The question mark is, perhaps, the most powerful syntactical mark that exists. The nature of the interrogative clause or phrase is that of thought–you inquire as a response to a problem. You draft, you adjust, you adapt, you grow, you think, you try, you test, you risk–all thanks to a question mark. All thanks to a question. What is inquiry but a hypothesis waiting to be tested? What is testing a hypothesis but progressing towards something extraordinary?
I love movement. Running. Galloping. Dancing. Walking. Climbing. Movement is freedom. It is the release of anxiety. It elevates my thoughts. It makes me aware of my entire body. It is tangible progress towards something. It is also, sadly, something our westernized culture seems to have forgotten.
Sitting at a desk for eight hours a day, outside of traveling around the country, was one of the reasons I left my government job in Washington. Prior to finishing my Master’s, I knew that a cubicle/office job would not be a sustainable option, but the temptation of random recruitment and the combination of idealism with an opportunity to affect the politics of our country were enough to seduce me. And there I was, in a future I did not predict. Sitting in a cube. Wearing my suit. Drinking my coffee.
Sitting all day, ironically, is exhausting–but not in the manner of exhaustion that envelopes you, cushions you, after a long day of physically exerting work. It is a droopy exhaustion. Lethargy from nothing. Perhaps from preventing a rhythmic flow of blood through your body, or from your spine being contorted over itself. Science-y stuff.
It’s 6:30 a.m. and I am standing in an open pasture. The grass, coated in dew, makes my journey out to its center all the more difficult in my damp sandals.
But regardless of difficulty, it is beautiful, and as I slide from side to side in attempt to keep my ankles from rolling, I cannot help but admire the peace of the mornings here. The earth coated in natural glitter, which reflects and dances as the summer breeze swims through. Outside of the morning doves cooing, there is a still silence in the air. In the distance, a black and white mass gazes in my direction, flicks her tail, and puts her head back down to graze. I approach slowly, put my hand out, and wait. She walks over, and presses her nose into my hand, her large nostrils inhaling deeply and breathing steam into my palm. I rest my head on hers for a moment, before we make the trek back to the barn to start our day.
If aliens, thousands of years from now, looked over the data we place on the internet each day–I think they would all agree upon the theory that the world ended in 2016.
“Look at all of those Facebook posts,” they would scoff empathetically at our misery.
“The tweets,” they would say. “They literally destroyed themselves from within.”
And there, within the reflection of us, will lay pessimism alongside fear, anger, and hatred. Gone will be our great inventions. Our ability to forget the shackles of our feet and fly. To break barriers and tear assumptions asunder. Oh no, we did nothing. We have no grace. Humans are barbarians. Cannibals.
One of the hardest things about teaching is the acting.
When you have a weekend, or even just a night, where certain situations push you to emotional exhaustion, or even go so far as changing you, putting an eternal dent in your identity. And then, you suddenly find yourself sitting in front of a class, wondering how to bring the pieces of your mind together. How to convince them that you’re okay when a rush of thoughts are occurring in your head, and your heart sinks into your chest. When you have to remain in the present for them, but the sensation of falling is pulling you backward.
The smell of sweet maple syrup brushes my nostrils. A molasses-like sip of coffee touches my lips. I am staring out from my screened-in porch at a towering Live Oak who’s Spanish moss drapes like a spontaneous work of modern art.
In the background Ray Charles is banging on the piano. Cardinals flirt with the introduction to spring.”Y’all” twangs off the tongues of people below me.
And I am home, mostly. Back in the south, near nature and the people I love.
A year ago, my view couldn’t have been more different. And while I miss that place in many ways, there are things that have validated the choices that led me here, as well as the choices I have made for my future. But there are also experiences and emotions that have validated my choice to live there.
When I lived in D.C., a step onto my balcony would amplify the sound of sirens. With a wipe of my finger I could remove the soot that settled on my plants from the cars below. My view across the street was a busy hospital. My nostrils flared at the smell of car exhaust and rubber.
I’m not ashamed to admit that say that my idealism got the best of me when I first moved. I was excited about working in the government, a place I thought I would make a direct and tangible difference. I’d maybe wiggle my way into the Department of Education and change things there, and then go into my role as a teacher. I got to don a suit and wear a cool badge. James Bond style.
When the excitement swayed from moving to a new place, the fear set in. My view narrowed. I knew no one there, and having moved from a place where I was constantly surrounded and stimulated by the people around me, I felt isolated. My life, recently filled with so m
any exuberant and challenging experiences of love and life and knowledge in graduate school and journalism left me sitting in a cubicle. And slowly, I began to ignore the dissonance between words and action of the people around me.
And that was that. That was it. All of my time and all of my work in graduate school, in journalism and traveling, led to this. Had I lived through the most climatic parts of my life already? Was it done? Was it flat or down hill from here on out? The perverseness of these thoughts wore down my spirit. As an optimist, depression isn’t something I encounter often. Sadness, yes. But the inexplicable feeling that something was wrong was new to me. I wasn’t happy.
There were. however, brief moments when I left my shell for a while. When the snowstorm hit D.C., and the violent sounds of the city became muffled, I would walk around the National Mall and embrace the newness of this environment. I sat on benches and watched families as they sled under the shadows of the Washington Monument. Everything covered in white, the Potomac completely Frozen. I brushed my hands over the Vietnam Memorial and cried a little as older veterans brought flowers or badges for the companions who fought beside them. I even began a monthly tradition of stopping by Arlington Cemetery after work to watch the changing of the guard. Families from all over the world, people of all ages, silent, sharing a moment that somehow tied us all together in honor and respect. It was inspiring.
These brief open moments all begin to tie together in the spring. My parents gave me a beautiful hybrid bicycle for my birthday, and I began to bike commute to work (I dreaded the metro, despite its convenience, and I think many D.C. residents share that).
My first few days adjusting to bike commuting were difficult. Arlington and the basin of the Potomac did not make for easy coastal riding. The trails were hilly (one hill, returning from work, was about three miles long), with large ramps and bridges. Often times the chilly spring breezes were strong enough to push me backwards. But I was sick of being stagnant in my life. I needed to face a challenge. So I biked. And as I winded my way through the twisty trails, I realized that there was nature within feet of my apartment. It was never separate from me. Biking was the cathartic catalyst I needed. Funny, because I used to hate it.
The Arlington Loop and Custis Trail are gorgeous. A few miles into the trail and you hit the Potomac river and bike along its shore for the rest of the trip to the Pentagon. In the morning, I’d bike right next to Georgetown’s crew team as they silently muttered their chants, their rhythm fueling my peddling. I’d bike under Memorial Bridge and look across to see the capitol’s monuments. In these sights, I couldn’t help but beam with something other than sorrow for myself. Gratitude, probably. Weeping Willows surrounded the path and I’d greet them by standing and brushing my hands against their drooping branches. Osprey would fly over me, fish in their talons, wiggling like a shaggy wet dog to shake off the musty water. Grass and flowers and green and everything my eyes craved to see surrounded me each morning. Greeted me with an awakening similar to the first smell or scent of coffee.
Towards the end of my ride, I would stop by Gallvery Point, a park near Reagan airport. My dad always told me stories of he and his brother kayaking by the airport and watching the planes take off or land right over their head. I would sit there and watch the planes, thinking of that. That I was able to sit in a spot my father did when he was my age. A place where he developed his future passions for flight. Giant jets would fly feet above my head, and I would sit on my two wheels and marvel at mankind’s capability to persevere in the face of impossibility (wi-fi on airplanes, obviously).
My weekends became filled with hikes with friends in Virginia. Concerts. Dance-a-thons. Kayaking and camping. Encounters with people filled with passions and a zest for life. And that zest was contagious. I, yet again, was in awe of simplicity. Of the little Cardinal who nested in the one tree on our block and sang it’s song. To the man who couldn’t see, and his loyal dog. To the store clerk downstairs who always gave me a square of dark chocolate. To the blooming flowers in windows and the fingers touching at coffee shops. To my dear friends selling their Street Sense news papers to help fight poverty. I want to embrace all of this. I have embraced all of this.
It can be undeniably easy to see horrible things in D.C. Four small walls and a cork board. People marching in apathy, brain waves closed off to the world around them, eyes aloof as they walk past the homeless or hurting. Concrete walls. Soot. Debris. Politics. Ladder climbing. Pollution. Those aspects are still very real, and I am guilty of latching onto them . But I think, in retrospect, I have lifted the blinders I placed upon myself in fear of the unknown.
My staying in my small little world, my underground commute to work, my concrete view from my porch, my perception, kept me from realizing all there was here. This truly was our nation’s capitol, filled with culture, history, and nature. I just had to step back outside of myself to realize it.
Funny how perception changes things. Funny how life, and our reaction to it, changes who we are. Something to be embraced. To be torn apart and reassembled with a greater understanding of identity and wanting. Growth, I think that’s what they call it.
I write this stricken with a tinge of guilt on my shoulder, wondering if I still can. Wondering if I should. And then ultimately realizing that the wondering is simply a manner of coming up with excuses not to.
“Don’t compose this sentence,” the backspace beckons. My finger reaches for the key. It’s impulse. You haven’t written anything in a while. You’re not a writer anymore. Probably not good enough.
The mind can be SUCH a jerk sometimes. So can whiteout. And the backspace key. And those really chalky erasers. And fights against the Arkham Knight in the Bat Mobile. Moral: lots of things are jerks.
Though despite my guilt, I write this in happiness and contentment. I’m starting to grow and snuggle into a career field I see myself pursuing for the long-haul. One that I am optimistic and passionate about. I am also in a place that allows me to be in nature, work with wildlife and horses again, and open up to the idealistic identity I thought I lost for a little while; though, I think I prefer the term under-construction as opposed to lost.
It’s been ages since I’ve written in this blog, or really written anything outside of a class syllabus. It’s been ages since I’ve poured my time, experiences, memories, and moments into something that was both professional and personal to me. Teaching, in many ways, can be personal, but it is also inundated in connections and social interactions. Teaching at this point, consumes most of my thoughts. How will my lesson plan go tomorrow? What creative activity can I have my kids do to emphasize a point? What do I want my kids to learn? How can I help those who need more assistance? Does this material make sense for multiple intelligences? How is this going to tie in later on? How can I make sure my students are learning at all? What do I need to grade? How can I grade fairly? These questions are never easily answered, and when they are, their answers change. I love dwelling on these things, in the space of ambivalence and creativity.
But I think I’ve gotten to the point where I need to take time to separate my life from my career–a concept that I think is foreign to most who are in or have recently finished grad school. And ideally, that’s what getting back to writing will help me do. Reflection is sometimes the best of teachers… and as an English and writing teacher, I feel like I should probably practice what I preach. So my goal, is that once a week, I will have a piece up on this blog again. It might be an article I’ve recently published, an interview, a reflection, a story, an idea, a blurb, a recipe, an independent clause. I can’t guarantee what it will be, but it will have words. Beautiful, meaningful, fulfilling words.*
*I’m not saying I write beautiful words, I’m saying words in-and-of-themselves are beautiful, and might actually be made less beautiful in the context of this blog (RIP words: thanks for being useful). But it’s still pretty mind-blowing to me that symbols can carry emotional meaning with them. Carl Sagan uses them real good.