A return to this blog somehow coincides with the end of another school year which is now slowly, surely, thankfully coming to a close. I am beyond ready, as are my colleagues and the kids, the big-person, little-person tribe weary from a long 180 day journey that unless you walk in these shoes will never be fully grasped. I've always said that if there was a chandelier hanging in my classroom, the kids would be swinging from it come June. They've worked hard. We've all worked hard. It is time to say good-bye.
Summers off. Yes. Summers off, I suppose. "Those teachers. " My dad, in his unruffled, so-be-it manner, always reminded me that it's nearly impossible to enlighten others about a hard-earned break that is not only justified but necessary. This gift to regroup, rest and recharge allows us to take on the marathon (and the chandelier) again soon enough. Non-teachers need not understand. Many will. Lots more won't. It's all good. Warrior-teachers we will remain.
As spring arrived and the school year began to wind down, my heart stopped beating for brief intervals from time to time. It's been in these moments that I could barely catch my breath. No, not in lasting kinds of ways. Instead, in ways that reminded me that this year is markedly different from last. This year no one precious, at least to me, is dying. This year I don't need to dash from school at any given moment, year-end punch list incomplete, to be with the person I love most on this earth who I know isn't long.
This time last year my heart raced all the time. I glared at the calendar wishing for a halt of days and with it an unrealistic, bottomless gift of time. More time, please. More time. All I wanted was to walk away from Room 10 and capture all the remaining moments with a father who I treasure more than any of these words will ever tell.
People always say, the first year is all about getting through those "firsts". I suppose that's true. Maybe it's true. I can't really be sure because I suspect that the seconds and thirds and fourths will make me take pause too.
I know what they mean when they carry on about this "first" business. But for me, this first year has been about that and so much more it seems. I couldn't breathe in the initial months after Dad passed. For lack of a better word, a sickening feeling fell over me every time I registered his passing and realized I would no longer hear his voice, be welcomed with one more bear-sized embrace, gaze at his infectious, heart-filling smile and feel the love in the sparkle of his eyes. I would no longer return home to his greeting on my answering machine, the only one still to call us on our antiquated landline, telling me about the book he had read, the benefits of blueberries and meditation in no particular order, asking about my day, wondering about the best ways to make that protein smoothie from the yoga magazine I'd left behind for him to read.
I missed him on the very first day of school when he would have called to find out how the day had unfolded, what the kids were like, the curious things said, and who was the most wiggly. I missed him come fall when an unexpected surgery had me at home ending a long chapter of loss that he understood like no other. I missed him at the first crunching of leaves, on the first snowfall and the first full moon and all the moons to come. I missed him on Christmas and Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day and every day in between. He was a sucker for moments, as am I. He was missed once again on mother's day when he would often call just to say hello because he knew, always knew, the day was never mine.
And as June came along, and with it birthdays and father's day, I missed him all the more. When I arrived unknowingly at a surprise party last weekend to celebrate my 50 years, pulled off lovingly by Bob and my family, I lost my breath again. The surprise was true. I did not see it coming at all. And as I took in the crowd, registering all the family and friends who came together to celebrate with me, I lost my breath once again. As my eyes roamed and warmly greeted folks one by one, I knew a most cherished one was missing. Another of the firsts. My precious Dad missing. My breath gone.
One year ago my dad and I wrote our last post on this blog. It followed our final yoga class together. I've not had the strength to return here to this blog since. I've not felt brave enough to take on this writing without him, though I know our work is not done. I have several more pages of his handwritten notes outlining memories that we wished to put to page. The treasured scrawl is mine to keep or share. It's too soon yet to say what will become of it.
Either way, on this day it is clear to me that there really aren't firsts and seconds and thirds. I believe in the words of Brené Brown, a writer I so greatly admire, when she says, "Emotions are a complex thing." Her words, as we end this year of firsts without Dad, have helped my breath return and my heart settle in ways I need it most. She goes on to say...
There’s a combination of joy and grief that can take your breath away. The sum of those two parts wells up inside you and holds your breath hostage until you let go of the notion that you can control the paradox and choose between joy and grief. Your breath returns only when you submit to the reality that you are caught in the grips of both delight and sorrow. Both are strong. Both are true.
It's ok to be brave and afraid at the same time. We have a sign by our back door that reads, “We can do hard things.” We hung it there to remind the kids that hard work, tough conversation, and emotional pain are normal and important parts of life.
Now the toughest paradox of love – letting go and holding on.
It is with these words that I've allowed myself to let go and hold on to Dad, albeit on shaky legs some days. I begin each day with him. Perhaps I start with a "good morning" over my first cup of tea. Maybe I murmur to him as I pack my lunch, but often it's when I drive to work and take in the beauty of the trees and fields and wildlife seen along the way. I let him know I am here. I tell him I miss him and that I'm ok. We're ok. We're all making our way. I ask him for strength and I assure him I am finding joy and peace and love, and that I'm so truly grateful that he is too, because I trust with all certainty that he is.
So, as I celebrate a milestone birthday and spend my first father's day without him, I am reminded that Dad has been and always will be my champion. He taught me how to love. Oh, did he teach me that. He brought out a goodness in me that is a mirror of his own. Paradox or not, letting go and holding on, it is what we have. And it is in this spirit that I will carry on through all the days to come.
