that could await him.

This is who I want him to be, 

young, bold, unafraid,

and yet. . .

I do not know  

how not to worry

how not to want to keep him close,

keep him safe.

I do not know 

how to be the mother 

of a child,

who is no longer a child.

Up Next: Breaking 5:00

I parked my car around the corner from the park where a large group of teens was gathered and pulled out my cell phone.

"I'm parked around the corner," I texted my son.

When I had driven past, it had looked like their run had concluded and they were in the midst of a team meeting. Knowing it could still be awhile, I opened up my Facebook app. I was happy to discover a new post by my son's distance running team. I was even happier when I saw that it included a picture of a part of the team and my son was in it. And he was smiling. A real, genuine smile. This is a rarity in pictures, so I actually zoomed in to verify, but there he was with the arm of a teammate draped around his shoulder and a big smile on his face.

I'm sure I had a smile on my face as well. A few years ago when my husband had started considering changing jobs, one of the things we both agreed on was the importance of staying local until our son graduated. High school can be hard enough without changing midstream and having to reestablish yourself with a new group of people. Seeing his smile as he posed with his teammates confirmed that we had made the right decision.

When my son got to the car, he had two pieces of paper, a box, and a t-shirt in his hands.

"Can you take these, please?" he asked.

"What are they?" I responded, taking hold of them as he eased his way into the car.

"Remember that awards banquet we didn't go to?" 

By now, I was able to see that the pieces of paper were indeed awards for his participation in cross country. Opening the box, I discovered a plaque recognizing my son for being Most Improved.

"I got my miler t-shirt," he added.

"Miler t-shirt?"

"Yeah, for running fast," he explained. He held it up so I could inspect the back. Listed were a bunch of times to "break." He pointed to the "Break 5:10," which he had done at the track meet last Friday.

I pointed to the "Break 5:00." 

"That's next," I said.

"Yeah," he answered. "It'll be easy."

It won't be easy, but I am confident he'll make it happen, probably sooner than later. And you can bet I'll be there at the finish line, cheering my heart out, when he does. 

Six Word Memoir

Even now, you're still with me.

An Experiment Pays Off

This is the eighth Slice of Life Story Challenge I have participated in. The first one was a bit of a lark. I didn't have a blog and had to set one up, which I did on my husband's Gmail account. Had I known that I would keep writing, I would have set up my own account, but I never anticipated that I would still be at it eight years later.

It's not a perfect streak, however. Last year, I skipped the challenge. At that time I said it was due to the demands of a new job and taking an online class. Those were valid reasons, but I don't think they were entirely honest. Looking back, I think I was broken.

The pandemic took its toll on everyone, but I've come to realize that there was a lot more baggage I was already carrying around with me. My mom's death in 2019 and the stress of the year leading up to it was something I hadn't completely dealt with when the world shut down. Then, despite working hard to be the teacher my students and their parents needed when we returned, I was laid off and had to move to another school after twenty years at my previous one. Transitioning from elementary to middle school proved to be more difficult than I had expected. By the time March of 2022 rolled around, I felt there was nothing left to give and certainly nothing left to say.

This month has been a bit of an experiment. Not only did I sign up for this challenge, but I also signed up for a fitness challenge at work. This has resulted in daily writing, daily exercise, and doubling my consumption of water. The outcome of this experiment? I've been feeling much happier and energetic than I have in a very long time.

Which leads me to consider several ideas, the first one being, why do we seem to avoid the things that will make us feel better when we sink into a pit of misery? I'm not stupid. I know that exercise is a mood booster and I know that, for me, writing is, too. So why did I choose to sit on the couch watching inane television and drinking wine? It didn't help, I knew it wouldn't, but I did it anyway, hoping that time would heal without my having to put any effort into it., I suppose. The only problem was, my solution was actually making things worse.

The second thought that has been gnawing away at me is how there is no single right answer to most problems people face. Everyone wants an easy fix, and you will read blog posts and articles claiming that they have the answer, but there really isn't a magic bullet. It takes work and usually more than one tactic. I'm pretty sure that merely drinking more water would have done nothing more than make me have to use the bathroom more frequently. Putting all three things into play, however, made a significant impact. I'll be honest and admit there are other factors that could account for my more positive mood these days. My husband's new job that makes him happy, my fantastic co-workers, and my planned early exit from teaching contribute to my improved outlook on life. Sunshine and spring break don't hurt either. So, I'm not going to tell you that what has worked for me will work for you. What will work for you, that is for you to decide. 

I'm also not going to mislead anyone into thinking I am just a constant ray of sunshine now. (Those who know me in real life will attest to this fact.) I still have moments when I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, but there are equal moments of lightness now. What I have learned is that taking care of yourself, really taking care of yourself, isn't a luxury that can be put off when life gets too chaotic. In fact, when you don't have time to take care of yourself is exactly when you can't afford not to.

A Wrong Decision

I had every intention of going to my son's track meet today. The plan was for my husband to pick up our son at school at 1:15 and, since he didn't know if he would need to go back to work or not, I would leave work at 2:30, come home, and pick up Jack to take him to his meet. That was the plan, or at least I thought it was, until I was getting ready to leave work and saw on Life360 that both my husband and son were already at the meet.

Even so, I still planned on going. I just had to run home first to pick up layers of warm clothing to protect me from the dip in temperature that would occur before Jack's second race. It was only once I had walked into the empty house that I started to have second thoughts. The solitude was so welcoming, especially after a week that seemed like it would never end, as the weeks before breaks often do. Maybe I could sit this race out.

Mother's guilt set in, of course. I texted my husband, hoping he would assuage the guilt.

You can stay home if you want to. I know it's been a long week for you, came his reply, followed immediately by, And there's wine in the fridge but none here.

I am blessed to be married to a man who gets me. I still wavered, though. I should go; there was no good reason not to.

Another text from my husband appeared a few minutes later: There is one bathroom open and I overheard someone say [the] wait is 45 minutes and they ran out of toilet paper.

That clinched it for me. I decided to stay home. 

As it turns out, it was the wrong decision. I thought I would revel in the opportunity to unwind from the day and get in some uninterrupted writing time. Yet, as I sit here, trying to write my ending, I realize that I can't write it because I chose the wrong one. Instead of a quiet evening to myself, I should be spending it surrounded by the noise and excitement of young athletes pushing past their limits to outperform themselves. I should be chatting with my husband as we shiver in the stands and wait to yell ourselves hoarse every time our son runs by. I know there will be other races in the weeks ahead, but I needlessly missed this one, and that is something truly regrettable.

An Unexpected Gift

My intervention class was a little late getting dismissed to lunch today. Toward the end of class, I had announced, "I'm bored," and projected the join code to a Gimkit game, much to the delight of my students.

"Let's go!" I heard one of them call out.

The game had gone right up until the bell rang for lunch, but the students insisted on seeing who had won. It was a bit chaotic as it usually is at the end of class, with students packing up and jostling against each other, trying to get out the door. I happened to catch sight of one of my students walking across the front of the room in the opposite direction. It was a student who struggles a bit, but had come after school the day before to get help with his assignments. He had been so excited when I had immediately entered his grades into the grade book and he saw that his grade had gone up to an A. What was strange about seeing him at this moment was he wasn't in my intervention class. He must have slipped through the door while the others were leaving.

"I just wanted to give you something," he said as he quickly turned around at my desk and headed back for the door.

On my desk was a tiny package of gummy bears.

Today, as most days, was filled with irritations and frustrations. But tonight, I can't recall exactly what they were; all I can remember is that little pack of gummy bears.

It Can't Be Easy Being the Husband of a Slicer

Every year during the Slice of Life Writing Challenge, I feel compelled to give a shout-out to my husband. I would not be able to take the time to write and read and respond to other bloggers without his support. Many nights, he's in the kitchen cooking dinner after a long day at work while I'm furiously tapping away on my computer. Whenever I express guilt over the time I'm taking to write, he always assures me that he doesn't mind. 

Some nights, though, I'm sure he wishes I would hurry up and hit "publish" already. One night recently I was trying to finish up my writing while he and I were seated on the couch and my son was nearby in the recliner. The t.v. was on and both my husband and son seemed particularly chatty. This was a bit of a problem for me as I was trying to work out the ending to the story I was working on and I couldn't concentrate. I don't remember what I said exactly, but I do remember my husband's response.

"I haven't seen you all day and I have things to say," he said.

Not looking up from my computer, I offhandedly remarked, "Write them down."

"Wow! Put that in your blog and smoke it," he retorted. We both burst out laughing.

Well, honey, I'm not sure how to smoke it, but I did put it in my blog. Thank you for the story!

Improvisation

Maybe it was because it was the week before Spring Break. Maybe it was the hour-long staff meeting I had to sit through. Or, maybe I was still recovering from the weekend. Whatever it was, by the time I got home yesterday, I was Friday-night tired. Which is especially bad on a Monday.

I was so tired that I was seriously regretting having signed up for the fitness challenge at work. What was I thinking, signing up for two challenges in the same month? I thought I didn't have enough time in the day before. Did something happen in February that made me think I was miraculously going to have time to read, write, and exercise every day? True, I had found the time for the last couple of weeks, but last night I just didn't think I had the energy to do it all.

So, when my husband asked if we were going for a walk, I gave him a guilty look and whined, "I'm really tired. Maybe I could use my rest day today?"

My husband looked somewhat relieved. "You want to call a mulligan? My knee has been hurting and it might be a good idea to give it a rest."

Now I was the one to look relieved. That is until I remembered the flash challenge for the week: travel a mile each day. Even if I used up my rest day, that only applied to the 30-60 minutes of moderate to vigorous exercise. I still had to travel a mile.

My husband had already gone into the kitchen to start making dinner, and I really didn't want to go outside and walk the neighborhood by myself. What was I going to do? 

Then, I had a brilliant idea: the race track. 

Okay, it wasn't brilliant; in fact, it was actually quite silly, but it would work. The race track isn't really a race track. When our kids were little, they had ride-on toys that they would propel themselves on through the kitchen, turn through the family room, go down the hall, then turn again through the living room and dining room, back into the kitchen. They would go around and around as fast as they could go without running into walls (well, that may have happened a few times), which was why we began calling it the race track. If my kids could do laps around the house, why couldn't I?

And so I did. 

Around and around I went, while my husband cooked dinner and one of my cats gave me baffled looks every time I passed her by. At one point my son came downstairs, and he didn't even bat an eye at his mother walking around in circles, which makes me wonder if he has already come to the conclusion that I'm not the sanest person in the world. The funniest moment came, however, when my husband started walking behind me.

"Are you following me?" I asked, never breaking stride.

"No, I'm just trying to read you this story," he replied, matching my pace as he read from his cell phone.

Hopefully, we didn't have anyone spying on us through our windows because I'm sure we made a comical sight. But comical or not, I got in my 30 minutes and traveled my mile. Mission accomplished!

Four Days and Counting

"Hey, any chance I could borrow 8 of your whiteboards on Monday? I have an idea for another disastrous lesson," I texted my friend, who teaches math next door to me.

"Big or small?" came her immediate reply. 

"Big."

"Yep."

"Awesome! Thanks!!"

"Always supportive of a disastrous lesson!"

I laughed. I was really hoping that it wouldn't actually be a disaster, but I could see where it could go horribly wrong. My idea was to attach a different picture to each whiteboard and have teams of four record their observations. These teams would rotate through the room until they had had a chance to record observations for all eight pictures. When they returned to their original board, they were to work together to infer what was really going on in the picture based on the evidence.

It was mostly the "rotating through the room" part that had disaster written all over it. I was pretty sure my second period class could handle it. Probably my sixth period class as well. Fourth and eighth? Not so much.

But I am never one to back down from a challenge, so today I went in and boldly followed my lesson plan. And it was. . .

Pretty okay. As predicted, second and sixth periods did the best. Fourth and eighth were also successful for the most part, although there were a few groups who still need to work on distinguishing between observations and inferences. I kept things moving by allowing them only two minutes to observe each picture, which I think helped eliminate some of the issues that can erupt when students are allowed out of their seats. There was still some shooing of students who had strayed from their teams, but on the whole it went better than expected. 

All I need to do now is find a way to get through these next four days before Spring Break!

Weekend at the Races

I had been sitting in the bleachers for hours. This sounds like the beginning of a story of misery, but it was actually quite pleasant. I had brought the stadium seat my husband had recently purchased, and I was surprised at how comfortable it was. After freezing in this same location the night before, the morning provided bright, cheerful sunshine that kept me sufficiently warm. The stadium was surrounded by green hills and a bright blue canopy hung overhead. It was a lovely and relaxing way to spend a Saturday morning.

On the field below, high school students were warming up as runners raced around the track. Today's events were starting with the 1600 meters; girls first, then boys. There were 26 heats for the girls, and my son was running in the 16th heat of the boys' races, which was why I was spending a large amount of time in the stands. I didn't mind. It was a beautiful day, the air was full of energy, and the races were exciting to watch. You couldn't help but cheer for kids you didn't even know as they poured everything they had into making it across the finish line as fast as they could.

My son's race, of course, was the one I was most interested in. 

"What's your goal for this race?" I had asked him.

"Sub 5:20," he responded.

Finally, it was getting close to his race time. I scanned the field, looking for him, and panicked when I didn't see him anywhere. What if he missed his race? I tried to assure myself that wouldn't happen, but time was ticking away and still I didn't see him. At what seemed like the last possible second, as the runners in heat 14 were well into their race, I saw him and a couple of his teammates casually sauntering across the field, their racing spikes in hand. "Hurry up," I wanted to tell him, but there would be no way for him to hear me and all that it would accomplish would be to irritate the spectators around me. So, I silently willed him to get a move on. Miraculously (or maybe he really did know what he was doing), he was ready to go and lined up when he needed to be.

All morning I had been debating whether to stay in my seat for the race or move down to the observation area on the track. If I stayed where I was, I would be able to get a better view of the whole race, which I was going to video for my husband who couldn't be there. The only problem was I wouldn't be able to yell encouragement to my son as he ran by. Most of the time, he says he doesn't hear me, but I somehow felt that I would be failing as a mother if I didn't at least try. Everyone needs a cheerleader. I grabbed my backpack and made my way down to the track.

"Pop!" The starting pistol fired and thirty runners took off. I could see Jack as he rounded the bend of the track. There was unusual movement, and I knew intuitively that someone had fallen. My heart sank. "Oh no! Don't let it be my baby," I whispered to the running gods, as I frantically scanned the runners who were now on the far side of the track. I rejoiced when I saw my boy, still running.

The tight pack of runners rounded the other end of the track and began thundering toward us. Still clutching my camera, I looked for my son. "Go, Jack!" I yelled as he ran by. I strained to see him as they rounded the bend once again. I resumed my prayers to the running gods: "Please let him do well, please let him do well." I was whispering the words out loud, and I was certain that if anyone heard me, they would think I was a lunatic. I didn't care. All that mattered was that my son had a good race.

The pack thundered by again. "You got this, Jack!" I yelled. Maybe he heard me, maybe he didn't. He was clearly in a zone.

By the time they were barreling toward the finish line, Jack had moved up. There were now way more runners behind him than in front of him. Tears filled my eyes as I watched my boy cross the finish line in sixth place. He had accomplished his goal, completing the race in 5 minutes and 17 seconds.

My mind flashed on several articles I had read recently about people who didn't want to have children or were so happy that they never did. That may be the right choice for them, but it wouldn't have been for me. In that moment, I knew that there was nothing that I could ever do in life that would fill me with as much pride and gratitude as being a mother watching her child working hard and achieving what he had set out to accomplish.

Preview Day

 Yesterday was not a typical Friday. I had taken the day off so I could drive my son to a track meet two hours away, and my husband was going in to work late because he had inventory that night. Because of this, our morning wasn't the usual rush, allowing me to linger over my coffee and morning perusal of social media and email. I wasn't totally lazy, though. Two loads of laundry were completed, including being folded and put away.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" my husband asked.

"Do you have time?"

"Yeah. I don't have to be there by any particular time."

We donned our walking shoes and set out, following our usual path around our neighborhood.

"It's weird going for a walk at nine o'clock in the morning on a weekday," I remarked.

"It's a preview of how things are going to be," he responded.

Funny. I had been thinking the same thing. 

And I have to say, based on that little preview, I can't wait for the real thing.

Moving Forward

 Today wasn't a great day. This fact is particularly disappointing given that it had started off with such promise. I had students who needed more time finishing our district writing assessment, so I had allotted for an extended independent reading time to afford them that extra time. Afterward, I had prepared an activity I had gotten from EduProtocols to have students review the eight parts of speech. Each team was given a slide on which they had to provide two definitions of the assigned part of speech, along with three original sentences with their part of speech highlighted, five examples, and two images.

Second period did an amazing job! They divided up the task among team members, stayed off each others' slides (for the most part), and worked hard to produce a quality slide. There was much noise and laughter, but they were all on-task and enjoying the assignment. I was excited to have found a learning activity that they actually perceived as fun.

Then fourth period came.

It was not the same experience at all. There was much noise and laughter, but it wasn't the "we're having fun doing this assignment" kind, but more like "we're goofing off and not getting much done" kind of laughter. We were only a few minutes in before someone deleted another team's slide. Time was wasted as I worked to restore the slide. When it came time for the teams to present, unsurprisingly, some of the slides were not complete and had errors.

My earlier exhilaration turned to utter despair.

My two afternoon classes mirrored my morning almost exactly. Sixth period did a great job, and eight period did a not-so-great job.

Driving home from work, however, it was hard to hang on to the feeling of hopelessness. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, and the scenery flashing by was painted in soft hues of pink, white, and green. How can you feel down when spring is in the air? Added to that was the fact that in two days my husband would become owner-operator of his first Grocery Outlet store. Despite the disappointments of the day, things were looking up. We were taking another step in building a new future for ourselves, a life after teaching and a life after kids. Something new and different, which was kind of scary and kind of exciting. It reminded me of the way life was when we were young and first starting out.

I think it's easy, especially once you've hit middle-age, to spend a good portion of your time looking back, reminiscing about the past and feeling nostalgic for all that's gone before. I often find myself thinking about the family I've lost and the babies that have now grown up and are finding their own way in the world. That kind of focus, though, can lead us to believe that the best is already behind us. And perhaps without effort, it is. I'm beginning to believe, however, that by continuing to make plans and working toward them, we can shift our focus to what still lies ahead and keep moving forward.

To Write or Not to Write

I missed a day of writing. Again.

Yesterday was the second time I didn't post to my blog. Once upon a time, I would have beaten myself up over it, feeling like I had failed. I'm looking at it a bit differently this time.

On both occasions that I haven't written this month, it has been a conscious choice. The first time was a Friday night, and as any teacher can tell you, Friday-night tired is a whole other level of tired. I sat with my computer on my lap and made several attempts to write before giving up and succumbing to the lure of a glass of wine and watching a movie with my husband, unwinding from a long week of work.

Last night was a similar experience. It was Open House and I put in a twelve-hour day. After school got out, I was busy straightening up the room, hanging a few final projects on the wall, grading papers, and writing sub plans for Friday. This was all followed, of course, by an hour of greeting parents and students and engaging in awkward conversations. As I drove home, I replayed many of those conversations in my head and tried to think of something I could write. Time was running out. For the Slice of Life challenge, posts must be shared by 9:00 p.m. By the time I got home, there wouldn't be much time to write. I thought about writing something short, just to preserve my "streak." A six word memoir would do the trick.

But I really didn't want to do that. I didn't want to write something, anything, just so I could say I wrote. After not writing for two years, I have been enjoying this crazy, sometimes frustrating, process of coming up with an idea, writing it down, revising it, then revising it more before hitting that publish button. The words don't always flow and it seldom comes out as good as I had hoped, but it has helped to make me feel like me again. I realized that I'd rather not write at all then to write something that is nothing more than a place-holder.

When I made the decision to not write last night, I wasn't giving up; I was taking control. And that felt pretty damn good.

Wrong Time

I have a habit that no doubt many would find annoying: I don't change the time on the clock in my car. Yes, that means that for half the year I drive around with it showing the incorrect time. It's not really a problem. Usually I know the hour; it's just the minutes I look at. So, really it's something I seldom notice.

Last week, however, my husband took my car in to be serviced. You can imagine my horror when I discovered upon its return that they had reset my clock! It was three days before Daylight Saving Time! Why would they do such a horrible thing???

It threw me off, too. I got in my car this afternoon to go pick up my son from track practice. I was a little stressed because I had been setting up for tomorrow's Open House and had left a little later than I had intended. As I drove to pick him up, I glanced at the clock. 3:11? What? I didn't have to pick him up until 4:30. Was I losing it and had left an hour earlier than I needed to? Then I remembered. The damn clock had been reset.

It's going to take some getting used to having my clock tell me the wrong time for the wrong half of the year.

Message from the Past

A few days ago, I was scrolling through Facebook, wasting time, when I received a notification that I had memories for that date. Intrigued, and still wanting to put off whatever it was I was trying to avoid doing, I clicked on the notification. There were several, but one jumped out at me. It was from my dad.

Dad: How was school today?

Me: It was fine. It's a little depressing these days. Talked to a friend who got her pink slip and she said that it didn't look good that she'd be back next year. Education will be losing some good teachers and our state's unemployment rate will be higher. Why do you ask?

Dad: Because we are concerned!

Me: Why are you concerned? You should be more concerned that I drive a Prius! (just kidding!)

Dad: We are! Why don't you park that wild thing along side the Sacramento river and hope for the best???

Me: Um, because I love my car and I kind of need it to get to work. I don't drive on the freeway, so I'm not exactly flooring it.

It's been almost nine years since my father died, and here he was, talking to me. I could hear his voice in my head as I read his words, and just for a moment I was a daughter once again. 

A Somewhat Fortuitous Oversight

The plan for this weekend was to get caught up on grading essays. As any secondary teacher will tell you, grading essays is a daunting task. So, it wasn't too surprising that I had been putting it off for weeks. Even this morning, when I knew there was no more time to waste and that it had to be done before my students finished their current essay, I found myself distracting myself with other tasks: doing laundry, chauffeuring my son around, and catching up on reading and commenting on Slices.

Finally, I convinced myself I simply couldn't put it off any longer. I grabbed my book bag and went upstairs to grade. My students' essays were all on the computer, but I had printed out copies of the rubric to grade each one and hand back. I had already graded a few, but not enough to put much of a dent in the stack of 131. This was going to take awhile. A long while.

Except, I made a discovery when I pulled out my stack of papers. There were only 33 of them. How could that be? I was sure I had put all of them in my bag. Yet, here was irrefutable evidence that I had not as I only had the ones for my 2nd period class. Only then did my mind flash on the stack of papers piled on top of the mini-fridge next to my desk at work.

Oops.

Looks like I won't be spending my weekend grading essays after all. 

A Peaceful Friday Evening

 It wasn't a horrible day, at least not until 8th period. My language arts students are currently working on a writing assessment, so most of class was spent with them furiously writing their first draft. Several times I was about to chastise a student for being turned around in their chair, when I realized that they were looking at the anchor charts I had hanging on the back wall. My irritation quickly dissipated and turned to pleasure. They were actually using the anchor charts! 

Unfortunately, eighth period was a different story. Several students made it their mission to do as little as possible and bring down everyone else with them. I felt like I was playing Whac-a-Mole, bouncing here and there to try to redirect them and get them back on task. By the end of class, I was exhausted and irritated.

What time are you coming home? I texted my husband. I need to go for a walk and drink a glass of wine.

I was happy to get the response that he would be home by 5:00. That would give us time to get in our daily walk before having to pick up our son from track practice.

We decided to walk along a trail near our son's high school. The cool, late-afternoon air was filled with the songs of the birds gathered in the still-bare branches of the trees lining the path and the honking of geese, who seemed to be in a contest to determine who was king of the small island in the seasonal pond. As we walked and talked, I felt the tension of the day melt away. 

Later, the three of us sat in a Thai restaurant, waiting for our order. Across the restaurant, a man played the guitar and sang. We couldn't hear him very well, though, since the restaurant was crowded and full of conversation that muffled the music.

"Tom Petty," I said to my husband. "He's playing 'Free Fallin'.'"

We both paused and leaned in, straining to hear better.

"Maybe not," I said. "It sounds different."

"It's a depressed, suicidal version of Tom Petty," my husband offered.

I laughed, and it sounded like the laugh of a relaxed and happy person.

Tomorrow I would be faced with the task of grading 100 essays and trying to design lessons to entice the uninterested students who frequent my classroom. Tonight, though, I would just enjoy the peace of being with my family.

I Bought It Anyway

I did a thing. 

I ordered a shirt 

and paid way too much for it. 

It's only a t-shirt, 

and in my mind that means it shouldn't cost more than ten bucks. 

This cost much more than that. 

But I bought it anyway.

The email today said that it's on its way. 

It cost another $6.99 for shipping. 

I hate paying for shipping. 

But I bought it anyway.

There's a good chance I could get in trouble for wearing it to school. 

Or even just out in public. 

That's why I hesitated when I saw it. 

But I bought it anyway.

I'm not a rebel. 

I hate conflict. 

I avoid it like the plague. 

But I bought it anyway.

It made me laugh.

It made me feel I had to have it.

It made a point that needed to be made.

So, I bought it anyway.

A Reader Is Born

I glance over as I am giving directions and notice he is reading his library book instead of listening to me. I call his name. No response. Again, this time a little louder. He looks up from his book and closes it, returning once more to the classroom.

He comes up to me a few minutes later as we are packing up to head to the library.

"This book is getting really good!" he exclaims.

I can see he is close to the end.

"What is it?" I ask.

He shows me the cover and I remember now that he had selected an I Survived book during our last trip to the library.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," I say.

I line up my class (if you can call it a line) and walk them across campus to the library. As always, I stand at the door, reminding students to return their books to the counter barcode up. He is one of the last students to come up the stairs and walk toward the door, and I can see why. His book is open, making it clear that he has been reading on the walk to the library.

Once inside, I spend most of my time cruising up and down the aisles of books, breaking up huddles of gossipers and reminding students we are here to check out books, not play. (When I made the move to middle school last year, it didn't take me long to learn that 6th graders confuse libraries with playgrounds.) We pass each other at the end of one row, and he shows me the book he has selected. It's another I Survived book.

"Oh, Hurricane Katrina. That's going to be a good one!" I tell him.

I can tell he's excited about his new selection, and he goes to sit down and read.

And I'm excited for him. He is a sweet boy, but he struggles academically and is years behind in his reading level. But that doesn't matter today. 

Today, he has found books that make him a reader. 

Not Today

I took a seat on a cushioned bench positioned in front of the large plate glass window. The view from the fifth floor was incredible, and I watched dark gray clouds hanging sullenly over the valley.

A few of the nearby chairs carefully arranged in straight lines held other patients waiting their turn to be called. As I looked at them, I felt out of place. Everyone else was older. At least, that was my perspective. I wondered, though, if anyone walking past would think I fit in with this crowd just fine. It was hard sometimes to remember that I was also an older person. I didn't feel any different than I did when I was in my thirties, and I forgot that I no longer looked the same until I confronted my image in the mirror. How could that middle-aged face be mine? Was this how other people saw me? 

Truly a depressing thought.

It was becoming increasingly undeniable that I was no longer young. After all, here I was waiting to have my blood pressure checked. The last couple of readings had been high (I blame work!), and now I was back just two weeks after my last reading to have it checked again. I rebelled against the thought of being put on blood pressure medicine. I wasn't ready to be old.

I returned to looking out the window. I could see the rain clouds inching closer toward my location. If they didn't call me soon, I was sure to be caught in a downpour on my way out. I checked the time on my phone, then opened up the Facebook app to pass the time. The first post I saw was an ad from my husband's store, advertising that today was Senior Day, 10% off your purchase. I almost burst out laughing when I scrolled down to see that their definition of senior was 55 years or older.

Damn! I really was old.

Before I had time to fully process this devastating dose of reality, the nurse came out and called my name. I tried to relax and put myself in a meditative state as the blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm. Three times it squeezed and three times I willed it to not be high. The monitor was turned away from me, so I could only hope. 

The moment of truth arrived with the opening of the door. The nurse stepped in, looked at the monitor, and began clapping.

Ha ha! Take that, old age! Looks like you're going to have to wait a bit longer to make my acquaintance. (But I will take that 10% discount.)

A Change in Plan

The plan last night was to get up and go for a walk first thing in the morning. Our alarm goes off at 4:30, which would leave us enough time to get in a quick walk before my husband and I had to get ready for work. When I woke up this morning after another night of fitful sleep, that seemed like the dumbest plan ever conceived. My husband was already up, so I thought about how I could present my new plan as I walked downstairs and entered the family room.

It looked like I hadn't needed to worry about it too much. My husband was stretched out on the couch wrapped up in a warm, cozy throw. He didn't look all that anxious to go out into the cold, dark morning either.

"Hey, I was thinking," I started.

"That we're not going for a walk," he finished.

"Well, yeah, but you could meet Jack and me at Cavitt tonight, and we could walk then." My son had practice off-campus this afternoon, and with just a slight detour, it was on my husband's way home. The timing could be perfect for us to meet up and go for our walk there. I had already checked the weather app, and it looked like we wouldn't be rained on.

"What time?" he asked.

"Jack has practice from 3:30 to 5:30."

He paused as he thought about it for a moment. 

"Yeah, that should work."

Phew. Tomorrow might be a different story, but at least for today I wasn't going to have to give up my morning coffee and Wordle!

Time to Breathe

"Where do you want to go?" my husband asks as I adjust the beanie on my head, preparing myself for the cold temperatures that await to assault us on the other side of our front door.

"I don't know. Someplace pretty," I say. Last week I signed up for a fitness challenge at work, so I am committed to exercising for 30-60 minutes each day. I figure I might as well be somewhere where I can enjoy the scenery while I'm at it.

We still haven't settled on where we are going as we yell goodbye to our son and head outside. My husband veers toward his car, so I gather that we are not simply going to be walking around our neighborhood. 

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Sierra College.," he says.

I stare out the window as we drive across town. Dark gray clouds are bunching up all around us, but for now a canopy of blue sky stretches above us and the sun shines brightly, belying the cold.

Even with my layers, I am still cold as we begin to walk. But I don't really mind; it feels good to be outside. The cement walking/bicycle path is surrounded by green grass and trees, whose branches are swelling with leaf buds and bursting out in a profusion of white and pink blossoms. The sound of rushing water can be heard coming from the creek that is usually no more than a trickle of water. As we continue up the path, we notice the debris left by the previous storms. In places it looks like a giant went running through the trees, carelessly pushing them out of his way. Somehow, though, it just adds to the beauty of this natural landscape.

Breathing deeply, I feel the tension that has been my constant companion for way too long begin to melt away. Although thoughts of the things that still need to be done this weekend float through my brain, I do not allow them to linger. 

This time is for me. 

Overcoming Happy Hour Reluctance

"Are you going to happy hour?" one of my colleagues asked.

The introvert in me wanted to say no. An evening in sweats, sipping a glass of white wine while seated on my own very comfortable couch and watching a rom-com with my husband seemed much more enticing.

"I don't know," I replied. "Are you?"

He nodded his head. "I haven't been to the last two."

"Yeah, I haven't been in a while either. I'll probably go," I said and headed back to my classroom, hoping he didn't notice how unenthusiastic I sounded.

Just outside my classroom, I ran into another colleague, who had already managed to gather up her belongings and was clearly headed out.

"Are you going to happy hour?" she asked.

I really didn't want everyone to think I'm totally anti-social. I decided if I could convince my friend, who also is having a love affair with her couch, to go, then I would be willing to make the effort.

To make a long story short, we went.

It probably helped that we had spent the day in staff development, which ordinarily isn't a great way to spend a day, but at least we weren't totally exhausted from working with kids all day. The day had provided a welcome relief from dealing with hostile students and had actually provided some great ideas I was excited to try out in the classroom. I still questioned my decision to go, however, as I drove to the bar where everyone was gathering for our once-a-month get-together. The yawning had already started and I wasn't looking forward to trying to make conversation in a noisy bar. But having wrangled my friend into going, there was no backing out now.

And I'm glad I didn't. A couple of hours of talking and laughing with the people I work with was just what I needed. They say that misery loves company, but I'd have to say that, while we shared some of our horror stories, the sharing of them lessened the misery. What weighs heavy when carried in solitude becomes lighter and even sometimes laughable when shared with others who are experiencing their own challenges. 

The day before I had been counting sick days and calculating how many I'd need to use to cover the remainder of the year because going back day after day seemed impossible. As I drove away from the bar last night, I knew I was going to live to fight another day.

A Day to Make You Think

It had been a day.  You know the kind: Where you want to run screaming from the building, jump in your car, and roar out of the parking lot while ripping the rear view mirror off and blasting "Take This Job and Shove It"? Well, maybe you don't, but I certainly am well-acquainted with those kinds of days. And today was definitely one of them.

So, I was actually kind of happy to find myself sitting in the radiology waiting room right after school. A little breast torture didn't seem all that bad compared to what I had been through. My plan was to sit, breathe, and write while I waited patiently for the assistant to pop out from the door across from me and call my name. That was the plan. Unfortunately, in my frenzied state I had left my notebook behind on my desk at work. Not wanting to waste these precious moments, I opened up the note app on my i-Phone and tried to write with my thumbs. Not an easy task. It didn't end up mattering that I was being hampered in my efforts to write because my name was called much sooner than expected.

I was led cheerfully down a hallway, shown a dressing room, and instructed on how to put on the gown. After trading my black bra and green sweater for a hospital-blue gown with three arm holes, I sat again to wait my turn. I didn't think I'd be nervous. I hadn't been nervous for the three weeks I had waited for this appointment, but as I sat there I began to feel the first stirrings of anxiety. What if they found something? What if there were decisions to be made and treatments to be had in my immediate future?

Which brought me back to thinking about my day. And all the similar days before. The ones that found me crying at my desk and muttering to myself, "I can't do this anymore." Was this how I wanted to spend the rest of my life?

I thought the answer was no. I'm sure it is no. Only, I'm not sure. Because after my appointment, after hearing that nothing suspicious had been found and I walked out into the cold, brilliant blue-skied day, I realized that I wasn't as sure as I thought I was, not as sure as I wanted to be. I'd miss it. Not the frustrating parts, and there are plenty of those. Not the stress and the worry and the exhaustion. The actual teaching, though? That I would miss.

I am 55. I began teaching when I was 27, which means I have been a teacher for more than half my life. I loved being a teacher. And there are moments I still do. But they are only moments, outweighed mightily by feelings that this is no longer what I want to do. Man, that was a hard sentence to type! Even though I have thought it a million times, saying it out loud (or, typing it quietly, as the case may be) feels blasphemous somehow. The thing about being 55, though, is you begin to realize that most of your lifetime has already passed, making the days ahead all the more precious. The way I felt today and numerous days before is not how I want to feel. This isn't who I am or want to be. It would be lovely if I could just change the way I feel, find some glorious coping mechanism that didn't come in a wine glass, but that isn't going to happen.

The truth is, it's not that I can't do this anymore; I simply don't want to. This is one of my truths that I have been avoiding, trying to shove back into the dark where it can be ignored, forgotten. 

It is a truth that I didn't want, yet there it is.

What Is the Truth?

 It's been two long years since I've written. I have tried numerous times, but every time I picked up a pen, I set it down again, unsure of what to say or how to say it. Even just now, mid-sentence, I instinctively reached for my cell phone, seeking distraction and delay.

Why the hesitation, the avoidance? I suspect that it has to do, in part, with the revelations that always accompany reflective writing. Truths have a way of revealing themselves in the process. But what is the truth? What is true one moment can the next be disingenuous at best, an outright lie at worst. The search for truth can lead you round dark corners and into ominous alleyways, places you'd rather not go. Or perhaps even worse, it can lead you into the harsh and unflinching light of day with no way to escape or deny what is so painfully obvious in front of you.

It occurs to me that we have been conditioned to believe that truth is something painful or ugly or disappointing. "The cold hard truth" and the "harsh light of day" don't exactly inspire confidence and hopeful anticipation. Apparently, whatever the truth may be, it is destined to be undesirable.

Maybe it doesn't have to be this way. Maybe truth can be gentle and welcoming like the blush of a brand new day, or perhaps inviting like a cool pool of water on a hot day, beckoning us to dive in and revel in its refreshing relief from the crushing heat all around us. Maybe it's simply a matter of perspective, choosing to believe instead that "the truth shall set you free."

I don't know if finding the truth will "set me free." I'm not even sure what truths I am seeking. I do know, however, that we live in a world where people seem increasingly convinced that their truth is The Truth. I am under no such delusions. I know that what is true for me isn't necessarily true for others. Which makes me believe that, in the end, maybe truth isn't some hidden treasure, waiting to be discovered. Some truths might just be instead nebulous works of art created within ourselves.