Island Time

Hello again!

As is so often the case (and surely I'm not alone in this), sometimes I get lost. I get caught up in the commute, the onslaught of junk mail and paperwork and errands and the need to unload the dishwasher, mow the lawn, and return the phone calls. When this happens, I forget to do the things that inspire me: I forget to read for pleasure, I forget to stand at the ocean's shore, I forget to write. I forget who I am really, trapped by my own busy-ness.

This year was a special one in my life, a turning point, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. I returned to the career that means the most to me, that inspires me, that reminds me of who I really am (and not who I think I'm supposed to be, or who someone else wants me to be). I watched my daughter navigate not just the beginning of high school, but a mid-year transition to a second new school. (Not for the faint of heart, that.)

I was so wrapped up in becoming who I want to be that I forgot to be who I am. I was so busy becoming that I forgot to just be.

No regrets.

Some years are like that, and offer challenges that demand full time attention. Early this year I realized that I only had two goals for the entire year, and that the rest would just have to wait: 1) I needed to be the best mom I am capable of being for my daughter, and 2) I needed to figure out how to be a decent teacher again. While I believe in balance, and self care, and political action, and, well, yard work...this wasn't that year. Holding tight to my two goals was all I could manage.

Initially, this gave me anxiety. But what about this small thing, and this big thing, and this incredibly important thing? What about that? I was raised to think that it was my job to Do It All With A Smile, and I was actively acknowledging my limitations, to not just not get everything all done, but to refuse to attempt such a fool's errand.

But here is what I've learned from such an enterprise: it was liberating. My house was a little grittier than I'd like it to be, my body is much softer than I'd like it to be, I didn't write at all (this blog was as much writing as I tried, and the last entry was February 11th...!). A younger version of myself might consider this a failure, a weakness, a series of mistakes, a shame and an embarrassment. My wiser self considers it a grand accomplishment.

This year, I put my soul into my two missions. I helped my daughter to navigate a rocky year, and I saw her rise up, and I saw our relationship navigate some bumps and bruises and become stronger than ever. I taught with more heart than I knew I had, swallowing my pride at my newness on countless occasions, open to the needs of the students and the advice of my peers, but also listening to my internal voice about what gifts I had to offer. I was startled by the results: though I knew I'd enjoy teaching again, I didn't know that I would love it with a tenderness and joy that often took my breath away. I didn't know that the students would recognize that love, and reflect it back to me.

I am exhausted but giddy. I have changed my life's path, again, turning my ship in a new direction, uncharted. (I do not know many who have taken such career risks at my age.) I feel young again: the world is full of hope and possibility, I can grow, and I can't see the future but it feels fresh and new. I am no longer in the fall of my life, but in the spring once again, when things are fresh, new, and filled with possibility.

I am on the first week of my summer vacation, and the startling realization that I've actually pulled this thing off. Not only did I survive my first year, but I thrived. I may have only had two big goals, but I feel like I hit them out of the park, and I'm delighted. Deciding that I could not do it all (for the first time in my life) meant that I was focused and that, possibly, I did better than I hoped for.

Hurrah!

But to everything there is a season, and I have no desire to stay put. If my waist gets any bigger I'll need a whole new wardrobe, and if I don't do some house projects then I'll hate walking in the front door. If I don't write, I feel my soul withering. And if I don't spend lots of time in nature, I can't breathe. And politics? It's a mess, and people are being hurt, and if I don't take my white-hetero-middle-class privilege and do something, then I won't be able to look myself in the eye. It's time.

One of the blessings of my new life is that I get resets built in. As a teacher, I have a definitive cycle each year: a new year means a new crop of students, a newly revised curriculum, a new chance to be my best self. And the end of the year means a chance to regroup, to breathe, to do some self care, and to set some new goals.

In my last jobs, I had two weeks of vacation a year. It wasn't enough time to do much: a couple days of chaperoning field trips, a couple of days at Christmas, a long weekend, and one week of camping, and my year was done. I never quite caught my breath, ever.

But now I'm on island time.

I write this from a cabin in the San Juans, a little slice of paradise. The cabin is owned by a dear friend who is generous with her invitations to share the space, and I've been coming here at least annually for more than twenty years, usually for a weekend at a time. But with my daughter off on an adventure with friends (mountain biking and river rafting, and staying in a cabin in Oregon), I find myself on the first real week of summer truly living on island time.

I'm ready for clean food - the fruits and vegetables of summer call. I'm ready for long walks and hikes, and, when my body feels ready, long runs. I'm ready to dive into the sea, and let the cold, bracing water remind me that I'm alive. I'm ready to read one book after the next. I'm ready to think about life, to reflect, to ponder.

We all need time and space for island time. I'm well aware that it might be a necessity for a balanced and happy life, and that many people never get that space. I think about the clients at the food bank where I used to work, and I think about children separated from their parents and living in converted Wal-Marts filled with kennel like cages, and I know how incredibly fortunate I am. I will not squander my fortune.

The summer is new, fresh, and unknown. I am on an island, writing this from a sofa, sun streaming through the windows, music playing. I've had several cups of coffee, I've got a view of the sea, I found a space to write something, and the world is full of possibility. Today I'll hike around a lake, I'll walk around a beach, I'll read a book, I'll have long chats with one of my dearest friends. In the back of my mind, I'll still be thinking about how I want to shape my life, who I want to be, what I can do to be my best self. But right now, what I want most is to remember how lucky I am, to slow down, to ponder with lasting amazement that...

I did it. I created a new life for myself. I changed my path, and, as Frost reminds us, "that has made all the difference."

And now it is time to slow down. Island time!