My foot lingers just a beat longer before finding its way to the earth.  No one else would have noticed, unless they were right behind me and the slight pause disrupted their rhythm, forcing them to adjust momentarily to avoid a collision: that awkward crash of strangers’ bodies touching intimately to avoid injury.  But no one is that close to me at this moment and so this temporary uncertainty goes unnoticed by everyone, but me.  I can’t ignore the cascading change within me caused by the hesitation, and so I choose to lean into it a bit, forcing the pause to become a full-on stop.  

What if this is the wrong path? What if I have chosen the wrong shoes? I think I know the way, but I can only see to the first turn before the road curves; I can only imagine what lies around the bend.  Am I prepared? Do I have the provisions necessary?  The map is unclear and I am questioning the destination. Did I understand the instructions clearly? Do I have the right address? Am I wearing the wrong shoes?? The uncertainties begin to creep in and then they materialize, reanimating from my past and standing alongside me and in front of me, growing louder, reminding me that I don’t really know what I am doing here. 

I want to freeze this moment.  I need to step off to the side and collect my thoughts and remember why I even got dressed this morning.  I need to rethink the myriad of choices and voices that conflated to bring me this point, analyzing them again, sifting through to make sure that I am seeing every piece clearly.  I need to sit and watch the reels of my recent and distant past replay, reaffirming the things I know. I need to hear my champions (and there are only a few) whisper in my ear, “You’ve got this” because sometimes we need to hear the trusted voices to trust ourselves.  I need to be sure that I will not fail.

I want to allow my foot to hoover until I am certain, but my muscles begin to ache and I cannot stay here too long.  This freeze-frame doesn’t work in a dynamic world where butterflies cause tsunamis, classrooms wait for teachers and wars erupt in far-off places that are connected through invisible threads that only show themselves in the unraveling.  The longer I wait, the obstacles grow larger and the road seems to inexplicably steepen, as if a mountain is emerging from below.  If I am to get ahead of it, I need to begin.

Now.

I need a one daycation from this life

Just one day to get my head on right

But I ain’t givin’ up

I’m gonna stay in the fight

I need a one daycation from this life

I need a one daycation from this life

Just one day to get my head on right

Michael Franti

Listening to the words of Michael Franti (and dancing, of course), I am struck by the constant reminders all around me to be mindful and “in the moment” wherever I am .  It’s easy to do in my kitchen on this Tuesday morning of my winter break from school.  I have had a day of adjusting to a new rhythm and we have not yet started packing for our upcoming trip and thinking about “what’s next” at school or at life is feeling distant this morning….it is easy to do in my kitchen.  Today.  Right now.  This is a sweet spot and I am a little in awe that I can recognize it.    

Franti is talking to himself as much as he is talking to me.  We don’t have the luxury to give up.  I don’t have the luxury to give up.  I don’t have the luxury of having Jesus take my wheel (that is a blog for another time; please don’t judge my judgy-ness of those who are able to give over everything to their faith) or the luxury of disengagement that some of my friends have learned to do with their now-almost-young-adult children (who, it is important to note, all survived adolescence).  Just one day is all Franti is asking for, one day to slow down and reconnect with himself and remember to feel the ground beneath his feet.  One day to reconnect with the woman he loves (because in music there is always a love story) and to stare at the stars.  One day to get his head on right, whatever that can mean.  

Clearly, the secret is in the moments and the recognition of them when they hit randomly or purposefully.  (Mine, by the way, has already moved along, replaced with the active pushing away of thoughts about school, life, teenagers and packing that does, in fact, need to get done). 

Researchers have examined how much time humans think about the past or plan for the future, referring to this as mental time travel.  In one Harvard study, they found that humans spend just over half of our waking time engaged in this mental time travel, which, they conclude, is not good.  I don’t know if I need a degree from Harvard to know that perseverating on the past or daydreaming about the future is detrimental to the present, but I am amused by the fact that they spent time researching it.  Of course, there are others (not at Harvard, but no less impressive given the many, many letters after their names) who took the examination even further and found that those who focused on the future were more optimistic than those who rehashed the past.  They noted that the importance of learning from the past is often eclipsed by the recognition that we are repeating it and not learning from it, which cycles one back to wondering what it is from our past that pulls us to constantly fail at living in the present. Okay, that wasn’t a part of the study, but it is definitely a part of my interpretation of the study.

So, what is the conclusion? What am I to learn from all of this?  Michael Franti is all of us and we need a solid balance, not just between thinking about the past and planning for the future, but living in the present.  None of this is revolutionary, but if the folks at Harvard felt a need to study it, then maybe I should spend a bit more time thinking about it. And, of course, more time dancing in the kitchen.

(a haiku I wish I could pin to my son’s jacket as he walks into his therapist’s office)

Here is my basket

It contains all of my eggs

Please don’t break any.

There is a moment when it all transforms.

A precise moment when the students who will become more than just students turn into the kids who stick in my heart.  They will be the few that return, who hug me in Wegmans or keep me abreast of their journeys long after they have crossed the commencement stage.  These are the kids who evolve beyond the class and transcend the roles we occupy.  They are the ones that really become connected to me–and me to them– in that lasting, amazing way that is really the ultimate reward of teaching day in and day out. 

But that exact moment is hard to decipher and even harder to predict.  There is a clear line, but it is only visible in the after.  I have not been able to figure out when it is coming, but I recognize it when I have passed over.  There is a perceptible difference in our interactions, big and small, and our work becomes a part of a much larger dynamic.  It feels like we are side by side, shoulder to shoulder, as opposed to facing one another or, in some cases, standing with our backs to the other. 

Today is that day.  I wish I knew what the ingredients were or how to somehow control this bit of evolution, but that is beyond my comprehension.  I just know that somehow, today, in the midst of responding to a racial incident that left adults shaken and students vulnerable, meeting in our library and not the familiarity of our classroom, and operating on less sleep than my coffee could counteract, there was The Shift.  It happened late in the day and it could have easily passed by unnoticed.  Except that the contrast to the past (almost) two years made this impossible to miss. It is a bright yellow dot on a canvas of grey, a rare bloom on a ghost orchid.  

I know that this day cannot last. It is not a day that can be every day. But I also know that this is the other side of the line. We have transformed and it is not possible to fold the wings back into the cocoon.

The snow covers everything 
for a brief moment
it is silent.  Complete.  

Then cars intrude
thoughts intrude
life intrudes 
the silence is lost.  Gone.

This is not a poem.  I want to settle into the white spaces but the letters are necessary because, ya know, writing.  I want to settle into the white space but without the noise, there is nothing and then there is no purpose.  I want to settle into the white space and rest, completely, without intrusion and purpose and reverberations.  This is not a poem.  This is writing gone awry. 

Today feels like white space.
Blank space.  
Silence before the world takes it away.

The distance between two points
(usually) full of resting places  
park benches to sit upon 
just to not be moving

But this distance is more of an abyss. 
It is no park.  And if there was, the snow would cover everything.   

And the snow does cover everything 
for more than a brief moment
it is silent.  Complete.  

I have been given the rarest of gifts today: the gift of time. Mother Nature has capitalized on the confluence of the arctic dip and the unnatural warmth of the great lake, bringing us air that is too cold to breathe, and fine, silken snow that has turned the streets into slick, dangerous terrain. Take this and add in a weary populace, a shortage of patience and people, an unusually green December and we have our first snow delay of the school year.

In the Time Before, this weather combination would not have warranted much of a response from the Powers That Be. Perhaps we would have been given a sympathetic nod on the way through the doors, just barely on time and scrambling to make it to our classrooms before the slow trickle of students streamed in from sluggish busses and parents’ cars that were reluctant to start. Maybe we would have found humor in seeing our misery mirrored in the faces of our colleagues. The camaraderie would have carried us far and we would have huddled over lukewarm cups of coffee, lamenting the too-long winter with record breaking snow totals and temperatures that defeat even the best ice-melt on the market. Students would chatter about their treacherous journey in and then beg to go out to play for just a few minutes during lunch recess…and, occasionally, some hardy soul would even volunteer to go out to supervise.

But this morning, the call was made early by the superintendent and I settle into this rare gift, savoring the minutes and breathing deep the calm that I can extend for just a few more hours. I am writing and sipping hot, fresh coffee and contemplating my yoga practice that awaits me. I know, already, that this gift is beginning to fade, shrinking with every click from the clock’s analogue hand. I resist the urge to check the time, staying in the space I have been given. Similar to the dreams that trail off with each jarring alarm (because there are many “snoozes” to move through before I am fully out of my unconscious life), I am simultaneously full of joyful gratitude and preemptive grief. The pressure to appreciate, fully, the time I have been gifted threatens to overshadow the time itself.

This is my 7th year choosing (or attempting to choose) One Little Word that will help to guide me through the year.  Each year, I look back at the past list of words as I think about selecting a new word. Looking at the collection of words takes me back to each January, to each beginning.  I am fascinated by the obvious push and pull of my years.  When they are set down, back to back, I can see that I was releasing myself out to explore and then feeling the need to pull back to settle for a bit and simply digest.  This veritable breathing–inhale: fill up on the tension of movement, exhale: settle into quiet–is as palpable to me now, filling up my lungs and emptying them, as was each years’ exploration.  There is so much story behind each word, stories that have not yet found their way out.  

2016–Canoe

This was the year that I was introduced to Rolf Gates, author of Meditations from the Mat: Daily Reflections on the Path of Yoga.  In this transformative book, Gates expertly uses the metaphor of the canoe and riding down that river, trusting the twists, turns and inevitable capsizes that will certainly occur.  I was in need of a canoe to climb into and take me on my own journey.

2017–Ubiety

An antiquated word that means the condition of being in a fixed and definite place. While it is not a word that is used any longer in our modern vernacular, I was feeling a keen need for stability and place, and this word encapsulated all that I longed for in my world at this time.  It was a word that I felt so connected to, I wore it on my wrist, engraved on a small circle of silver, until the threads gave way.  It now lives on my keychain, a constant reminder of this need to belong somewhere. 

2018–Quest

My search for stability and grounding was followed up with some serious wanderlust!  I had so much that I wanted to do and see and experience….there is still so much that I want to do and see and experience.  This quest, however, turned out to be inward and the growth and exploration was, indeed, valiant.

2019–Stillness

I emerged from my journey inward to find that the waters were far too rough for my comfort.  I needed to sit. I needed to observe.  I needed to limit decisions and sit with variables.  I needed to be in my own stillness; movement of any kind held dangerous potential.  

2020–Brave

This was the year that I found Brené Brown and felt the fundamental shift of stepping into my own power.  The notion that being vulnerable and connected was a brave endeavor spoke to me, spoke to my fear and to my past.  I knew that to be fully present in my own life meant that I had to be brave, that I had to see where courage, vulnerability, shame and empathy existed in my world and how they were interconnected.  

But then March came and all bets were off.  Bravery meant something entirely different.

2021–Joy

Like so many, I thought that I could find the joy.  Seize the joy. Create the joy.  There had to be joy, right? There was joy in moments, for sure, but wasn’t there joy that could sweep over me like a fog rolling in? Wasn’t there Total Joy? I spent the year sinking into the moments and finding the connections between them.  I remembered that joy existed, even when I couldn’t see it, and I had faith that joy was not elusive and would, one day, come to rest within me.

And for this year…Silence.  
I am going to harness my inner Aaron Burr and talk less, maybe even smile more.  And even if silence does not prevail, at least I am committed to being thoughtful with my words and harnessing my impulsivity.  I will take a breath or two before speaking, and when I can’t refrain, I will at least reflect on my words. 

Outside my classroom window, they are moving dirt.  This is a part of the massive –and poorly timed– capital project that is decimating our school, taking away my floors and over a quarter of the usable space in the building.  I totally underestimated the psychological and physical impact of teaching on unfinished concrete floors. We all underestimated the impact of teaching in a construction zone during an interminable pandemic.  I spent far too much money on footwear that might, just might, mitigate the wear and tear on my body, but I have not yet found a purchase that could ameliorate the wear and tear on all of our psyches.

But today, the construction crew is moving dirt.  They are digging it up from somewhere out of my sight and filling in the accidental pond that had become home to two wayward ducks and held the promise of spring ducklings.  They are drawing attention back to the construction zone that had, finally, begun to fall into the background.  The workers and the dust and the yellow tape once front and center of all of our conversations had been eclipsed by the work at hand….work that even, occasionally, included education resembling the Before Times.  A new road arrived while I was at lunch. A tractor used it, happily, toting who-knows-what from one place to another. The kids tried to write and conference and do workshop, but the tractor won.

So the dirt moves and the kids look out and the tractor engine roars.  I know that we will one day have a beautiful new building, with moveable walls, built-in bookshelves and real live floors; I just wish that we kept the ducks around for a bit longer.