I was having trouble finding delight yesterday. Not that it was an actively bad day, but it was one of those days that just "is." It was December 1, and the winter doldrums made their presence known with a constant stream of light rain. We had no plans for our Friday evening, so Jeremy made dinner and we played Tickets to Ride (junior) with the girls. I was happy for the family time, but I knew I'd be lying if I tried to make a meaningful metaphor out of it. Six days in and already a failure?
As I lay in bed last night, I tried to think of something to write about. I finally came up with a topic, but I'd fall asleep as soon as I started to think of it. Not sure what that means.
Each morning I get to school about 7am, even though first period doesn't begin until 7:50. I'm not the only one in the building at that hour--there are robotics students arriving for their early-morning period; custodians turning on lights; a handful of other teachers prepping for the day; our school resource officer welcoming everyone at the front door. Still, the building is largely quiet; the hallways are largely empty. A contrast to the hustle and bustle of more than 500 students that characterizes the school day.
When I walk through an empty 2nd floor hallway and into my empty classroom, where I flick on the lights, I feel a sense of calm. I say hi to my plants, fish my coffee out of my bag, and settle in my chair to begin the day's tasks. Once students arrive and assignments pile up, I'll feel stressed and rushed. But the quiet under glaring fluorescent lights is "me" time.
Because everything's a metaphor, I'll argue that the reason even just thinking about my empty classroom made me fall asleep is because it's one of the few times of day where I really am at rest; a time where I feel like I have everything together.
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