Might as Well Jump

It's almost June. The cottonwood is blowing everywhere, the poison ivy has surged to life, the oak trees have vomited their catkins all over the yard, and the darkness has lifted. Daylight lasts until 9 p.m. 

Another school year is almost over, and another summer has arrived, a chance to regroup and finally clean the house and plant flowers and read a book...a chance to breathe. 

 I've thought a lot this year about taking the big risks, about daring to jump even when you can't see the ground. 

 I jumped out of an airplane once, expecting it to be exhilarating, but finding it nauseating and terrifying, ultimately disappointed in myself for being the coward I secretly feared I was. 

 I jumped into a relationship once, hoping I'd finally find myself and I'd finally be seen, and instead finding that I didn't like what I saw when I looked in the mirror, a person still desperate for affirmation instead of a person strong with self-worth. 

 I jumped into a new sport once, hoping to build new muscles and find new balance and grace, and learning within months that I was not graceful on skates or on crutches; middle-aged me was just as awkward and ungraceful as middle-school me, and didn't bounce nearly as well.

 I jumped into a new job this year, a huge pay cut and financial risk, a risk in stability from the tippy top of the seniority list to the very very bottom, untenured, with a mentor teacher that had almost been my student teacher decades earlier. A strange situation, being brand new, but almost experienced enough to retire. 

 I couldn't see the ground when I made this job jump, but I trusted my gut and I trusted my village and I trusted in myself that I would be able to make this work and find a place where I belonged. 

Photo by Adrian Moise on Unsplash

 And now, it's almost June. 10 months have passed, and I can see the ground. It is blooming with flowers; the fiddle head ferns are unfurling, reaching to the sky; the Canadian geese are proudly and loundly parading their goslings into yards and driveways and on to decks and docks; it's time to plant the garden; it's time to relearn how to run. 

 Maybe Van Halen really did say it best. Maybe if your back is up against the wall, you might as well jump. 

 At the very worst, you might learn something about yourself, something you needed to recognize, so that you could grow and become a better you. 

But there is also a damn good chance that if you jump, you might find your people and you might see the ground and it might be full of possibilities and promise. 

 If you are brave enough to jump, you might not always get what you want, but you just might find you get what you need.

May Tired.

 It's May.

The sun is shining. Third Winter finally ended. Summer is coming, the garden centers are packed, mask mandates are lifted, baseball season is in full swing.

Your teachers are exhausted.

They have permanent shin splints from balancing on the balls of their feet, standing 6' away at all times, and engaging their students both in the room and on screen through sheer determination, extensive use of eyebrows, and "active posture."

They have become hopelessly near-sighted from squinting at screens for far too many hours per day, and peering hopefully through the black boxes in Zoom, searching for some semblance of life in the layers of black. They are buying reading glasses in bulk, stashing a pair in every couch cushion and random drawer they pass by.

Photo by Tim Gouw on Unsplash

Their house is May dirty. They haven't dusted since First Spring. The laundry is washed and dried, but it's just never going to get put away and they have resigned themselves to living out of the clean laundry mountains, wearing rumpled shirts, embracing their inner Ms. Frizzle. The dishes are clean, but that's because they've given up on dishes. It's easier to just feed everyone out of the McDonald's bags and the pizza box lids. The kitchen counter is full of empty bottles and cans, but at least no one bothers to use a glass anymore. The bills are stacked haphazardly on the kitchen table, hoping to get paid. Shoes are literally everywhere. The cats have taken over.

It's May, and your teachers don't have much left in the tank. Their relationships are May ignored. They are hoping these relationships survive until Mid-June, are strong enough to ride it out; only then will they have enough energy to try to repair what's left of their friendships, family, and loves.

They don't remember what sex is. They also have lost their social filter and they're not sure if they should talk about sex or not. They live with teenagers, are surrounded by teenagers, only see teenagers when they try to close their eyes at night. They have no idea what's appropriate anymore. Looking at the teenagers in the room, it seems like daisy dukes, sweatpants, trucker hats, and socks with Crocs are socially appropriate, but that can't be right. Your teachers are confused. They don't sleep much. They also haven't had a real haircut in 8 months. They are hoping that no one has noticed.

It's May, and your teachers are frustrated. Their email inbox is May full of desperate seniors, asking what they need to do in order to pass the class (turn stuff in) and how many things they need to complete (do the math) and what they are missing (check Powerschool). Their office hours are empty, as no one shows up for extra help, or to ask these questions in person. More emails arrive. "I emailed you yesterday, but maybe you missed it. What do I need to do to pass the class? And may I have an extension, please?"

Your teachers are trying to hold it all together, stretched in the rack of work and home and their kids and your kids and their parents and those parents and colleagues and friends and deadlines and evaluations and bills and grades and so. many. emails. 

And your teachers know that their job is not harder than anyone else's our there, it's just different. It is physically and emotionally draining when you have so many lives to balance, so many kids you are trying to keep afloat, so many plates in the air. Your teachers are not asking for pity, or accolades, or cookies (maybe cookies?), or to be labeled as heroes; they are just asking for a bit of grace right now.

It's May. Your teachers will make it through this. They will get it all done. They will probably not resign. They will probably drink too much. They know that in a month, they will sleep again, and by August, they will get the house back in shape and begin to get their muffin top back in shape and get the relationships they have left back in shape and they will be ready to do it all again.

Because teaching is what they love, and teachers are who they are.

But today, in May, they are spent. Their bucket is empty. Their to-do list has filled the Blue Book and they are writing in the margins.

Your teachers need little bit of grace, a little less snark, a little more physical space, and maybe a couple more pair of reading glasses.

And they definitely need a box of wine.

Photo by Dylan Collette on Unsplash

Untitled.

 Today, I lost a student.

We weren't particularly close. I had him in class last year, the semester the pandemic hit. He was a nice kid, a good kid. He was conscientious. He was funny. He was small for his age, but he held his own. I'd only had him in class for a couple of months. An elective. Not a graduation requirement.

Even though I'm no longer there, in that district, I've been following his story. A freak accident at 2nd base, a collision sent him to the hospital for a week. It was scary. But now he was home, full of positivity, on the mend. A local celebrity on the news, fundraisers full of prayers and well-wishes. Thank god he was on the mend.

And then he wasn't. Somehow, something horrible, awful --there are no words-- something unfathomable happened.

He died.

And I can't imagine what his parents are feeling. His friends. His team. The kid he collided with. His school, his lunch table, his world.

Today, I washed and folded my own son's baseball uniform. His pants were filthy, from sliding into base. They are clean now.

My son has a game on Wednesday. He plays 1st.

I can't imagine what it is like to lose a child. I don't know how I would survive.

All I know is what it feels like to lose a student. And I sit and I hold my son's baseball socks in my hands and I squeeze them just a bit tighter, until I can't feel my fingertips.

And then I put the socks on the pile, and I look out into the darkness, searching for answers.