On the Eve of the Eve of My Departure

Warning: it's about to get mushy.

Pull out the metaphors, folks. It's a no holds barred scenario- transition time. We need all the wisdom and cliches we can gather to make sense of all that come with any huge transition, and this one is a doozy.

I have been in DC for five years, the longest I've ever been anywhere since childhood after a series of transitory seasonal jobs that defined my 20s. In DC, I've grown magnificent relationships with my colleagues through the blood, sweat, and tears of trying to tame the wild beasts of the middle school classroom. Just as deep were some of those relationships with aforementioned beasts, who taught me more about myself than I would have liked to know if given the choice, but this ultimately led to such profound growth. At home, I was invited into a wild web of friendships and found myself loved from all sides by musicians, artists, writers, DJs, nurses, do-gooder lawyers, environmentalists, and many other world-enhancing folks.

Because of this radiant extended family, I scaled mountains in California, painted myself into an art show, played music on stage, immersed myself in yoga, completed triathlons, and handed off eighth grade poetry to author Rebecca Skloot. I found myself in hysterics watching friends attempt to teach the worm on New Years Eve, crying alongside them when parents passed on, and sitting contently with them in the woods in deep meditation.

I do not try to push down the waves of sadness that overcome me as I hug my coteacher for the last time, as another's children refuse to leave the car because they don't want me to leave, as I sit amongst a going away brunch surrounded by the very chaotic joy I have chosen to forsake.

Instead, I breath it in deeply and feel the sadness push against my chest and pool in my belly. I notice the moment it rises into my throat, then swirls and falls away, giving me access to peace once again. Having the luxury of time during this move has allowed me to observe how emotion moves through me. Because of the time to practice sitting, I think, the waves have been swells that come and pass, rather than roiling tsunamis that crash overhead and bury me in despair. I am not anguished, but gently melancholic.

My gratitude sits solidly in the midst of this, a rock to find solace on as I ride the waves that come from letting go of something so dang good. "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard," said Winnie the Pooh. I feel that so deeply, on this eve.  How truly lucky I am.

So I leave with all of the emotions, for as I look back, I, too, look forward. I will return to the land on which I was raised- of pine trees, craggy peaks, snowy streets, and salty ocean air. My family will sit an hour or two south and long time friends down the street. There's a two bedroom apartment in the West End of Portland waiting with my name on the lease. My sweetheart is coming with me. Other than that, there are many unknowns yet to be penciled in.

When describing the impending birth of his child, my friend Mark noted, "It's like we're standing at a trailhead and it's really foggy. Everyone keeps describing the steep beautiful mountains behind the fog, and we know they are there, but we can't see them. We are about to go on an epic hike, and we're excited, but we don't really know what it going to be like." As I walk towards the next chapter in my life, I feel similarly.

On the eve of the eve of my departure, what is happening is this: I sit amongst some half filled boxes in an echoing room, reflect back, imagine forward, and land here. I breathe in. I breathe out. A helicopter groans overhead. I yawn. I breathe in. I breathe out. Everything else has gone by or is yet to be, and so I give thanks for this moment too.

Now what?

There's nothing better at bringing you back to the real world after a week-long retreat than an indecipherable email from your incompetent land management company claiming your house owes "nearly $1000" (apparently they are unclear on the exact amount) from some time over the past 2 years of it being inhabited (with the full ledger attached) and requiring we "send send" a check right away.

After one week of retreat, of sitting in silence for 2 1/2 days, of listening to profound talks and inspiring lessons, there was only one response.

I had to rapidly shoot off a mouthy email to my roommates: This email is f***ing insane!"  I only realized aforementioned management company was still looped into the email chain as I watched "sending" repeat on the bottom of my screen.  I haven't enabled undo send on my email yet(put that on my to do list), so my rapid thumb-punching had zero impact on the progress of the transaction.  It was done.

Oops.  

Mindful Erica= 0.  World= 1.

   

I spent a few minutes post-send swallowing a huge lump back in my throat and enduring waves of panic. 'I was in super ninja mindfulness training camp and THIS is my first move back in the world???'  I couldn't believe it.  My head started to spin.  'I want to teach this to people?  I'm an idiot!   The oldest mistake in the book!! Gahhhh!!'  And on and on until...

"Now what?" 

 The question came to me.  The same question I had spent cultivating in the hours and hours of meditating from the week before. Okay, so I screwed up.  What happens next?  With that question I noticed my mind pause.  And so I asked again. And again. Each time I asked my mind slowed for a moment and I noticed breath. The chatter of folks around me. The hum of the bus wheels churning against pavement.  

"Now what?"  

I wrote an apology email to the management company for my message born from frustration.  My roommates were delighted at my faux pas and wrote back in glee.  My mom laughed with me as I noted the great irony of the situation.  

It was an unskillful response, no doubt.  My mindfulness was a bit delayed out of the gate.  But the, "Now what?" let me recognize where I was and stop the story I was making up, so I could clearly see what was actually happening next.  So that I could choose a skillful response.  

Mindful Erica= 1/2?  

The Human Mirror

I left teaching at my current school for many reasons.  Mostly, I didn't like the way I was feeling emotionally on a day-to-day basis, despite all the self-care strategies I was using.  I was sleeping well, eating well, exercising, and meditating in the mornings.  I still left at the end of the day feeling ragged.  My Sundays were still spent with a heavy lump in my chest pouring over lesson plans and student work for the coming week.  I was working really hard for my happiness, but it just felt...bad.

I felt like I needed some time away from the classroom, so I started constructing a vision of an alternative life as an outside provider of mindfulness, or tutoring, or teaching yoga, or monitoring a rock wall.  I imagined coaching willing participants through yoga poses and meditations.  I imagined waking up on Sundays and taking leisurely runs without the strain of Monday looming.  I imagined coming home on a Thursday night and staying awake long enough to see the darkness of night.  I imagined feeling peace.  It felt...good.

But then, as fate/well-meaning mothers would have it, my mom forwarded me a job posting for teaching middle school English at an expeditionary learning school in Portland.  One of the best in the country.  Exactly the role I filled at my old school.  It was too perfect.  I had to apply.  I had to get on a plane to interview.  I had to be offered the job.  I had to accept it.

All of this with so little thought, but lots of dedication, to the cause.

Until things started to get shaky.  My certification that we were all waiting on was taking forever.  When it came through, I was missing 12 English credit hours.  I spent 24 hours straight (I didn't sleep that night) wracking my brain about how I could take 4 classes in the next two months. There are online self-paced classes.  I could study every spare minute and eek it out.  I could do it. But I can't.

As I agonized over this decision, I bounced it off of friends near and far.  They had so many suggestions and words of encouragement.  Can't you long-term sub?  Can't they work something out? You can push through this sumer and get those credits in!  I found myself growing angry with them.  No, no, and no.  It's a big bureaucracy.  There are no loopholes.  I can't do that much work while traveling and moving.

In fact, my primary response to this whole situation was rage.  Rage at the injustice of it all.  I have a certification, a master's degree, and five years of teaching in the very role they are seeking to fill. You're saying I'm not qualified?  This is how the system works?  A first year teacher straight out of school would be a better fit?  I could not accept it.

Until.

Until I explained the whole situation to a friend over the phone, who stated simply, "Well, it sounds like you just don't want to do it."

Huh. I hadn't really fully digested that possibility.  Maybe I just don't want to do it.  My primary emotion was anger around the absurdity of it all, not disappointment at not getting to teach next year.  I was frustrated with my friends for trying to fix the situation. Maybe I didn't want it fixed.

Until my friend provided that mirror for me, I couldn't see clearly what I really wanted.  My vision was clouded by the perfection and ease of the possibility of working at that reputable school.  By the knowing that I would be great in that role, and the school could really use me.  By the security of moving with a job and salary lined up.  These are all incredibly valuable truths.

But maybe not the only Truth.

There are people who believe the universe, or God, helps us align with our true calling.  Or that, "Way Opens," according to the Quakers.  I've never really settled into any particular belief system without my fierce skepticism quickly tackling the idea and wrestling around with it, but I also never fully walked away from this line of thought.   It is comforting to think that perhaps it wasn't meant to be in a grander sense, and that the universe has other plans for me.  I don't know if it even matters if that's the real truth if it serves me.  And the universe did seem to be listening on this one.

Moments after I had mentally and emotionally let go of the prospect of teaching, my dear friend announced to me over chat that she was coming back to Maine to lead yoga retreats.  In less than half an hour, we had the seed of a business plan.

I don't yet know how this is all going to unfold.  There is a slight chance the school will get back to me with a work around.  The dreams with my yoga lady friend are still just dreams.  But I feel more at peace than I have through this whole process.

Our emotions serve as important cues that we are quick to ignore in the face of logical choices.  My ire, instead of disappointment, was an important nuance that I couldn't see at the time until someone came and saw it for me.  I didn't see my friends' questions and suggestions as support because I wasn't 100% sure I wanted to solve the problem.  Sometimes we need others to help us more clearly see our own path.  If we don't like what they say, that's information to collect and interpret.  If we resonate with their beliefs, that's also information to ponder.

So to all my mirrors: I thank you.